corridor.

I did so and had turned to join my friend when, to the accompaniment
of a sort of hysterical muttering, a door further along, and on the
opposite side of the corridor, was suddenly thrown open, and a man
whose face showed ghastly white in the light of the solitary lamp
beyond, literally hurled himself out. He perceived Smith and myself
immediately. Throwing one glance back over his shoulder he came
tottering forward to meet us.

"My God! I can't stand it any longer!" he babbled, and threw himself
upon Smith, who was foremost, clutching pitifully at him for support.
"Come and see him, sir--for Heaven's sake come in! I think he's dying;
and he's going mad. I never disobeyed an order in my life before, but
I can't help myself--I can't help myself!"

"Brace up!" I cried, seizing him by the shoulders as, still clutching
at Nayland Smith, he turned his ghastly face to me. "Who are you, and
what's your trouble?"

"I'm Beeton, Sir Gregory Hale's man."

Smith started visibly, and his gaunt, tanned face seemed to me to have
grown perceptively paler.

"Come on, Petrie!" he snapped. "There's some devilry here."

Thrusting Beeton aside he rushed in at the open door--upon which, as I
followed him, I had time to note the number, 14a. It communicated with
a suite of rooms almost identical with our own. The sitting-room was