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.
