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Page 113
"I wonder if he could possibly be an ally, of the Doctor's!"
I stared at him in amazement.
"If we are to attach any importance to the incident at all,"
I said, "we must remember that the boy's impression--and Karamaneh's--
was that Fu-Manchu was present in person."
"I DO attach importance to the incident, Petrie; they are naturally
sensitive to such impressions. But I doubt if even the abnormal
organization of Aziz could distinguish between the hidden presence
of a creature of the Doctor's and that of the Doctor himself.
I shall make a point of calling upon Professor Jenner Monde."
But Fate had ordained that much should happen ere Smith made
his proposed call upon the Professor.
Karamaneh and her brother safely lodged in their hotel
(which was watched night and day by four men under Smith's
orders), we returned to my quiet suburban rooms.
"First," said Smith, "let us see what we can find out
respecting Professor Monde."
He went to the telephone and called up New Scotland Yard.
There followed some little delay before the requisite information
was obtained. Finally, however, we learned that the Professor
was something of a recluse, having few acquaintances,
and fewer friends.
He lived alone in chambers in New Inn Court, Carey Street.
A charwoman did such cleaning as was considered necessary
by the Professor, who employed no regular domestic.
When he was in London he might be seen fairly frequently
at the British Museum, where his shabby figure was familiar
to the officials. When he was not in London--that is,
during the greater part of each year--no one knew where he went.
He never left any address to which letters might be forwarded.
"How long has he been in London now?" asked Smith.
So far as could be ascertained from New Inn Court (replied Scotland Yard)
roughly a week.
My friend left the telephone and began restlessly to pace the room.
The charred briar was produced and stuffed with that broad cut Latakia
mixture of which Nayland Smith consumed close upon a pound a week.
He was one of those untidy smokers who leave tangled tufts
hanging from the pipe-bowl and when they light up strew the floor
with smoldering fragments.
A ringing came, and shortly afterwards a girl entered.
"Mr. James Weymouth to see you, sir."
"Hullo!" rapped Smith. "What's this?"
Weymouth entered, big and florid, and in some respects
singularly like his brother, in others as singularly unlike.
Now, in his black suit, he was a somber figure; and in the blue
eyes I read a fear suppressed.
"Mr. Smith," he began, "there's something uncanny going on at Maple Cottage."
Smith wheeled the big arm-chair forward.
"Sit down, Mr. Weymouth," he said. "I am not entirely surprised.
But you have my attention. What has occurred?"
Weymouth took a cigarette from the box which I proffered and poured
out a peg of whisky. His hand was not quite steady.
"That knocking," he explained. "It came again the night
after you were there, and Mrs. Weymouth--my wife, I mean--
felt that she couldn't spend another night there, alone."
"Did she look out of the window?" I asked.
"No, Doctor; she was afraid. But I spent last night downstairs
in the sitting-room--and _I_ looked out!"
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