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Page 57
"It's something like the skin of a water rat," he said.
Nayland Smith stared at him fixedly.
"A water rat? Now that you come to mention it, I perceive a certain
resemblance--yes. But"--he had been wearing a silk scarf about his
throat and now he unwrapped it--"did you ever see a water rat that
could make marks like these?"
Weymouth started to his feet with some muttered exclamation.
"What is this?" he cried. "When did it happen, and how?"
In his own terse fashion, Nayland Smith related the happenings of the
night. At the conclusion of the story:
"By heaven!" whispered Weymouth, "the thing on the roof--the coughing
thing that goes on all fours, seen by Burke . . ."
"My own idea exactly!" cried Smith . . .
"Fu-Manchu," I said excitedly, "has brought some new, some dreadful
creature, from Burma . . ."
"No, Petrie," snapped Smith, turning upon me suddenly. "Not from
Burma--from Abyssinia."
That day was destined to be an eventful one; a day never to be
forgotten by any of us concerned in those happenings which I have to
record. Early in the morning Nayland Smith set off for the British
Museum to pursue his mysterious investigations, and having performed
my brief professional round (for, as Nayland Smith had remarked on one
occasion, this was a beastly healthy district), I found, having made
the necessary arrangements, that, with over three hours to spare, I
had nothing to occupy my time until the appointment in Covent Garden
Market. My lonely lunch completed, a restless fit seized me, and I
felt unable to remain longer in the house. Inspired by this
restlessness, I attired myself for the adventure of the evening, not
neglecting to place a pistol in my pocket, and, walking to the
neighboring Tube station, I booked to Charing Cross, and presently
found myself rambling aimlessly along the crowded streets. Led on by
what link of memory I know not, I presently drifted into New Oxford
Street, and looked up with a start--to learn that I stood before the
shop of a second-hand book-seller where once two years before I had
met Karamaneh.
The thoughts conjured up at that moment were almost too bitter to be
borne, and without so much as glancing at the books displayed for
sale, I crossed the roadway, entered Museum Street, and, rather in
order to distract my mind than because I contemplated any purchase,
began to examine the Oriental Pottery, Egyptian statuettes, Indian
armor, and other curios, displayed in the window of an antique dealer.
But, strive as I would to concentrate my mind upon the objects in the
window, my memories persistently haunted me, and haunted me to the
exclusion even of the actualities. The crowds thronging the Pavement,
the traffic in New Oxford Street, swept past unheeded; my eyes saw
nothing of pot nor statuette, but only met, in a misty imaginative
world, the glance of two other eyes--the dark and beautiful eyes of
Karamaneh. In the exquisite tinting of a Chinese vase dimly
perceptible in the background of the shop, I perceived only the
blushing cheeks of Karamaneh; her face rose up, a taunting phantom,
from out of the darkness between a hideous, gilded idol and an Indian
sandalwood screen.
I strove to dispel this obsessing thought, resolutely fixing my
attention upon a tall Etruscan vase in the corner of the window, near
to the shop door. Was I losing my senses indeed? A doubt of my own
sanity momentarily possessed me. For, struggle as I would to dispel
the illusion--there, looking out at me over that ancient piece of
pottery, was the bewitching face of the slave-girl!
Probably I was glaring madly, and possibly I attracted the notice of
the passers-by; but of this I cannot be certain, for all my attention
was centered upon that phantasmal face, with the cloudy hair, slightly
parted red lips, and the brilliant dark eyes which looked into mine
out of the shadows of the shop.
It was bewildering--it was uncanny; for, delusion or verity, the
glamour prevailed. I exerted a great mental effort, stepped to the
door, turned the handle, and entered the shop with as great a show of
composure as I could muster.
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