I recognised my card, because, as you
know, they are all in scarlet. If, as you say, London is talking of
this mystery, it naturally follows that _he_ will talk of it, and the
chances are he wished to consult with me upon it. Anyone can see that,
besides there is always--_Come in!_
There was a rap at the door this time.
A stranger entered. Sherlaw Kombs did not change his lounging
attitude.
'I wish to see Mr. Sherlaw Kombs, the detective,' said the stranger,
coming within the range of the smoker's vision.
'This is Mr. Kombs,' I remarked at last, as my friend smoked quietly,
and seemed half-asleep.
'Allow me to introduce myself,' continued the stranger, fumbling for a
card.
'There is no need. You are a journalist,' said Kombs.
'Ah,' said the stranger, somewhat taken aback, 'you know me, then.'
'Never saw or heard of you in my life before.'
'Then how in the world--'
'Nothing simpler. You write for an evening paper. You have written an
article slating the book of a friend. He will feel badly about it, and
you will condole with him. He will never know who stabbed him unless I
tell him.'
'The devil!' cried the journalist, sinking into a chair and mopping
his brow, while his face became livid.
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