ith in
Sir Gregory's knowledge of matters Far Eastern, that behold, here I am."

He broke off abruptly and sat in an attitude of tense listening. Then--

"Do you hear anything, Petrie?" he rapped.

"A sort of tapping?" I inquired, listening intently myself the while.

Smith nodded his head rapidly.

We both listened for some time, Smith with his head bent slightly
forward and his pipe held in his hands; I with my gaze upon the bolted
door. A faint mist still hung in the room, and once I thought I
detected a slight sound from the bedroom beyond, which was in darkness.
Smith noted me turn my head, and for a moment the pair of us stared
into the gap of the doorway. But the silence was complete.

"You have told me neither much nor little, Smith," I said, resuming
for some reason, in a hushed voice. "Who or what is this Si-Fan at
whose existence you hint?"

Nayland Smith smiled grimly.

"Possibly the real and hitherto unsolved riddle of Tibet, Petrie," he
replied--"a mystery concealed from the world behind the veil of
Lamaism." He stood up abruptly, glancing at a scrap of paper which he
took from his pocket--"Suite Number 14a," he said. "Come along! We have
not a moment to waste. Let us make our presence known to Sir Gregory--
the man who has dared to raise that veil."

CHAPTER II

THE MAN WITH THE LIMP

"Lock the door!" said Smith significantly, as we stepped into the
corridor.

I did so and had turned to join my friend when, to the accompaniment
of a sort of hysterical muttering, a door further along, and on the
opposite side of the corridor, was suddenly thrown open, and a man
whose face showed ghastly white in the light of the solitary lamp
beyond, literally hurled himself out. He perceived Smith and myself
immediately. Throwing one glance back over his shoulder he came
tottering forward to meet us.

"My God! I can't stand it any longer!" he babbled, and threw himself
upon Smith, who was foremost, clutching pitifully at him for support.
"Come and see him, sir--for Heaven's sake come in! I think he's dying;
and he's going mad. I never disobeyed an order in my life before, but
I can't help myself--I can't help myself!"

"Brace up!" I cried, seizing him by the shoulders as, still clutching
at Nayland Smith, he turned his ghastly face to me. "Who are you, and
what's your trouble?"

"I'm Beeton, Sir Gregory Hale's man."

Smith started visibly, and his gaunt, tanned face seemed to me to have
grown