was seeking for admittance to my brain. I strove to reassure myself, but the sense of impending evil and of mystery became heavier. At last I could combat my strange fears no longer. I turned and began to run toward the south side of the common—toward my rooms—and after Eltham.
I had hoped to head him off, but came upon no sign of him. An all-night tramcar passed at the moment that I reached the high road, and as I ran around behind it I saw that my windows were lighted and that there was a light in the hall.
My key was yet in the lock when my housekeeper opened the door.
“There’s a gentleman just come, Doctor,” she began—
I thrust past her and raced up the stairs into my study.
Standing by the writing-table was a tall, thin man, his gaunt face brown as a coffee-berry and his steely gray eyes fixed upon me. My heart gave a great leap—and seemed to stand still.
It was Nayland Smith!
“Smith,” I cried. “Smith, old man, by God, I’m glad to see you!”
He wrung my hand hard, looking at me with his searching eyes; but there was little enough of gladness in his face. He was altogether grayer than when last I had seen him—grayer and sterner.
“Where is Eltham?” I asked.
Smith started back as though I had struck him.
“Eltham!” he whispered—“Eltham! is Eltham here?”
“I left him ten minutes ago on the common—”
Smith dashed his right fist into the palm of his left hand and his eyes gleamed almost wildly.
“My God, Petrie!” he said, “am I fated always to come too late?”
My dreadful fears in that instant were confirmed. I seemed to feel my legs totter beneath me.
“Smith, you don’t mean—”
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