It was passing strange, therefore, that Winter had no sooner opened the door of No. 17 than the novice of the party became aware of a heavy, pungent scent which he associated with some affrighting and unclean thing.  At first he swept aside the phantasy.  Strong as he was, his nervous system had been subjected to severe strain that evening.  He knew well that the mind can create its own specters, that the five senses can be subjugated by forces which science has not as yet either measured or defined.

Moreover, he was standing in a hall furnished with a taste and quiet elegance that must surely indicate similar features in each room of a suite which, in other respects, bore an almost exact resemblance of his own apartments.  In sheer protest against the riot of an overwrought imagination he brushed a hand across his eyes.

The chief inspector noted the action.

“You will find nothing grewsome here, I assure you,” he said, quietly.  “Beyond a few signs of hurried rummaging of drawers and boxes there is absolutely no indication of a crime having been committed.”

“Mr. Theydon came prepared to see ghosts,” squeaked Furneaux.  “Evidently he is not acquainted with the peculiar smell of a joss stick.”

Theydon turned troubled eyes on the wizened little man who seemed to have the power of reading his secret thought.

“A joss stick,” he repeated.  “Isn’t that some sort of incense used by Chinese in their temples?”

“Yes,” said Furneaux.

“Lots of ladies burn them in their boudoirs nowadays,” explained Winter offhandedly.

“The Chinese burn them to propitiate evil spirits,” murmured Furneaux.  “The Taou gods are mostly deities of a very unpleasant frame of mind.  The mere scowl of one of them from a painted fan suggests novel and painful forms of torture.  I’ve seen Shang Ti grinning at me from a porcelain vase, otherwise exquisite, and felt my hair rising.”

“I do wish you wouldn’t talk nonsense, Charles,” said Winter, frowning heavily.

“Am I talking nonsense, Mr. Theydon?” demanded Furneaux.  “Didn’t your flesh creep when that queer perfume assailed your nostrils, which are not yet altogether atrophied by the reek of thousands of rank cigars?”

“Stop it!” commanded Winter, throwing open a door.

“And they christened him Leander—­ Leander, who swam the Hellespont for love of a woman!” muttered Furneaux.

Theydon began to believe that both detectives were cranks of the first order.  Furneaux, whose extraordinary insight he actually feared, was obviously an excellent example of the alliance between insanity and genius.  In a word, he failed, and not unreasonably, to understand that when the Jersey man was mouthing a strange jargon of knowledge and incoherence, and Winter was inclined to be snappy with his subordinate, and each was more than rude to the other, they were then giving tongue like hounds hot on the trail.