A second shot cracked sharply; and a voice (God! was I mad!) cried: “Hold him, Petrie!”
Rigid with fearful astonishment I stood, as out from the boat above me leaped a figure attired solely in shirt and trousers. The newcomer leaped away in the wake of the mummy-man—who had vanished around the corner by the smoke-room. Over his shoulder he cried back at me:
“The bishop’s stateroom! See that no one enters!”
I clutched at my head—which seemed to be fiery hot; I realized in my own person the sensation of one who knows himself mad.
For the man who pursued the mummy was Nayland Smith!
I stood in the bishop’s state-room, Nayland Smith, his gaunt face wet with perspiration, beside me, handling certain odd looking objects which littered the place, and lay about amid the discarded garments of the absent cleric.
“Pneumatic pads!” he snapped. “The man was a walking air-cushion!” He gingerly fingered two strange rubber appliances. “For distending the cheeks,” he muttered, dropping them disgustedly on the floor. “His hands and wrists betrayed him, Petrie. He wore his cuff unusually long but he could not entirely hide his bony wrists. To have watched him, whilst remaining myself unseen, was next to impossible; hence my device of tossing a dummy overboard, calculated to float for less than ten minutes! It actually floated nearly fifteen, as a matter of fact, and I had some horrible moments!”
“Smith!” I said—“how could you submit me...”
He clapped his hands on my shoulders.