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 s