Tales of Terror and Mystery

The Case of Lady Sannox

           Thesurgeonfeltinhispocketsandarrangedhisneedles,hisligaturesandhissafety-pins,thatnotimemightbewastedwhentheyarrived.Hechafedwithimpatienceanddrummedhisfootuponthefloor.

           Butthecabsloweddownatlastandpulledup.InaninstantDouglasStonewasout,andtheSmyrnamerchant’stoewasathisveryheel.

           "Youcanwait,"saidhetothedriver.

           Itwasamean-lookinghouseinanarrowandsordidstreet.Thesurgeon,whoknewhisLondonwell,castaswiftglanceintotheshadows,buttherewasnothingdistinctive—noshop,nomovement,nothingbutadoublelineofdull,flat-facedhouses,adoublestretchofwetflagstoneswhichgleamedinthelamplight,andadoublerushofwaterinthegutterswhichswirledandgurgledtowardsthesewergratings.Thedoorwhichfacedthemwasblotchedanddiscoloured,andafaintlightinthefanpaneabove,itservedtoshowthedustandthegrimewhichcoveredit.Aboveinoneofthebedroomwindows,therewasadullyellowglimmer.Themerchantknockedloudly,and,asheturnedhisdarkfacetowardsthelight,DouglasStonecouldseethatitwascontractedwithanxiety.Aboltwasdrawn,andanelderlywomanwithataperstoodinthedoorway,shieldingthethinflamewithhergnarledhand.

           "Isallwell?"gaspedthemerchant.

           "Sheisasyoulefther,sir."

           "Shehasnotspoken?"

           "No,sheisinadeepsleep."

           Themerchantclosedthedoor,andDouglasStonewalkeddownthenarrowpassage,glancingabouthiminsomesurpriseashedidso.Therewasnooil-cloth,nomat,nohat-rack.Deepgreydustandheavyfestoonsofcobwebsmethiseyeseverywhere.

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