“Will you have tea or coffee for breakfast?” inquired Coates.

“Tea or coffee be damned, Coates!” I cried.  “I’m going out to look at those footprints!  If you had seen what I saw last night, even your old mahogany countenance would relax for once, I assure you.”

“Indeed, sir,” said Coates; “did you see the lady, then?”

“Lady!” I exclaimed, tumbling out of bed.  “If the eyes that looked at me last night belonged to a ‘lady’ either I am mad or the ‘lady’ is of another world.”

I pulled on a bath-robe and hurried out into the garden, Coates showing me the spot where he had found the mysterious foot-prints.  A very brief examination sufficed to convince me that his account had been correct.  Some one wearing high-heeled shoes clearly enough had stood there at some time whilst the soil was quite wet; and as no track led to or from the marks, Coates’ conclusion that the person who had made them must have come over the hedge was the only feasible one.  I turned to him in amazement, but recognizing in time the wildly fantastic nature of the sight which I had seen in the night, I refrained from speaking of the blazing eyes and made my way to the bathroom wondering if some chance reflection might not have deceived me and the presence of a woman’s footmarks at the same spot be no more than a singular coincidence.  Even so the mystery of their presence there remained unexplained.

My thoughts were diverted from a trend of profitless conjecture when shortly after breakfast time my ’phone bell rang.  It was the editor of the Planet, to whom I had been indebted for a number of special commissions—­including my fascinating quest of the Giant Gnu, which, generally supposed to be extinct, was reported by certain natives and others to survive in a remote corner of the Dark Continent.

Readers of the Planet will remember that although I failed to discover the Gnu I came upon a number of notable things on my journey through the almost unexplored country about the head-waters of the Niger.

“A most extraordinary case has cropped up,” he said, “quite in your line, I think, Addison.  Evidently a murder, and the circumstances seem to be most dramatic and unusual.  I should be glad if you would take it up.”

I inquired without much enthusiasm for details.  Criminology was one of my hobbies, and in several instances I had traced cases of alleged haunting and other supposedly supernatural happenings to a criminal source; but the ordinary sordid murder did not interest me.

“The body of Sir Marcus Coverly has been found in a crate!” explained my friend.  “The crate was being lowered into the hold of the S.S. Oritoga at the West India Docks.  It had been delivered by a conveyance specially hired for the purpose apparently, as the Oritoga is due to sail in an hour.  There are all sorts of curious details but these you can learn for yourself.  Don’t trouble to call at the office; proceed straight to the dock.”