“And Lejay?”
“He came in only last week, having leased the house for six months. His family were to have joined him in a day or two, and he, with the aid of the pair I have just mentioned, and assisted by a French servant he brought over with him, was putting the place in order. At about twelve o’clock on Friday night this servant ran into a neighboring house screaming ‘the fiery hand!’ and when at last a constable arrived and a frightened group went up the avenue of the Gables, they found M. Lejay, dead in the avenue, near the steps just outside the hall door! He had the same face of horror...”
“What a tale for the press!” snapped Smith.
“The owner has managed to keep it quiet so far, but this time I think it will leak into the press—yes.”
There was a short silence; then:
“And you have been down to the Gables again?”
“I was there on Saturday, but there’s not a scrap of evidence. The man undoubtedly died of fright in the same way as Maddison. The place ought to be pulled down; it’s unholy.”
“Unholy is the word,” I said. “I never heard anything like it. This M. Lejay had no enemies?—there could be no possible motive?”
“None whatever. He was a business man from Marseilles, and his affairs necessitated his remaining in or near London for some considerable time; therefore, he decided to make his headquarters here, temporarily, and leased the Gables with that intention.”
Nayland Smith was pacing the floor with increasing rapidity; he was tugging at the lobe of his left ear and his pipe had long since gone out.