'Smith! Smith!' I cried, 'what is it? what is it?'
He turned in a flash, as Weymouth entered at his heels, saw me, and fell back a step; then looked again down at the floor.
'God's mercy!' he whispered, 'I thought it was you—I thought it was you!'
Trembling violently, my mind a feverish chaos, I moved to the foot of the bed and looked down at what lay there.
'Turn up the light!' snapped Smith.
Weymouth reached for the switch, and the room became illuminated suddenly.
Prone upon the carpet, hands outstretched and nails dug deeply into the pile of the fabric, lay a dark-haired man having his head twisted sideways so that the face showed a ghastly pallid profile against the rich colorings upon which it rested. He wore no coat, but a sort of dark gray shirt and black trousers. To add to the incongruity of his attire, his feet were clad in drab-colored shoes, rubber-soled.
I stood, one hand raised to my head, looking down upon him, and gradually regaining control of myself. Weymouth, perceiving something of my condition, silently passed his flask to me; and I gladly availed myself of this.
'How in Heaven's name did he get in?' I whispered.
'How, indeed!' said Weymouth, staring about him with wondering eyes.
Both he and Smith had discarded their disguises; and, a bewildered trio, we stood looking down upon the man at our feet. Suddenly Smith dropped to his knees and turned him flat upon his back. Composure was nearly restored to me, and I knelt upon the other side of the white-faced creature whose presence there seemed so utterly outside the realm of possibility, and examined him with a consuming and fearful interest; for it was palpable that, if not already dead, he was dying rapidly.
He was a slightly built man, and the first discovery that I made was a curious one. What I had mistaken for dark hair was a wig! The short black mustache which he wore was also factitious.
'Look at this!' I cried.
'I am looking,' snapped Smith.
He suddenly stood up, and entering the room beyond, turned on the light there. I saw him staring at the Tulun-Nur box, and I knew what had been in his mind. But the box, undisturbed, stood upon the table as we had left it. I saw Smith tugging irritably at the lobe of his ear, and staring from the box towards the man beside whom I knelt.
'For God's sake, what does it man?' said Inspector Weymouth in a voice hushed with wonder. 'How did he get in? What did he come for?—and what has happened to him?'
'As to what has happened to him,' I replied, 'unfortunately I cannot tell you. I only know that unless something can be done his end is not far off.'
'Shall we lay him on the bed?'
I nodded, and together we raised the slight figure and placed it upon the bed where so recently I had lain.
As we did so, the man suddenly opened his eyes, which were glazed with delirium. He tore himself from our grip, sat bolt upright, and holding his hands, fingers outstretched, before his face, stared at them frenziedly.
'The golden pomegranates!' he shrieked, and a slight froth appeared on his blanched lips. 'The golden pomegranates!'
He laughed madly, and fell back inert.
'He's dead!' whispered Weymouth; 'he's dead!'
Hard upon his words came a cry from Smith:
'Quick! Petrie!—Weymouth!'
Chapter 13 THE ROOM BELOW
I ran into the sitting-room, to discover Nayland Smith craning out of the now widely opened window. The blind had been drawn up, I did not know by whom; and, leaning out beside my friend, I was in time to perceive some bright object moving down the gray stone wall. Almost instantly it disappeared from sight in the yellow banks below.
Smith leapt around in a whirl of excitement.
'Come in, Petrie!' he cried, seizing my arm. 'You remain here, Weymouth; don't leave these rooms whatever happens!'
We ran out into the corridor. For my own part I had not the vaguest idea what we were about. My mind was not yet fully recovered from the frightful shock which it had sustained; and the strange words of the dying man —'the golden pomegranates'—had increased my mental confusion. Smith apparently had not heard them, for he remained grimly silent, as side by side we raced down the marble stairs to the corridor immediately below our own.
Although, amid the hideous turmoil to which I had awakened, I had noted nothing of the hour, evidently the night was far advanced. Not a soul was to be seen from end to end of the vast corridor in which we stood … until on the right-hand side and about half-way along, a door opened and a woman came out hurriedly, carrying a small hand-bag.
She wore a veil, so that her features were but vaguely distinguished, but her every movement was agitated; and this agitation perceptibly increased when, turning, she perceived the two of us bearing down upon her.
Nayland Smith, who had been audibly counting the doors along the corridor as we passed them, seized the woman's arm without ceremony, and pulled her into the apartment she had been on the point of quitting, closing the door behind us as we entered.
'Smith!' I began, 'for Heaven's sake what are you about?'
'You shall see, Petrie!' he snapped.
He released the woman's arm, and pointing to an arm-chair near by—
'Be seated,' he said sternly.
Speechless with amazement, I stood, with my back to the door, watching this singular scene. Our captive, who wore a smart walking costume and whose appearance was indicative of elegance and culture, so far had uttered no word of protest, no cry.
Now, whilst Smith stood rigidly pointing to the chair, she seated herself with something very like composure and placed the leather bag upon the floor beside her. The room in which I found myself was one of a suite almost identical with our own, but from what I had gathered in a hasty glance around, it bore no signs of recent tenancy. The window was widely opened, and upon the floor lay a strange-looking contrivance apparently made of aluminum. A large grip, open, stood beside it, and from this some portions of a black coat and other garments protruded.
'Now, madame,' said Nayland Smith, 'will you be good enough to raise your veil?'
Silently, unprotestingly, the woman obeyed him, raising her gloved hands and lifting the veil from her face.
The features revealed were handsome in a hard fashion, but heavily made-up. Our captive was younger than I had hitherto supposed; a blonde; her hair artificially reduced to the so-called Titian tint. But, despite her youth, her eyes, with the blackened lashes, were full of a world weariness. Now she smiled cynically.
'Are you satisfied,' she said, speaking unemotionally, 'or,' holding up her wrists, 'would you like to handcuff me?'
Nayland Smith, glancing from the open grip and the appliance beside it to the face of the speaker, began clicking his teeth together, whereby I knew him to be perplexed. Then he stared across at me.
'You appear bemused, Petrie,' he said, with a certain irritation. 'Is this what mystifies you?'
Stooping, he picked up the metal contrivance, and almost savagely jerked open the top section. It was a telescopic ladder, and more ingeniously designed than anything of the kind I had seen before. There was a sort of clamp attached to the base, and two sharply pointed hooks at the top.
'For reaching windows on an upper floor,' snapped my friend, dropping the thing with a clatter upon the carpet. 'An American device which forms part of the equipment of the modern hotel thief!'
He seemed to be disappointed—fiercely disappointed; and I found his attitude inexplicable. He turned to the
