gear of his companion gleamed faintly through the
obscurity. The surgeon felt in his pockets and arranged his needles,
his ligatures and his safety-pins, that no time might be wasted when
they arrived. He chafed with impatience and drummed his foot upon the
floor.

But the cab slowed down at last and pulled up. In an instant Douglas
Stone was out, and the Smyrna merchant's toe was at his very heel.

"You can wait," said he to the driver.

It was a mean-looking house in a narrow and sordid street. The
surgeon, who knew his London well, cast a swift glance into the
shadows, but there was nothing distinctive--no shop, no movement,
nothing but a double line of dull, flat-faced houses, a double stretch
of wet flagstones which gleamed in the lamplight, and a double rush of
water in the gutters which swirled and gurgled towards the sewer
gratings. The door which faced them was blotched and discoloured, and
a faint light in the fan pane above, it served to show the dust and the
grime which covered it. Above in one of the bedroom windows, there was
a dull yellow glimmer. The merchant knocked loudly, and, as he turned
his dark face towards the light, Douglas Stone could see that it was
contracted with anxiety. A bolt was drawn, and an elderly woman with a
taper stood in the doorway, shielding the thin flame with her gnarled
hand.

"Is all well?" gasped the merchant.

"She is as you left her, sir."

"She has not spoken?"

"No, she is in a deep sleep."

The merchant closed the door, and Douglas Stone walked down the narrow
passage, glancing about him in some surprise as he did so. There was no
oil-cloth, no mat, no hat-rack. Deep grey dust and heavy festoons of
cobwebs met his eyes everywhere. Following the old woman up the
winding stair, his firm footfall echoed harshly through the silent
house. There was no carpet.

The bedroom was on the second landing. Douglas Stone followed the old
nurse into it, with the merchant at his heels. Here, at least, there
was furniture and to spare. The floor was littered and the corners
piled with Turkish cabinets, inlaid tables, coats of chain mail,
strange pipes, and grotesque weapons. A single small lamp stood upon a
bracket on the wall. Douglas Stone took it down, and picking his way
among the lumber, walked over to a couch in the corner, on which lay a
woman dressed in the Turkish fashion, with yashmak and veil. The lower
part of the face was exposed, and the surgeo