“Two men, both fairly sound, except that the first one had an asthmatic heart, have died at the Gables without any one laying a little finger upon them.  Oh! there was no jugglery!  They weren’t poisoned, or bitten by venomous insects, or suffocated, or anything like that.  They just died of fear—­stark fear.”

With my elbows resting upon the table cover, and my chin in my hands, I was listening attentively, now, and Nayland Smith, a big cushion behind his head, was watching the speaker with a keen and speculative look in those steely eyes of his.

“You imply that Dr. Fu-Manchu has something to learn from the Gables?” he jerked.

Weymouth nodded stolidly.

“I can’t work up anything like amazement in these days,” continued the latter; “every other case seems stale and hackneyed alongside the case.  But I must confess that when the Gables came on the books of the Yard the second time, I began to wonder.  I thought there might be some tangible clue, some link connecting the two victims; perhaps some evidence of robbery or of revenge—­of some sort of motive.  In short, I hoped to find evidence of human agency at work, but, as before, I was disappointed.”

“It’s a legitimate case of a haunted house, then?” said Smith.

“Yes; we find them occasionally, these uninhabitable places, where there is something, something malignant and harmful to human life, but something that you cannot arrest, that you cannot hope to bring into court.”

“Ah,” replied Smith slowly; “I suppose you are right.  There are historic instances, of course:  Glamys Castle and Spedlins Tower in Scotland, Peel Castle, Isle of Man, with its Maudhe Dhug, the gray lady of Rainham Hall, the headless horses of Caistor, the Wesley ghost of Epworth Rectory, and others.  But I have never come in personal contact with such a case, and if I did I should feel very humiliated to have to confess that there was any agency which could produce a physical result—­death—­but which was immune from physical retaliation.”

Weymouth nodded his head again.

“I might feel a bit sour about it, too,” he replied, “if it were not that I haven’t much pride left in these days, considering the show of physical retaliation I have made against Dr. Fu-Manchu.”

“A home thrust, Weymouth!” snapped Nayland Smith, with one of those rare, boyish laughs of his.  “We’re children to that Chinese doctor, Inspector, to that weird product of a weird people who are as old in evil as the pyramids are old in mystery.  But about the Gables?”

“Well, it’s an uncanny place.  You mentioned Glamys Castle a moment ago, and it’s possible to understand an old stronghold like that being haunted, but the Gables was only built about 1870; it’s quite a modern house.  It was built for a wealthy Quaker family, and they occupied it, uninterruptedly and apparently without anything unusual occurring, for over forty years.  Then it was sold to a Mr. Maddison—­and Mr. Maddison died there six months ago.”