if only just—and he swung the car into the drive. Rounding the bend he saw before him a big, rambling house, ivy covered, and set amid a profusion of rank grass, weeds, and nettles. A great cedar tree grew in front of the porch, and in spite of the brightness of the sun its black, plate-like branches gave a sinister aspect to the place.
Mr. Budd thought it was not surprising that a man living in such a house should be troubled with nervous fancies. He began to feel a little dispirited himself.
He brought the car to a halt and got laboriously down in front of an ivy-covered porch, mounted the shallow, moss-stained steps, and pulled at a rusty iron bell. After some delay the door was opened by a thin man with a tremendous nose, who peered at him shortsightedly.
“Mr. Hayles live here?” murmured the fat detective.
“Yes, sir,” said the owner of the nose. Its use was now obvious, for he talked through it. “Are you the gentleman he’s expecting?”
“I’m from Scotland Yard,” grunted the superintendent, and produced a card.
The large-nosed man invited him into the hall.
“If you’ll wait just a moment, sir,” he said nasally, “I’ll tell Mr. Hayles you’re here.”
He took the card and hurried away up the wide staircase. The interior of the house was in keeping with the outside. The big entrance hall was gloomy; the panelling dull and lifeless; the parquet floor worn. The musty odour, which is usually associated with houses that have long been shut up, filled the air, and even the copper bowl of sickly-looking flowers that stood upon an old gate-legged table failed to dispel the dreariness.
Mr. Budd looked about him and mopped his perspiring forehead, wondering whether Mr. Hayles kept any beer in the house. There was a faint murmur of voices emanating from somewhere, and he had just located it as coming from behind a closed door on the right, when the servant appeared halfway down the staircase and called to him. With Leek at his heels the big man mounted the broad stairs, was conducted along a corridor, and ushered into the presence of Mr. Reuben Hayles.
The archaeologist was sitting at an enormous desk, which was littered with books and papers—an elderly, bald-headed, whiskered man, with large horn-rimmed glasses and a grey, stubbly chin.
“Sit down, Superintendent. Sit down,” he said in a high-pitched, querulous voice. “I’m very glad to see you.”
Mr. Budd sat down.
“This is Sergeant Leek, sir,” he murmured. “I thought it best to bring him with me.”
The man behind the desk nodded. He was palpably nervous. His face twitched spasmodically, and his thin hands kept moving restlessly, touching the various objects within his reach on the desk with jerky movements.
“I’ve seen the letters which were sent to you,” said Mr. Budd, breaking a rather awkward silence. “And I understand that you attach importance to them?”
“Do not you?” asked the old man quickly.
“To be quite candid, I don’t, sir,” answered the Superintendent, shaking his head. “I’ve seen too many such things in my time to take ’em seriously. There’s a class of person who can’t help writin’ anonymous letters. It’s a kink. It’s my belief that you’re just a victim of one of these queer people. That is, of course, unless you have anythin’ more tangible to go on.”
“No, no, I haven’t!” the archaeologist broke in quickly. “I must admit, however, that these—er—communications have disturbed me, particularly in view of my recent discovery of Mohammed’s tomb. Whether anything occurs tonight or not, I’m greatly relieved to have you, and—er—the sergeant on the premises. Greatly relieved!”
There was fear in the faded eyes, and Mr. Budd received the impression that Reuben Hayles knew a lot more than he had said. It was inconceivable that a man of his intelligence should have been reduced to such a state of mind merely by the receipt of those childish letters.
There was something else, something more practical that had brought that lurking fear to his eyes and induced him to apply for police protection. His thoughts were interrupted by a tap on the door and somebody came in.
“Oh, it’s you, Brown!” The old man looked up over Mr. Budd’s head. “Er—Superintendent. Meet my secretary, Mr. Washington Brown.”
Mr. Budd turned to greet the newcomer, and suppressed a gasp of surprise.
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