“His ... death!”
As a wild, hysterical shriek the words smote upon
my ears. I turned, to see the girl rise, tottering,
from her seat. She began groping in front of
her, blindly, as though a darkness had descended.
“You did not say he was dead?” she whispered,
“not dead!—not ...”
The words were lost in a wild peal of laughter.
Clutching at her throat she swayed and would have
fallen had I not caught her in my arms. As I
laid her insensible upon the settee I met Smith’s
glance.
“I think I know that, too, Petrie,” he
said gravely.
THE GOLDEN POMEGRANATES
“What was it that he cried out?” demanded
Nayland Smith abruptly. “I was in the sitting-room
and it sounded to me like ’pomegranates’!”
We were bending over Lewison; for now, the wig removed,
Lewison it proved unmistakably to be, despite the
puffy and pallid face.
“He said ‘the golden pomegranates,’”
I replied, and laughed harshly. “They were
words of delirium and cannot possibly have any bearing
upon the manner of his death.”
“I disagree.”
He strode out into the sitting-room.
Weymouth was below, supervising the removal of the
unhappy prisoner, and together Smith and I stood looking
down at the brass box. Suddenly—
“I propose to attempt to open it,” said
my friend.
His words came as a complete surprise.
“For what reason?—and why have you
so suddenly changed your mind?”
“For a reason which I hope will presently become
evident,” he said; “and as to my change
of mind, unless I am greatly mistaken, the wily old
Chinaman from whom I wrested this treasure was infinitely
more clever than I gave him credit for being!”
Through the open window came faintly to my ears the
chiming of Big Ben. The hour was a quarter to
two. London’s pulse was dimmed now, and
around about us that great city slept as soundly as
it ever sleeps. Other sounds came vaguely through
the fog, and beside Nayland Smith I sat and watched
him at work upon the Tulun-Nur box.
Every knob of the intricate design he pushed, pulled
and twisted; but without result. The night wore
on, and just before three o’clock Inspector
Weymouth knocked upon the door. I admitted him,
and side by side the two of us stood watching Smith
patiently pursuing his task.
All conversation had ceased, when, just as the muted
booming of London’s clocks reached my ears again
and Weymouth pulled out his watch, there came a faint
click ... and I saw that Smith had raised the lid
of the coffer!
Weymouth and I sprang forward with one accord, and
over Smith’s shoulders peered into the interior.
There was a second lid of some dull, black wood, apparently
of great age, and fastened to it so as to form knobs
or handles was an exquisitely carved pair of golden
pomegranates!
