essor, who
employed no regular domestic. When he was in London he might be seen
fairly frequently at the British Museum, where his shabby figure was
familiar to the officials. When he was not in London--that is, during
the greater part of each year--no one knew where he went. He never
left any address to which letters might be forwarded.

"How long has he been in London now?" asked Smith.

So far as could be ascertained from New Inn Court (replied Scotland
Yard) roughly a week.

My friend left the telephone and began restlessly to pace the room.
The charred briar was produced and stuffed with that broad cut Latakia
mixture of which Nayland Smith consumed close upon a pound a week. He
was one of those untidy smokers who leave tangled tufts hanging from
the pipe-bowl and when they light up strew the floor with smoldering
fragments.

A ringing came, and shortly afterwards a girl entered.

"Mr. James Weymouth to see you, sir."

"Hullo!" rapped Smith. "What's this?"

Weymouth entered, big and florid, and in some respects singularly like
his brother, in others as singularly unlike. Now, in his black suit,
he was a somber figure; and in the blue eyes I read a fear suppressed.

"Mr. Smith," he began, "there's something uncanny going on at Maple
Cottage."

Smith wheeled the big arm-chair forward.

"Sit down, Mr. Weymouth," he said. "I am not entirely surprised. But
you have my attention. What has occurred?"

Weymouth took a cigarette from the box which I proffered and poured out
a peg of whisky. His hand was not quite steady.

"That knocking," he explained. "It came again the night after you were
there, and Mrs. Weymouth--my wife, I mean--felt that she couldn't spend
another night there, alone."

"Did she look out of the window?" I asked.

"No, Doctor; she was afraid. But I spent last night downstairs in the
sitting-room--and _I_ looked out!"

He took a gulp from his glass. Nayland Smith, seated on the edge of
the table, his extinguished pipe in his hand, was watching him keenly.

"I'll admit I didn't look out at once," Weymouth resumed. "There was
something so uncanny, gentlemen, in that knocking--knocking--in the
dead of the night. I thought"--his voice shook--"of poor Jack, lying
somewhere amongst the slime of the river--and, oh, my God! it came to
me that it was Jack who was knocking--and I dare not think what
he--what it--would look like!"

He leaned forward, his chin in his hand. For