“I must mention again, Mr. Bob, that what I have to say is pretty urgent ...”
But the detective only smiled and cutting short his protest: “There’s something else,” he declared, “that’s very much more urgent, Monsieur Jérôme Fandor.”
Then as the journalist gave a start of amazement at hearing his name spoken—it was as a matter of fact Jérôme Fandor who had just now accosted the detective in the entrance-hall and asked leave to speak with him—Tom Bob, calm as ever, signified with an imperative gesture that he was not to interrupt:
“Something very much more urgent, I repeat. Will you be so kind as to help me in my little piece of work?”
More and more surprised, but confounded by his host’s phlegm, Fandor nodded “yes,” without so much as opening his lips.
“Then,” Tom Bob went on, “here’s how I start the job. Look! I take off my hat ... so; then I plant my chair against the wall ... so; I take my seat on the chair ... Have you a pencil on you, Monsieur Fandor?”
“I have, sir.”
“Very good! Will you be so very obliging as to take it and draw a line on—on the door; see here, exactly on a level with the top of my head.”
Fandor carried out the order, lost in astonishment.
“He’s mad,” he thought to himself; “the good man’s as mad as a hatter! What does it all mean?”