were
good enough for them.)

"Yes, it must be," I replied, "judging by the condition of the Strand."

I entered and ascended the stairs, glad enough of the prospect of a warm
and well-lighted room after my comfortless groping in the murky streets,
and Polton, with a final glance up and down the walk reluctantly
followed.

"You would like some tea, sir, I expect?" said he, as he let me in
(though I had a key of my own now).

I thought I should, and he accordingly set about the preparations in his
deft methodical way, but with an air of abstraction that was unusual
with him.

"The Doctor said he should be home by five," he remarked, as he laid the
tea-pot on the tray.

"Then he is a defaulter," I answered. "We shall have to water his tea."

"A wonderful punctual man, sir, is the Doctor," pursued Polton. "Keeps
his time to the minute, as a rule, he does."

"You can't keep your time to a minute in a 'London Particular,'" I said
a little impatiently, for I wished to be alone that I might think over
matters, and Polton's nervous flutterings irritated me somewhat. He was
almost as bad as a female housekeeper.

The little man evidently perceived my state of mind, for he stole away
silently, leaving me rather penitent and ashamed, and, as I presently
discovered on looking out of the window, resumed his vigil on the
doorstep. From this coign of vantage he returned after a time to take
away the tea-things; and thereafter, though it was now dark as well as
foggy, I could hear him softly flitting up and down the stairs with a
gloomy stealthiness that at length reduced me to a condition as
nervously apprehensive as his own.

CHAPTER VIII

A SUSPICIOUS ACCIDENT

The Temple clock had announced in soft and confidential tones that it
was a quarter to seven, in which statement it was stoutly supported by
its colleague on our mantelpiece, and still there was no sign of
Thorndyke. It was really a little strange, for he was the soul of
punctuality, and moreover, his engagements were of such a kind as
rendered punctuality possible. I was burning with impatience to impart
my news to him, and this fact, together with the ghostly proceedings of
Polton, worked me up to a state of nervous tension that rendered either
rest or thought equally impossible. I looked out of the window at the
lamp below, glaring redly through the fog, and then, opening the door,
went out on to the landing to listen.

At this moment Polton made a