Theydon's journalistic experiences had been, for the most part, those
of the "special correspondent," or descriptive writer. He had never
entered one of those fetid slums of a great city in which, too often,
murder is done, never sickened with the physical nausea of death in
its most revolting aspect, when some unhappy wretch's foul body serves
only to further pollute air already vile.

It was passing strange, therefore, that Winter had no sooner opened
the door of No. 17 than the novice of the party became aware of a
heavy, pungent scent which he associated with some affrighting and
unclean thing. At first he swept aside the phantasy. Strong as he was,
his nervous system had been subjected to severe strain that evening.
He knew well that the mind can create its own specters, that the five
senses can be subjugated by forces which science has not as yet either
measured or defined.

Moreover, he was standing in a hall furnished with a taste and quiet
elegance that must surely indicate similar features in each room of a
suite which, in other respects, bore an almost exact resemblance of
his own apartments. In sheer protest against the riot of an
overwrought imagination he brushed a hand across his eyes.

The chief inspector noted the action.

"You will find nothing grewsome here, I assure you," he said, quietly.
"Beyond a few signs of hurried rummaging of drawers and boxes there is
absolutely no indication of a crime having been committed."

"Mr. Theydon came prepared to see ghosts," squeaked Furneaux.
"Evidently he is not acquainted with the peculiar smell of a joss