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Page 62
"Look here, my lad," he said quietly; "is that door locked?"
"Always," replied the boy.
"Does Mr. Knowlson come to that shutter when you knock?"
"Yes."
"Then go and knock!"
The boy obeyed with alacrity. He rapped loudly on the door, not
noticing or not caring that the visitor was standing directly
behind him. The shutter was lowered and a grizzled, bearded face
showed for a moment through the opening.
Bristol leant over the boy and pushed a card through into the hand
of the man beyond. On this occasion it did not bear the legend
"John Henry Smith," but the following--
CHIEF INSPECTOR BRISTOL
C.I.D.
NEW SCOTLAND YARD
"Good afternoon, Mr. Knowlson," said the detective dryly. "I want
to come in!"
There followed a moment of silence, from which Bristol divined that
he had blundered upon some mystery, possibly upon a big case; then
a key was turned in the lock and the door thrown open.
"Come right in, Inspector," invited a strident voice. "Carter, you
can go home."
Bristol entered warily, but not warily enough. For as the door
was banged upon his entrance he faced around only in time to
find himself looking down the barrel of a Colt automatic.
With his back to the door which contained the wicket, now reclosed,
stood the man with the bearded face. The revolver was held in his
left hand; his right arm terminated in a bandaged stump. But
without that his steel-gray eyes would have betrayed him to the
detective.
"Good God!" whispered Bristol. "It's Earl Dexter!"
"It is!" replied the cracksman, "and you've looked in at a real
inconvenient time! My visitors mostly seem to have that knack.
I'll have to ask you to stay, Inspector. Sit down in that chair
yonder."
Bristol knew his man too well to think of opening any argument at
that time. He sat down as directed, and ignoring the revolver
which covered him all the time, began coolly to survey the room
in which he found himself. In several respects it was an
extraordinary apartment.
The only bright patch in the room was the shining disc upon the
ceiling; and the detective noted with interest that this marked
the position of an arrangement of mirrors. A white-covered table,
entirely bare, stood upon the floor immediately beneath this
mysterious apparatus. With the exception of one or two ordinary
items of furniture and a small hand lathe, the office otherwise
was unfurnished. Bristol turned his eyes again upon the daring
man who so audaciously had trapped him--the man who had stolen the
slipper of the Prophet and suffered the loss of his hand by the
scimitar of an Hashishin as a result. When he had least expected
to find one, Fate had thrown a clue in Bristol's way. He reflected
grimly that it was like to prove of little use to him.
"Now," said Dexter, "you can do as you please, of course, but you
know me pretty well and I advise you to sit quiet."
"I am sitting quiet!" was the reply.
"I am sorry," continued Dexter, with a quick glance at his maimed
arm, "that I can't tie you up, but I am expecting a friend any
moment now."
He suddenly raised the wicket with a twitch of his elbow and,
without removing his gaze from the watchful detective, cried
sharply--
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