A shudder I could not repress ran coldly through me at mention of that most deadly of all the reptiles of the East.

“There’s only one treatment,” he continued, rolling his sleeve down again, “and that’s with a sharp knife, a match, and a broken cartridge.  I lay on my back, raving, for three days afterwards, in a forest that stank with malaria, but I should have been lying there now if I had hesitated.  Here’s the point.  It was not an accident!”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that it was a deliberate attempt on my life, and I am hard upon the tracks of the man who extracted that venom—­patiently, drop by drop—­ from the poison-glands of the snake, who prepared that arrow, and who caused it to be shot at me.”

“What fiend is this?”

“A fiend who, unless my calculations are at fault is now in London, and who regularly wars with pleasant weapons of that kind.  Petrie, I have traveled from Burma not in the interests of the British Government merely, but in the interests of the entire white race, and I honestly believe—­ though I pray I may be wrong—­that its survival depends largely upon the success of my mission.”

To say that I was perplexed conveys no idea of the mental chaos created by these extraordinary statements, for into my humdrum suburban life Nayland Smith had brought fantasy of the wildest.  I did not know what to think, what to believe.

“I am wasting precious time!” he rapped decisively, and, draining his glass, he stood up.  “I came straight to you, because you are the only man I dare to trust.  Except the big chief at headquarters, you are the only person in England, I hope, who knows that Nayland Smith has quitted Burma.  I must have someone with me, Petrie, all the time—­it’s imperative!  Can you put me up here, and spare a few days to the strangest business, I promise you, that ever was recorded in fact or fiction?”

I agreed readily enough, for, unfortunately, my professional duties were not onerous.

“Good man!” he cried, wringing my hand in his impetuous way.  “We start now.”

“What, to-night?”

“To-night!  I had thought of turning in, I must admit.  I have not dared to sleep for forty-eight hours, except in fifteen-minute stretches.  But there is one move that must be made to-night and immediately.  I must warn Sir Crichton Davey.”

“Sir Crichton Davey—­of the India—­”

“Petrie, he is a doomed man!  Unless he follows my instructions without question, without hesitation—­before Heaven, nothing can save him!  I do not know when the blow will fall, how it will fall, nor from whence, but I know that my first duty is to warn him.  Let us walk down to the corner of the common and get a taxi.”

How strangely does the adventurous intrude upon the humdrum; for, when it intrudes at all, more often than not its intrusion is sudden and unlooked for.  To-day, we may seek for romance and fail to find it:  unsought, it lies in wait for us at most prosaic corners of life’s highway.