Early in the morning Nayland Smith set off for the British
Museum to pursue his mysterious investigations, and I, having
performed my brief professional round (for, as Nayland Smith had
remarked on one occasion, this was a beastly healthy district), I
found, having made the necessary arrangements, that, with over three
hours to spare, I had nothing to occupy my time until the appointment
in Covent Garden Market. My lonely lunch completed, a restless fit
seized me, and I felt unable to remain longer in the house. Inspired
by this restlessness, I attired myself for the adventure of the
evening, not neglecting to place a pistol in my pocket, and, walking
to the neighbouring Tube station, I booked to Charing Cross, and
presently found myself rambling aimlessly along the crowded streets.
Led on by what link of memory I know not, I presently drifted into New
Oxford Street, and looked up with a start--to learn that I stood
before the shop of a second-hand bookseller where once two years
before I had met Karamaneh.
The thoughts conjured up at that moment were almost too bitter to be
borne, and without so much as glancing at the books displayed for
sale, I crossed the roadway, entered Museum Street, and, rather in
order to distract my mind than because I contemplated any purchase,
began to examine the Oriental pottery, Egyptian statuettes, Indian
armour, and other curios, displayed in the window of an antique
dealer.
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