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Page 5
How strangely does the adventurous intrude upon the humdrum;
for, when it intrudes at all, more often than not its intrusion
is sudden and unlooked for. To-day, we may seek for romance
and fail to find it: unsought, it lies in wait for us at most
prosaic corners of life's highway.
The drive that night, though it divided the drably commonplace
from the wildly bizarre--though it was the bridge between the
ordinary and the outre--has left no impression upon my mind.
Into the heart of a weird mystery the cab bore me; and in reviewing
my memories of those days I wonder that the busy thoroughfares
through which we passed did not display before my eyes signs
and portents--warnings.
It was not so. I recall nothing of the route and little of import
that passed between us (we both were strangely silent, I think)
until we were come to our journey's end. Then:
"What's this?" muttered my friend hoarsely.
Constables were moving on a little crowd of curious idlers who pressed
about the steps of Sir Crichton Davey's house and sought to peer in at
the open door. Without waiting for the cab to draw up to the curb,
Nayland Smith recklessly leaped out and I followed close at his heels.
"What has happened?" he demanded breathlessly of a constable.
The latter glanced at him doubtfully, but something in his voice
and bearing commanded respect.
"Sir Crichton Davey has been killed, sir."
Smith lurched back as though he had received a physical blow, and clutched
my shoulder convulsively. Beneath the heavy tan his face had blanched,
and his eyes were set in a stare of horror.
"My God!" he whispered. "I am too late!"
With clenched fists he turned and, pressing through the group
of loungers, bounded up the steps. In the hall a man who unmistakably
was a Scotland Yard official stood talking to a footman.
Other members of the household were moving about, more or
less aimlessly, and the chilly hand of King Fear had touched
one and all, for, as they came and went, they glanced ever over
their shoulders, as if each shadow cloaked a menace, and listened,
as it seemed, for some sound which they dreaded to 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.
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