As I descended to the street the liftman regarded me in a curious and
rather significant way. Finally, just as I was about to step out into
the hall:
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, having evidently decided that I was a fit
person to converse with, “but are you a friend of Mr. Adderley's?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, sir, I hope you will excuse me, but at times I have thought the
gentleman was just a little bit queer, like.”
“You mean insane?” I asked sharply.
“Well, sir, I don't know, but he is always asking me if I can see
shadows and things in the lift, and sometimes when he comes in late of a
night he absolutely gives me the cold shivers, he does.”
I lingered, the box under my arm, reluctant to obtain confidences from a
servant, but at the same time keenly interested. Thus encouraged:
“Then there's that lady friend of his who is always coming here,” the
man continued. “She's haunted by shadows, too.” He paused, watching me
narrowly.
“There's nothing better in this world than a clean conscience, sir,” he
concluded.
*****
Having returned to my room at the hotel, I set down the mysterious
parcel, surveying it with much disfavour. That it contained the hand of
the Mandarin Quong I could not doubt, the hand which had been amputated
by Dr. Matheson. Its appearance in that dramatic fashion confirmed
Matheson's idea that the mandarin's injury had been received at the
hands of Adderley. What did all this portend, unless that the Mandarin
Quong was dead? And if he were dead why was Adderley more afraid of him
dead than he had been of him living?
I thought of the haunting shadow, I thought of the night at Katong, and
I thought of Dr. Matheson's words when he had told us of his discovery
of the Chinaman lying in the road that night outside Singapore.
I felt strangely disinclined to touch the relic, and it was only after
some moments' hesitation that I undid the wrappings and raised the lid
of the casket. Dusk was very near and I had not yet lighted the lamps;
therefore at first I doubted the evidence of my senses. But having
lighted up and peered long and anxiously into the sandal-wood lining of
the casket I could doubt no longer.
The casket was empty!
It was like a conjuring trick. That the hand had been in the box when
I had taken it up from Adderley's table I could have sworn before any
jury. When and by whom it had been removed was a puzzle beyond my powers
of unravelling. I stepped toward the telephone--and then remembered that
Paul Harley was out of London. Vaguely wondering if Adderley had played
me a particularly gruesome practical joke, I put the box on a sideboard
and again contemplated the telephone doubtfully far a moment. It was in
my mind to ring him up. Finally, taking all things into consideration,
I determined that I would have nothing further to do with the man's
unsavoury and mysterious affairs.
It was in vain, however, that I endeavoured to dismiss the matter from
my mind; and throughout the evening, which I spent at a theatre with
some American friends, I found myself constantly thinking of Adderley
and the ivory casket, of the mandarin of Johore Bahru, and of the
mystery of the shrivelled yellow hand.
I had been back in my room about half an hour, I suppose, and it was
long past midnight, when I was startled by a ringing of my telephone
bell. I took up the receiver, and:
“Knox! Knox!” came a choking cry.
“Yes, who is speaking?”
“It is I, Adderley. For God's sake come round to my place at once!”
His words were scarcely intelligible. Undoubtedly he was in the grip of
intense emotion.
“What do you mean? What is the matter?”
“It is here, Knox, it is here! It is knocking on the door! Knocking!
Knocking!”
“You have been drinking,” I said sternly. “Where is your man?”
“The cur has bolted. He bolted the moment he heard that damned knocking.
I am all alone; I have no one else to appeal to.” There came a choking
sound, then: “My God, Knox, it is getting in! I can see... the shadow on
the blind...”
Convinced that Adderley's secret fears had driven him mad, I
nevertheless felt called upon to attend to his urgent call, and without
a moment's delay I hurried around to St. James's Street. The liftman was
not on duty, the lower hall was in darkness, but I raced up the stairs
and found to my astonishment that Adderley's door was wide open.
“Adderley!” I cried. “Adderley!”
There was no reply, and without further ceremony I entered and searched
the chambers. They were empty. Deeply mystified, I was about to go out
again when there came a ring at the door-bell. I walked to the door and
a policeman was standing upon the landing.
“Good evening, sir,” he said, and then paused, staring at me curiously.
“Good evening, constable,” I replied.
“You are not the gentleman who ran out awhile ago,” he said, a note of
suspicion coming into his voice.