"I mean that it was a deliberate attempt on my life, and I am hard upon
the tracks of the man who extracted that venom--patiently, drop by drop--
from the poison-glands of the snake, who prepared that arrow, and who caused
it to be shot at me."

"What fiend is this?"

"A fiend who, unless my calculations are at fault is now in London,
and who regularly wars with pleasant weapons of that kind. Petrie, I have
traveled from Burma not in the interests of the British Government merely,
but in the interests of the entire white race, and I honestly believe--
though I pray I may be wrong--that its survival depends largely upon
the success of my mission."

To say that I was perplexed conveys no idea of the mental chaos
created by these extraordinary statements, for into my humdrum
suburban life Nayland Smith had brought fantasy of the wildest.
I did not know what to think, what to believe.

"I am wasting precious time!" he rapped decisively, and, draining his glass,
he stood up. "I came straight to you, because you are the only man I dare
to trust. Except the big chief at headquarters, you are the only person
in England, I hope, who knows that Nayland Smith has quitted Burma.
I must have someone with me, Petrie, all the time--it's imperative!
Can you put me up here, and spare a few days to the strangest business,
I promise you, that ever was recorded in fact or fiction?"

I agreed readily enough, for, unfortunately, my professional
duties were not onerous.