and portents--warnings.

It was not so. I recall nothing of the route and little of import
that passed between us (we both were strangely silent, I think)
until we were come to our journey's end. Then:

"What's this?" muttered my friend hoarsely.

Constables were moving on a little crowd of curious idlers who pressed
about the steps of Sir Crichton Davey's house and sought to peer in at
the open door. Without waiting for the cab to draw up to the curb,
Nayland Smith recklessly leaped out and I followed close at his heels.

"What has happened?" he demanded breathlessly of a constable.

The latter glanced at him doubtfully, but something in his voice
and bearing commanded respect.

"Sir Crichton Davey has been killed, sir."

Smith lurched back as though he had received a physical blow, and clutched
my shoulder convulsively. Beneath the heavy tan his face had blanched,
and his eyes were set in a stare of horror.

"My God!" he whispered. "I am too late!"

With clenched fists he turned and, pressing through the group
of loungers, bounded up the steps. In the hall a man who unmistakably
was a Scotland Yard official stood talking to a footman.
Other members of the household were moving about, more or