he girl who had delivered
the message to Eltham, the girl whom he had described as a French
maid--whose personal charm had so completely enlisted his sympathies.
Now, to this train of thought came a new one, and, adding it, my
suspicion became almost a certainty.

I remembered (as, knowing the district, I should have remembered before)
that there was no number 280 in Rectory Grove.

Pulling up sharply I stood looking about me. Not a living soul was
in sight; not even a policeman. Where the lamps marked the main paths
across the common nothing moved; in the shadows about me nothing
stirred. But something stirred within me--a warning voice which for long
had lain dormant.

What was afoot?

A breeze caressed the leaves overhead, breaking the silence with
mysterious whisperings. Some portentous truth was seeking for admittance
to my brain. I strove to reassure myself, but the sense of impending
evil and of mystery became heavier. At last I could combat my strange
fears no longer. I turned and began to run toward the south side of the
common--toward my rooms--and after Eltham.

I had hoped to head him off, but came upon no sign of him. An all-night
tramcar passed at the moment that I reached the high road, and as I ran
around behind it I saw that my windows were lighted and that there was a
light in the hall.

My key was yet in the lock when my housekeeper opened the door.

"There's a gentleman just come, Doctor," she began--

I thrust past her and raced up the stairs into my study.

Standing by the writing-table was a tall, thin man, his gaunt face brown
as a coffee-berry and his steely gray eyes fixed upon me. My heart gave
a great leap--and seemed to stand still.

It was Nayland Smith!

"Smith," I cried. "Smith, old man, by God, I'm glad to see you!"

He wrung my hand hard, looking at me with his searching eyes; but there
was little enough of gladness in his face. He was altogether grayer than
when last I had seen him--grayer and sterner.

"Where is Eltham?" I asked.

Smith started back as though I had struck him.

"Eltham!" he whispered--"Eltham! is Eltham here?"

"I left him ten minutes ago on the common--"

Smith dashed his right fist into the palm of his left hand and his eyes
gleamed almost wildly.

"My God, Petrie!" he said, "am I fated always to come too late?"

My dreadful fears in that instant were confirmed. I seemed to feel my
legs totter beneath me.

"Smith, you don't mean--"

"I do