He was a tall, heavy-set man with glittering black eyes, a close-cropped mustache and, though his features were irregular, had rather a handsome countenance. Although deathly pale and still a little shaken, he seemed to have himself pretty well in hand.
Strange looked at him shrewdly.
“What’s your name?” he asked, taking out his notebook.
“Albert Deweese,” replied the man. “I am an artist and have a studio in the next block. I was on my way home when I heard the crash of breaking glass as Mr. Berjet jumped through the window-sash. Naturally, I ran back to find out what the trouble was.”
Strange made a note and nodded.
“What attacked you?” he suddenly shot out.
“I don’t know,” replied Deweese. “The Thing, whatever it was, was invisible. I felt it, God knows, but did not see it.”
“But you must have some idea of what the Thing was,” Strange insisted. “Was it a man, or an animal, or—?”
Deweese shook his head slowly.