ALTHOUGH we avoided all unnecessary delay, it was close upon midnight when our
cab swung round into a darkly shadowed avenue, at the farther end of which, as seen
through a tunnel, the moonlight glittered upon the windows of Rowan House, Sir Lionel
Barton's home.
Stepping out before the porch of the long, squat building, I saw that it was banked in, as
Smith had said, by trees and shrubs. The facade showed mantled in the strange exotic
creeper which he had mentioned, and the air was pungent with an odor of decaying
vegetation, with which mingled the heavy perfume of the little nocturnal red flowers
which bloomed luxuriantly upon the creeper.
The place looked a veritable wilderness, and when we were admitted to the hall by
Inspector Weymouth I saw that the interior was in keeping with the exterior, for the hall
was constructed from the model of some apartment in an Assyrian temple, and the squat
columns, the low seats, the hangings, all were eloquent of neglect, being thickly dust-
coated. The musty smell, too, was almost as pronounced here as outside, beneath the
trees.
To a library, whose contents overflowed in many literary torrents upon the floor, the
detective conducted us.
"Good heavens!" I cried, "what's that?"
Something leaped from the top of the bookcase, ambled silently across the littered carpet,
and passed from the library like a golden streak. I stood looking after it with startled eyes.
Inspector Weymouth laughed dryly.
"It's a young puma, or a civet-cat, or something, Doctor," he said. "This house is full of
surprises--and mysteries."
His voice was not quite steady, I thought, and he carefully closed the door ere proceeding
further.
"Where is he?" asked Nayland Smith harshly. "How was it done?"
Weymouth sat down and lighted a cigar which I offered him.
"I thought you would like to hear what led up to it--so far as we know-- before seeing
him?"
