‘Then where can this mysterious old gentleman have got to,—can you suggest an explanation? It is strange, to say the least of it, that the cabman should be the only person to see or hear anything of him.’
‘Some devil’s trick has been played,—I know it, I feel it!—my instinct tells me so!’
I stared. In such a matter one hardly expects a man of Paul Lessingham’s stamp to talk of ‘instinct.’ Atherton stared too. Then, on a sudden, he burst out,
‘By the Lord, I believe the Apostle’s right,—the whole place reeks to me of hankey-pankey,—it did as soon as I put my nose inside. In matters of prestidigitation, Champnell, we Westerns are among the rudiments,—we’ve everything to learn,—Orientals leave us at the post. If their civilisation’s what we’re pleased to call extinct, their conjuring—when you get to know it!—is all alive oh!’
He moved towards the door. As he went he slipped, or seemed to, all but stumbling on to his knees.
‘Something tripped me up,—what’s this?’ He was stamping on the floor with his foot. ‘Here’s a board loose. Come and lend me a hand, one of you fellows, to get it up. Who knows what mystery’s beneath?’
I went to his aid. As he said, a board in the floor was loose. His stepping on it unawares had caused his stumble. Together we prised it out of its place,—Lessingham standing by and watching us the while. Having removed it, we peered into the cavity it disclosed.
There was something there.
‘Why,’ cried Atherton, ‘it’s a woman’s clothing!’
