nd usher in the next patient.

In Half-Moon Street, Robert Cairn stood irresolute; for he was one of
those whose mental moods are physically reflected. He might call upon
Myra Duquesne, in which event he would almost certainly be asked to
stay to lunch; or he might call upon Antony Ferrara. He determined
upon the latter, though less pleasant course.

Turning his steps in the direction of Piccadilly, he reflected that
this grim and uncanny secret which he shared with his father was like
to prove prejudicial to his success in journalism. It was eternally
uprising, demoniac, between himself and his work. The feeling of
fierce resentment towards Antony Ferrara which he cherished grew
stronger at every step. _He_ was the spider governing the web, the web
that clammily touched Dr. Cairn, himself, Robert Cairn, and--Myra
Duquesne. Others there had been who had felt its touch, who had been
drawn to the heart of the unclean labyrinth--and devoured. In the mind
of Cairn, the figure of Antony Ferrara assumed the shape of a monster,
a ghoul, an elemental spirit of evil.

And now he was ascending the marble steps. Before the gates of the
lift he stood and pressed the bell.

Ferrara's proved to be a first-floor suite, and the doors were opened
by an Eastern servant dressed in white.

"His beastly theatrical affectation again!" muttered Cairn. "The man
should have been a music-hall illusionist!"

The visitor was salaamed into a small reception room. Of this
apartment the walls and ceiling were entirely covered by a fretwork in
sandalwood, evidently Oriental in workmanship. In niches, or doorless
cup-boards; stood curious-looking vases and pots. Heavy curtains of
rich fabric draped the doors. The floor was of mosaic, and a small
fountain played in the centre. A cushioned divan occupied one side of
the place, from which natural light was entirely excluded and which
was illuminated only by an ornate lantern swung from the ceiling. This
lantern had panes of blue glass, producing a singular effect. A silver
_mibkharah_, or incense-burner, stood near to one corner of the divan
and emitted a subtle perfume. As the servant withdrew:

"Good heavens!" muttered Cairn, disgustedly; "poor Sir Michael's
fortune won't last long at this rate!" He glanced at the smoking
_mibkharah_. "Phew! effeminate beast! Ambergris!"

No more singular anomaly could well be pictured than that afforded by
the lean, neatly-groomed Scotsman, with his fresh, cle