It needed no further scrutiny of the hawk face to
convince me that I had never hitherto met Dr. Damar Greefe; but I
certainly believed that I had previously heard his voice, although I
quite failed to recall where and under what circumstances.
"Sir Burnham has been dead for several years, I believe?" I asked
tentatively.
"For several years, yes."
Without returning to the peremptory tone which had distinguished his
earlier manner, Dr. Damar Greefe coldly but courteously blocked my
path to discussion of the Coverly family; and after several abortive
attempts to draw him out upon the point, I recognized this deliberate
design and abandoned the matter.
The storm was moving westward, and although brilliant flashes of
lightning several times lighted up the queer room, gleaming upon the
gayly-painted lid of an Egyptian sarcophagus or throwing into horrid
relief some anatomical specimen in one of the cases, the thunder
crashed no more over the house. But its booming reached my ears from
away upon a remote spur of the hills. I became aware of a growing
uneasiness in the company of my chance host, who sat by the oddly
littered table, watching me with those birdlike eyes.
"Surely," I said, "the rain has ceased?"
"Temporarily," he replied, glancing toward the terrace. "But I should
advise you to delay a few minutes longer. There is every threat of a
concluding downpour to come ere long.
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