clocks had struck the mystic hour "when churchyards yawn," that the
hand of Dr. Fu-Manchu again stretched out to grasp a victim. I was
dismissing a chance patient.

"Good night, Dr. Petrie," he said.

"Good night, Mr. Forsyth," I replied; and, having conducted my late
visitor to the door, I closed and bolted it, switched off the light
and went upstairs.

My patient was chief officer of one of the P. and O. boats. He had cut
his hand rather badly on the homeward run, and signs of poisoning
having developed, had called to have the wound treated, apologizing
for troubling me at so late an hour, but explaining that he had only
just come from the docks. The hall clock announced the hour of one as I
ascended the stairs. I found myself wondering what there was in Mr.
Forsyth's appearance which excited some vague and elusive memory.
Coming to the top floor, I opened the door of a front bedroom and was
surprised to find the interior in darkness.

"Smith!" I called.

"Come here and watch!" was the terse response. Nayland Smith was
sitting in the dark at the open window and peering out across the
common. Even as I saw him, a dim silhouette, I could detect that
tensity in his attitude which told of high-strung nerves.

I joined him.

"What is it?" I said, curiously.