"Lor' lumme," he muttered. "If that ain't queer."
He held out his hand, palm downwards. And from the pavement I saw that the man's nails were as blue as pieces of turquoise.
The sun came out from behind a passing cloud and sent a sudden flame of radiance over the scene in the side street—the sandwich-board man, his face still blank and incredulous, staring stupidly at his hands; the crowd standing well back in a wide semi-circle; I further forward, peering through my spectacles and clutching my umbrella convulsively. Then a tall man, in morning coat and top-hat, pushed his way through and touched the man from Birmingham on the shoulder.
"Can you come to my house?" he asked in an undertone. "I am a doctor and would like to examine you."
I shifted my gaze and recognized Dr. Symington-Tearle. The man pointed to his boards.
"How about them things?"
"Oh, you can get rid of them. I'll pay you. Here is my card with the address. I'll expect you in half-an-hour, and it will be well worth while your coming."
Symington-Tearle moved away, and a sudden spasm of jealousy affected me as I watched the well-shaped top-hat glittering down the street in the strong sunlight. Why should Symington-Tearle be given an opportunity of impressing a credulous world with some fantastic rubbish of his own devising? I stepped into the road.
"Do you want a five-pound note?" I asked. The man jumped with surprise. "Very well. Come round to this address at once."
I handed him my card. My next move was to telephone to the hospital to say I would be late, and retrace my footsteps homewards.