Throughout all the varied experiences of his life he had never felt so much excitement as just now, waiting for the result of this sleight of hand photography, this attempt to trick nature out of one of her darkest secrets.
It was exactly ten o’clock when he reached the house in Sackville Street, and was admitted.
The doctor was not at home, but he had given instructions that the detective should be admitted to his private laboratory, there to await him.
It was a large room at the back of the house, built on a space that had once been a yard. It had a top light and something of the general aspect of an artist’s studio.
Röntgen ray apparatuses, cameras, all sorts of odds and ends lay about, speaking of the occupant’s bent.
Freyberger had not been waiting five minutes when the door opened, and Dr Murrell, in evening dress, entered.
He held a small parcel in his hand.
“Good evening,” he said. “My assistant was called away half an hour ago, and he left the result of his work for me; let’s see what it is.”
He undid the string from the parcel, and disclosed what at first sight appeared to be a large cabinet photograph.
He approached an electric light, bearing it in his hand; in the full glare of the light he examined it intently. Then he whistled softly to himself. He seemed quite lost in contemplation of the thing.