“Ah, you have an appointment. In that case I will not intrude,” I said, rising.
“Sit down; I have no appointment. I did not know until I spoke that he was coming.”
I gazed at him in amazement. Accustomed as I was to his extraordinary talents, the man was a perpetual surprise to me. He continued to smoke quietly, but evidently enjoyed my consternation.
“I see you are surprised. It is really too simple to talk about, but, from my position opposite the mirror, I can see the reflection of objects in the street. A man stopped, looked at one of my cards, and then glanced across the street. I recognized my card, because, as you know, they are all in scarlet. If, as you say, London is talking of this mystery, it naturally follows that he will talk of it, and the chances are he wished to consult me about it. Anyone can see that, besides there is always—Come in!”
There was a rap at the door this time.
A stranger entered. Sherlaw Kombs did not change his lounging attitude.
“I wish to see Mr. Sherlaw Kombs, the detective,” said the stranger, coming within the range of the smoker’s vision.
“This is Mr. Kombs,” I remarked at last, as my friend smoked quietly, and seemed half-asleep.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” continued the stranger, fumbling for a card.
“There is no need. You are a journalist,” said Kombs.