less aimlessly, and the chilly hand of King Fear had touched
one and all, for, as they came and went, they glanced ever over
their shoulders, as if each shadow cloaked a menace, and listened,
as it seemed, for some sound which they dreaded to hear.
Smith strode up to the detective and showed him a card,
upon glancing at which the Scotland Yard man said something
in a low voice, and, nodding, touched his hat to Smith
in a respectful manner.

A few brief questions and answers, and, in gloomy silence,
we followed the detective up the heavily carpeted stair,
along a corridor lined with pictures and busts, and into a
large library. A group of people were in this room, and one,
in whom I recognized Chalmers Cleeve, of Harley Street,
was bending over a motionless form stretched upon a couch.
Another door communicated with a small study, and through
the opening I could see a man on all fours examining the carpet.
The uncomfortable sense of hush, the group about the physician,
the bizarre figure crawling, beetle-like, across the inner room,
and the grim hub, around which all this ominous activity turned,
made up a scene that etched itself indelibly on my mind.

As we entered Dr. Cleeve straightened himself, frowning thoughtfully.

"Frankly, I do not care to venture any opinion at present regarding
the immediate cause of death," he said. "Sir Crichton was addicted
to cocaine, but there are indications which are not in accordance
with cocaine-poisoning. I fear that only a post-mortem can
establish the facts--if," he added, "we ever arrive at them.
A most mysterious case!"