"I am a stranger to London," she began, now exhibiting a certain
diffidence, "and to-night I was looking for the chambers of Mr.
Raphael Philips of Figtree Court."
"This is Figtree Court," I said, "but I know of no Mr. Raphael
Philips who has chambers here."
The black eyes met mine despairingly.
"But I am positive of the address!" protested my beautiful but
strange caller--from her left glove she drew out a scrap of
paper, "here it is."
I glanced at the fragment, upon which, in a woman's hand the
words were pencilled: "Mr. Raphael Philips, 36-b Figtree Court,
London."
I stared at my visitor, deeply mystified.
"These chambers are 36-b!" I said. "But I am not Raphael
Philips, nor have I ever heard of him. My name is Malcolm Knox.
There is evidently some mistake, but"--returning the slip of
paper--"pardon me if I remind you, I have yet to learn the cause
of your alarm."
"I was followed across the court and up the stairs."
"Followed! By whom?"
"By a dreadful-looking man, chattering in some tongue I did not
understand!"
My amazement was momentarily growing greater.
"What kind of a man?" I demanded rather abruptly.
"A yellow-faced man--remember I could only just distinguish him
in the darkness on the stairway, and see little more of him than
his eyes at that, and his ugly gleaming teeth--oh! it was
horrible!"
"You astound me," I said; "the thing is utterly
incomprehensible.
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