“Ah, you hinted at something of the kind.”
“I know very little of it. Nayland Smith is not the kind of man to talk much.”
“Quite so—quite so! And, you know, Doctor, neither am I; but”—he was growing painfully embarrassed—“it may be your due—I—er—I have a correspondent, in the interior of China—”
“Well?” I said, watching him in sudden eagerness.
“Well, I would not desire to raise—vain hopes—nor to occasion, shall I say, empty fears; but—er... no, Doctor!” He flushed like a girl—“It was wrong of me to open this conversation. Perhaps, when I know more—will you forget my words, for the time?”
The telephone bell rang.
“Hullo!” cried Eltham—“hard luck, Doctor!”—but I could see that he welcomed the interruption. “Why!” he added, “it is one o’clock!”
I went to the telephone.
“Is that Dr. Petrie?” inquired a woman’s voice.
“Yes; who is speaking?”