THE GREEN EYES
OF BÂST

CONTENTS

1. I SEE THE EYES
2. THE SIGN OF THE CAT
3. THE GREEN IMAGE
4. ISOBEL
5. THE INTERRUPTED SUPPER
6. THE VOICE
7. THE CAT OF BUBASTIS
8. MY VISITOR
9. THE VELVET CURTAIN
10. "HANGING EVIDENCE"
11. THE SCARED MAN
12. I DREAM OF GREEN EYES
13. DR. DAMAR GREEFE
14. THE BLACK DOCTOR
15. I RECEIVE VISITORS
16. THE GOLDEN CAT
17. THE NUBIAN MUTE
18. THE SECRET OF FRIAR'S PARK
19. THE MAN ON THE TOWER
20. GATTON'S STORY
21. IN LONDON AGAIN
22. THE GRAY MIST
23. THE INEVITABLE
24. A CONFERENCE--INTERRUPTED
25. STATEMENT OF DR. DAMAR GREEFE, M.D.
26. STATAEMENT OF DR. DAMAR GREEFE (CONTINUED)
27. STATEMENT OF DR. DAMAR GREEFE (CONCLUDED)
28. THE CLAWS OF THE CAT
29. AN AFTERWARD

CHAPTER I
I SEE THE EYES

"Good evening, sir. A bit gusty?"

"Very much so, sergeant," I replied. "I think I will step into your hut for a moment and light my pipe if I may."

"Certainly, sir. Matches are too scarce nowadays to take risks with 'em. But it looks as if the storm had blown over."

"I'm not sorry," said I, entering the little hut like a sentry-box which stands at the entrance to this old village high street for accommodation of the officer on point duty at that spot. "I have a longish walk before me."

"Yes. Your place is right off the beat, isn't it?" mused my acquaintance, as sheltered from the keen wind I began to load my briar. "Very inconvenient I've always thought it for a gentleman who gets about as much as you do."

"That's why I like it," I explained. "If I lived anywhere accessible I should never get a moment's peace, you see. At the same time I have to be within an hour's journey of Fleet Street."

I often stopped for a chat at this point and I was acquainted with most of the men of P. division on whom the duty devolved from time to time. It was a lonely spot at night when the residents in the neighborhood had retired, so that the darkened houses seemed to withdraw yet farther into the gardens separating them from the highroad. A relic of the days when trains and motor-buses were not, dusk restored something of an old-world atmosphere to the village street, disguising the red brick and stucco which in many cases had displaced the half-timbered houses of the past. Yet it was possible in still weather to hear the muted bombilation of the sleepless city and when the wind was in the north to count the hammer-strokes of the great bell of St. Paul's.

Standing in the shelter of the little hut, I listened to the rain dripping from over-reaching branches and to the gurgling of a turgid little stream which flowed along the gutter near my feet whilst now and again swift gusts of the expiring tempest would set tossing the branches of