away.

I was just taking my cap from the rack when Nayland Smith returned.

"Smith!" I cried--"have you found anything?"

He stood there in the gray light of the hallway, tugging at the lobe of
his left ear, an old trick of his.

The bronzed face looked very gaunt, I thought, and his eyes were bright
with that febrile glitter which once I had disliked, but which I had
learned from experience were due to tremendous nervous excitement.
At such times he could act with icy coolness and his mental faculties
seemed temporarily to acquire an abnormal keenness. He made no direct
reply; but--

"Have you any milk?" he jerked abruptly.

So wholly unexpected was the question, that for a moment I failed to
grasp it. Then--

"Milk!" I began.

"Exactly, Petrie! If you can find me some milk, I shall be obliged."

I turned to descend to the kitchen, when--

"The remains of the turbot from dinner, Petrie, would also be welcome,
and I think I should like a trowel."

I stopped at the stairhead and faced him.

"I cannot suppose that you are joking, Smith," I said, "but--"

He laughed dryly.

"Forgive me, old man," he replied. "I was so preoccupied with my own
train of thought that it never occurred to me how absurd my request must
have sounded. I will explain my singular tastes later; at the moment,
hustle is the watchword."

Evidently he was in earnest, and I ran downstairs accordingly, returning
with a garden trowel, a plate of cold fish and a glass of milk.

"Thanks, Petrie," said Smith--"If you would put the milk in a jug--"

I was past wondering, so I simply went and fetched a jug, into which he
poured the milk. Then, with the trowel in his pocket, the plate of cold
turbot in one hand and the milk jug in the other, he made for the door.
He had it open when another idea evidently occurred to him.

"I'll trouble you for the pistol, Petrie."

I handed him the pistol without a word.

"Don't assume that I want to mystify you," he added, "but the presence
of any one else might jeopardize my plan. I don't expect to be long."

The cold light of dawn flooded the hallway momentarily; then the door
closed again and I went upstairs to my study, watching Nayland Smith as
he strode across the common in the early morning mist. He was making for
the Nine Elms, but I lost sight of him before he reached them.

I sat there for some time, watching for the first glow of sunrise. A
policeman tramped past the house, and, a while l