Edgar Wallace

“ It was almost bare, save for a double line of shelves round the room, and a plain table in the centre. On the shelves were a number of glass cases.
“In these,” said the old doctor, indicating the cases with a wave of his grimy hand, “I keep my flies. Every death-dealing tropical fly in the world is here. Look at those elephant flies.”
Brian looked at the fat insects with their big comical eyes, that floundered about the bottom of one of the cages. They were as big as a very small bird.
“They’re harmless,” said the doctor. “They’ll give you a nip, but they leave no ill effects.” ”

“ It was Brian’s turn to smile.
“I’m glad you’re a sportsman, doctor,” he said, “because it makes what I’ve got to say much easier. You will have read in the papers that Greenpol, another horse of mine, dropped dead on the course.”
The doctor nodded.
“Well,” Brian went on, “my horse died because he had been bitten by tsetse flies.”
The old man’s eyes suddenly lighted.
“Tsetse?” he repeated, “art sure?”
“My friend here, Dr Ernest Crane”—the old man favoured the other with a courtly nod—“has the beasts with him.”
Ernest produced his box and handed it over to the old man, who opened it. ”

“ It was equally out of the question to allow Pinlow to go free.
Brian considered the proposition for some time, and then decided.
“There’s another man in this,” he said; “that man is Fanks; but he is too slippery an eel to attempt to corner. It is Pinlow or nothing.”
He got rid of Horace as soon as possible, and the doctor and he drove direct to Pinlow’s chambers. ”

“ An old plaid scarf was tied under his chin, he wore a big drooping knitted waistcoat, though the day was warm, and his trousers and coat had been intended for wearers of more ample size.
“Coom in,” he snorted. ”