The
Englishman glanced around him, as they passed up the drive, with an
expression of disapproval.
"A more untidy-looking place than yours, Edgar, I never saw," he declared.
"Your grounds have become a jungle. Don't you keep any gardeners?"
The Professor smiled.
"I keep other things," he said serenely. "There is something in my garden
which would terrify your nice Scotch gardeners into fits, if they found
their way here to do a little tidying up. Come into the library and I'll
give you one of my choice cigars. Here's Craig waiting to let us in. Any
news, Craig?"
The man-servant in plain clothes who admitted them shook his head.
"Nothing has happened, sir," he replied. "The telephone is ringing in the
study now, though."
"I will answer it myself," the Professor declared, bustling off.
He hurried across the bare landing and into an apartment which seemed to
be half museum, half library. There were skeletons leaning in unexpected
corners, strange charts upon the walls, a wilderness of books and
pamphlets in all manner of unexpected places, mingled with quaintly-carved
curios, gods from West African temples, implements of savage warfare,
butterfly nets. It was a room which Lord Ashleigh was never able to enter
without a shudder.
The Professor took up the receiver from the telephone. His "Hello" was
mild and enquiring. He had no doubt that the call was from some admiring
disciple. The change in his face as he listened, however, was amazing.
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