"This is an unexpected pleasure, Prelice," said the doctor, beaming. "I thought you were in the West Indies."
"I returned only a few days ago. Are you busy?"
"My friend, I am always busy." And Horace indicated a case of beetles and butterflies, with which he was dealing when his guest entered.
The room was a large one, with two broad windows looking out onto the quiet square, but all available space was taken up with records of the doctor's travels. The floor was carpeted with wild-beast skins, for Horace was a noted hunter; the walls were decorated with Polynesian war-clubs, with Zulu assegaies, with Redskin wampum belts and beaded moccasins. Also, there were Japanese gods, Chinese jars of grotesquely decorated porcelain, Hindoo swords, Persian tiles reft from mosques, and African canoe paddles rudely carved. As Horace never allowed any servant to meddle with his treasures the room was extremely untidy and dusty, and generally neglected, With the exception of a gigantic dining-table of mahogany and two chairs there was no civilised furniture, yet the place was so crammed with barbaric curiosities that Prelice could scarcely find a clear place to stand in. Finally, he stumbled through a narrow passage of Egyptian mummies and gigantic Maori idols to an uncomfortable cane chair near the window. Here he sat down, and looked at his host with some disgust.
"Why the dickens can't you live like a civilised being when you are in London?" he asked, lighting a cigar to dispel the frowsy smell of the room.
"I am perfectly comfortable," said Horace, clearing a place on the table to sit on. "This is my home; I live here."
"You camp here, I think. I never saw such a messy place in my life."
"Huh," grunted the doctor, filling a German pipe with strong tobacco. "You shouldn't come here in a Bond Street kit. Well, what is it? Are you longing to be on the trail again?"
"I am on a sort of trail certainly," admitted Prelice slowly, and inspecting the ash of his cigar. "A manhunt. Ah, your eyes light up at that, you bloodthirsty old pagan."
"A manhunt," repeated Horace meditatively, "and in London—slow business."