Accordingly,
having made suitable preparation I accompanied Sir Burnham's servant
back to the residence of the baronet...."
I heard the door-bell ring, and I heard Coates's regular tread as he
proceeded along the passage. There was a brief, muttered colloquy, a
rap on the study-door, and Coates entered.
"A sergeant of police and a constable, sir, to see Inspector Gatton!"
Damar Greefe raised his thin, yellow hand. His voice, when next he
spoke, exhibited no trace of emotion.
"Let them be told to wait," he said. "I have not finished."
It was wildly bizarre, that scene in my study, with the dignified
white-haired Eurasian doctor, palpably laboring against some deathly
sickness, sitting there unperturbed, his brilliant, perverted
intellect holding him aloof from the ordinary things of life--whilst
those who came to hale him to a felon's cell waited in the ante-room!
I glanced swiftly at Gatton, and he nodded impatiently.
"Let them stay in the dining-room, Coates," I said. "Make them
comfortable."
"Very good, sir."
Unmoved, Coates withdrew--and I saw Gatton glance at his watch.
Throughout the latter part of his strange narrative, neither Gatton
nor I interrupted the narrator, therefore I give his story, so far as
I remember it, in his own words. He no longer addressed either of us
directly; he seemed, indeed, to be thinking aloud.
CHAPTER XXVI
STATEMENT OF DR.
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