I called up New Scotland Yard, and asked for
Detective-Inspector Bristol, whom I knew well. A few words were
sufficient keenly to arouse his curiosity, and he announced his
intention of calling upon me immediately. He was in charge of the
case of the severed hand.

I made no attempt to resume work in the interval preceding his
arrival. I had not long to wait, however, ere Bristol was ringing
my bell; and I hurried to the door, only too glad to confide in one
so well equipped to analyze my doubts and fears. For Bristol is no
ordinary policeman, but a trained observer, who, when I first made
his acquaintance, completely upset my ideas upon the mental
limitations of the official detective force.

In appearance Bristol suggests an Anglo-Indian officer, and at the
time of which I write he had recently returned from Jamaica and his
face was as bronzed as a sailor's. One would never take Bristol
for a detective. As he seated himself in the armchair, without
preamble I plunged into my story. He listened gravely.

"What sort of house is Professor Deeping's?" he asked suddenly.

"I have no idea," I replied, "beyond the fact that it is somewhere
in Dulwich."

"May I use your telephone?"

"Certainly."

Very quickly Bristol got into communication with the superintendent
of P Division. A brief delay, and the man came to the telephone
whose beat included the road wherein Professor Deeping's house was
situated.

"Why!" said Bristol, hanging up the receiver after making a number
of inquiries, "it's a sort of rambling cottage in extensive grounds.
There's only one servant, a manservant, and he sleeps in a detached
lodge. If the Professor is really in danger of attack he could not
well have chosen a more likely residence for the purpose!"

"What shall you do? What do you make of it all?"

"As I see the case," he said slowly, "it stands something like this:
Professor Deeping has..."

The telephone bell began to ring.

I took up the receiver.

"Hullo! Hullo."

"Cavanagh!--is that Cavanagh?"

"Yes! yes! who is that?"

"Deeping! I have rung up the police, and they are sending some
one. But I wish..."

His voice trailed off. The sound of a confused and singular uproar
came to me.

"Hullo!" I cried. "Hullo!"

A shriek--a deathful, horrifying cry--and a distant babbling alone
answered me. There was a crash. Clearly, Deeping had dropped the
receiver. I suppose my face blanched.

"What is it?" aske