indeed under observation by a hidden enemy, the suave British
security and prosperity of his residence must have destroyed the
impression.

As the cab was driven away around the corner, Harley paused for a
moment, glancing about him to right and left and up at the neatly
curtained windows. In the interval which had elapsed since Sir
Charles's departure from his office, he had had leisure to survey
the outstanding features of the story, and, discounting in his
absence the pathetic sincerity of the narrator, he had formed the
opinion that there was nothing in the account which was not
susceptible of an ordinary prosaic explanation.

Sir Charles's hesitancy in regard to two of the questions asked
had contained a hint that they might involve intimate personal
matters, and Harley was prepared to learn that the source of the
distinguished surgeon's dread lay in some unrevealed episode of
the past. Beyond the fact that Sir Charles was a widower, he knew
little or nothing of his private life; and he was far too
experienced an investigator to formulate theories until all the
facts were in his possession. Therefore it was with keen interest
that he looked forward to the interview.

Familiarity with crime, in its many complexions, East and West,
had developed in Paul Harley a sort of sixth sense. It was an
evasive, fickle thing, but was nevertheless the attribute which
had made him an investigator of genius. Often enough it failed
him entirely. It had failed him to-night--or else no one had
followed him from Chancery Lane.