LITMIR.BIZ

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hear. Smith strode up to the detective and showed him a card, upon

      glancing at which the Scotland Yard man said something in a low voice,

      and, nodding, touched his hat to Smith in a respectful manner.

      A few brief questions and answers, and, in gloomy silence, we followed

      the detective up the heavily carpeted stair, along a corridor lined

      with pictures and busts, and into a large library. A group of people

      were in this room, and one, in whom I recognized Chalmers Cleeve, of

      Harley Street, was bending over a motionless form stretched upon a

      couch. Another door communicated with a small study, and through the

      opening I could see a man on all fours examining the carpet. The

      uncomfortable sense of hush, the group about the physician, the bizarre

      figure crawling, beetle-like, across the inner room, and the grim hub,

      around which all this ominous activity turned, made up a scene that

      etched itself indelibly on my mind.

      As we entered Dr. Cleeve straightened himself, frowning thoughtfully.

      "Frankly, I do not care to venture any opinion at present regarding the

      immediate cause of death," he said. "Sir Crichton was addicted to

      cocaine, but there are indications which are not in accordance with

      cocaine-poisoning. I fear that only a post-mortem can establish the

      facts--if," he added, "we ever arrive at them. A most mysterious case!"

      Smith stepping forward and engaging the famous pathologist in

      conversation, I seized the opportunity to examine Sir Crichton's body.

      The dead man was in evening dress, but wore an old smoking-jacket. He

      had been of spare but hardy build, with thin, aquiline features, which

      now were oddly puffy, as were his clenched hands. I pushed back his

      sleeve, and saw the marks of the hypodermic syringe upon his left arm.

      Quite mechanically I turned my attention to the right arm. It was

      unscarred, but on the back of the hand was a faint red mark, not unlike

      the imprint of painted lips. I examined it closely, and even tried to

      rub it off, but it evidently was caused by some morbid process of local

      inflammation, if it were not a birthmark.

      Turning to a pale young man whom I had understood to be Sir Crichton's

      private secretary, I drew his attention to this mark, and inquired if

      it were constitutional. "It is not, sir," answered Dr. Cleeve,

      overhearing my question. "I have already made that inquiry. Does it

      suggest anything to your mind? I must confess that it affords me no

      assistance."

      "Nothing," I replied. "It is most curious."

      "Excuse me, Mr. Burboyne," said Smith, now turning to the secretary,

      "but Inspector Weymouth will tell you that I act with authority. I

      understand that Sir Crichton was--seized with illness in his study?"

      "Yes--at half-past ten. I was working here in the library, and he

      inside, as was our custom."

      "The communicating door was kept closed?"

      "Yes, always. It was open for a minute or less about ten-twenty-five,

      when a message came for Sir Crichton. I took it in to him, and he then

      seemed in his usual health."

      "What was the message?"

      "I could not say. It was brought by a district messenger, and he

      placed it beside him on the table. It is there now, no doubt."

      "And at half-past ten?"

      "Sir Crichton suddenly burst open the door and threw himself, with a

      scream, into the library. I ran to him but he waved me back. His eyes

      were glaring horribly. I had just reached his side when he fell,

      writhing, upon the floor. He seemed past speech, but as I raised him

      and laid him upon the couch, he gasped something that sounded like 'The

      red hand!' Before I could get to bell or telephone he was dead!"

      Mr. Burboyne's voice shook as he spoke the words, and Smith seemed to

      find this evidence confusing.

      "You do not think he referred to the mark on his own hand?"

      "I think not. From the direction of his last glance, I feel sure he

      referred to something in the study."

      "What did you do?"

      "Having summoned the servants, I ran into the study. But there was

      absolutely nothing unusual to be seen. The windows were closed and

      fastened. He worked with closed windows in the hottest weather. There

      is no other door, for the study occupies the end of a narrow wing, so

      that no one could possibly have gained access to it, whilst I was in

      the library, unseen by me. Had someone concealed himself in the study

      earlier in the evening--and I am convinced that it offers no

      hiding-place--he could only have come out again by passing through

      here."

      Nayland Smith tugged at the lobe of his left ear, as was his habit when

      meditating.

      "You had been at work here in this way for some time?"

      "Yes. Sir Crichton was preparing an important book."

      "Had anything unusual occurred prior to this evening?"

      "Yes," said Mr. Burboyne, with evident perplexity; "though I attached

      no importance to it at the time. Three nights ago Sir Crichton came

      out to me, and appeared very nervous; but at times his nerves--you

      know? Well, on this occasion he asked me to search the study. He had

      an idea that something was concealed there."

      "Some THING or someone?"

      "'Something' was the word he used. I searched, but fruitlessly, and he

      seemed quite satisfied, and returned to his work."

      "Thank you, Mr. Burboyne. My friend and I would like a few minutes'

      private investigation in the study."

      CHAPTER II

      SIR CRICHTON DAVEY'S study was a small one, and a glance sufficed to

      show that, as the secretary had said, it offered no hiding-place. It

      was heavily carpeted, and over-full of Burmese and Chinese ornaments

      and

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