h
short steps, rapid yet noiseless, and Laurie adapted his longer stride
to his companion's. He, too, was content. Now, at last, he reflected, he
was through with mysteries, and was coming to a grip with something
tangible.

CHAPTER X

THE LAIR OF SHAW

The walk was not the brief excursion Herbert Ransome Shaw had promised.
It was fifteen minutes before he stopped in front of a tall building,
which looked like an out-of-date storehouse, and thrust a latch-key into
a dingy door. The bolt was old and rusty. Shaw fumbled with it for half
a minute before it yielded. Then it grudgingly slipped back, and Laurie
followed his guide into a dark hall, which was cold and damp.

"They don't heat this building." The voice of Shaw came out of the
darkness. He had closed the door and was standing by Laurie's side,
fumbling in his pocket for something which proved to be a match-box.
"They don't light it, either," he explained, unnecessarily, as the blaze
of his match made a momentary break in the gloom. "But it's quite
comfortable in my room," he added reassuringly. "I have an open fire
there."

As he spoke he led the way down the long hall with his noiseless,
gliding steps. Laurie, following close behind him, reflected that the
place was exactly the sort the ophidian Shaw would choose for a lair, a
long black hole, ending in--what?

The match had gone out and he could see nothing. He kept close to his
guide. He almost expected to hear the creature's scales rattle as it
slid along. But snakes like warmth, and this place--Laurie shivered in
the chill and dampness of it. The next instant Shaw pushed open a door
and, standing back, waved his guest into a lighted room.

On first inspection it was a wholly reassuring room, originally intended
for an office and now turned into a combination of office and
living-apartment. A big reading-lamp with an amber shade, standing on a
flat writing-desk, made a pleasant point of illumination. Real logs,
large and well seasoned, burned with an agreeable crackle in the
old-fashioned fireplace. Before this stood two easy-chairs, comfortably
shabby; and at the arm of one of them a small table held a decanter,
glasses, a siphon, and a box of cigars.

As he took in these familiar details, Devon's features unconsciously
relaxed. He was very young, and rather cold, and the quick reaction from
the emotions he had experienced in the outer hall was a relief. Also,
Shaw's manner was as reassurin