The Yellow Snake (18 page)

    "Some people would say he was old, but I would call him a fine figure of a man, and he is enormously rich, my dear."

    Mabel professed to be twenty-five. She was plump, and not especially popular with the bright young men who danced with her, played tennis with her, sometimes dined with her, but studiously refrained from asking her the all-important question. In her life she had had two proposals: one from an impossible young gentleman to whom she had been introduced at a dance, and who subsequently proved to be an actor who played very small parts in very important West End musical comedies, and the other from a business associate of her father's who was still in mourning for his second wife when he made a timid bid for a third.

    "I like men who have sown their wild oats, Joan," said Mabel firmly, blinking rapidly as a vivid flash of lightning momentarily blinded her. "Will you pull the curtains, my dear?"

    Joan had never known her so affable, and was curious to discover the identity of the stranger who had made so deep an impression.

    "Young men you can never trust; they're so thoughtless. But a mature man ...and fearfully rich! He told me he tried to buy up Lord Knowesley's estate. He is negotiating for a house in Park Lane, and he has three Rolls cars, my dear—just think of it, three!"

    "But who is he Mabel?"

    Here Mabel was at a loss, for in her maidenly modesty she had not pried too closely into the identity of her pleasant acquaintance.

    "He is living somewhere in the neighbourhood. I think he must have rented a house at Sunningdale."

    "How old is he?"

    Mabel considered.

    "About fifty," she said, unconsciously giving support to Mr Bray's miscalculation. "Bless this storm!" She did not mean 'bless'! "Do, please, run down into the cellar, Joan, and see if that foolish child is all right."

    Joan found the 'foolish child' sitting in a basket chair with a newspaper over her head, and Letty refused either to be sensible or to change her habitation.

    When she got back to the drawing-room Mabel greeted her with a staggering question.

    "Has that awful boy of yours got a visitor?"

    For a second Joan did not understand her. She had never thought of Clifford Lynne in these terms.

    "'Boy'? You mean Mr Lynne?"

    And then she gasped. Mabel had been talking about Joe Bray! She was too startled to laugh, and could only look open-mouthed at the plump girl. Happily, the eldest daughter of Stephen Narth, intent on her knitting, did not observe the sensation she had caused.

    "I wondered, because he walked off in the direction of the Slaters' Cottage. It struck me afterwards that it was quite possible he was staying with this Lynne man, who is rich, I suppose, and must have a lot of rich friends."

    Joan did not venture an answer. She could not tell the girl who was her newly-discovered interest without betraying Clifford, but she wondered what would be Mabel's attitude if she knew the truth.

    It was nearly ten o'clock and Mr Narth had not yet returned from town, when they heard a gentle tap at the door. The storm had subsided, though the thunder was still growling, and Joan went out, to find a rain-spotted envelope in the wire letter-box. It was addressed to 'Miss Mabel,' and she carried her find back to the girl. Mabel seized the letter, tore open the envelope and extracted a large and considerably blotted sheet of paper. She read and her eyes sparkled.

    "Poetry, Joan!" she said breathlessly.

    There was no signature. Mabel's eyes were gleaming.

    "How perfectly terribly romantic!" she exclaimed. "He must have dropped it in the letterbox with his own hand."

    She sprang up from her chair, went into the hall and opened the door. It was very dark, but she thought she saw a figure moving down the drive. The rain had ceased. Should she run after him? Would it be a ladylike action, she wondered? Would it not indeed come within the category of 'chasing,' literally and figuratively? The excuse was ready made for an excursion down the drive, for at this hour Joan usually went out with the letters—there was a postal box just outside the gate.

    Hesitating no more, she walked quickly down the path, her heart beating pleasurably. Turning the elbow of the little road, she stopped. Nobody was in sight; she must have been mistaken.

    And then there came to her an eerie sensation of fear that made her flesh go cold. She turned to run, and had taken two steps when a fusty blanket was suddenly thrown over her head, a big hand stifled her screams, and she fainted...

    Joan waited in the drawing-room until the slamming of the door brought her into the hall. The wind had blown the door close, and she opened it wide and peered out into the storm.

    Two successive flashes of lightning showed her that the drive was empty.

    "Mabel!"

    She called the girl at the top of her voice, but no answer came.

    Joan's heart sank.

    She ran back to the drawing-room and rang the bell for the butler; he was a slow-moving man, and as she waited patiently for his coming she remembered the black 'plum' that Clifford had given to her. It was a weapon of some kind, and she flew up the stairs and was back by the time the servant had arrived.

    "Miss Mabel gone out? She'll come back, miss."

    He glanced nervously at the open door. The lightning came in fluttering spasms.

    "No, miss, I'm sorry—I don't like lightning."

    "Come with me," commanded the girl, and ran out of the house; but she went alone. The butler went as far as the front door, and felt that he was not called upon by the laws which govern butlers to go any farther.

    Lynne was sitting in the doorway of the cottage, a rifle across his knees, when Joe came back, the rays of his lamp advertising his presence long before he himself was in sight.

    "Where the dickens have you been?" asked Clifford in astonishment. "I thought you were asleep!"

    "Just went for a stroll," said Joe airily. "I slipped out at the back door...there's nobody about."

    "Well, you can slip in at the front door," said Clifford severely. "In all probability the wood is full of Chinese cutthroats."

    "Ridic'lous!" murmured Joe as he passed.

    "It may be ridic'lous," Clifford called over his shoulder, "but anything more ridiculous than you lying in a Sunningdale wood with your aged throat cut, I can't imagine."

    "Fifty-one!" exploded Joe from the passage. "Everybody knows that!"

    It was not a moment when Clifford Lynne felt he could debate the question of Mr Bray's age with any great profit. In the course of the evening he had made several excursions into the wood and had found nothing of a suspicious character. The cottage could be approached from the south by way of a new road that had been cut through the estate company's property, and to guard against surprise from this direction he had suspended, on a blackened string, a number of little bells that he had bought in London that day, though the never-ending grumble and crack of the thunder made it extremely doubtful whether this warning would reach him. The lightning played vividly in the sky as he sat on the doorstep, alert and waiting. Once Joe began to sing, and he silenced him with an angry growl.

    Eleven o'clock was striking when he heard a firm step on the gravel, coming from the direction of the road, and stood up,

    There was nothing furtive in the stranger's approach. He walked boldly down the centre of the road, and Clifford heard the tap of a stick. Whoever the newcomer was, he needed no light to show him the way, and after a while the watcher saw his shape distinctly. He turned from the road and came straight to the cottage, and now Lynne challenged him.

    "Have no fear. I am alone!"

    It was Fing-Su.

    "Stand where you are!" said Clifford harshly, "And since when have I been afraid of Chinese traders?"

    The newcomer had halted and Clifford heard him laugh. He smelt something, a penetrating aroma, pungent but not unpleasant.

    "Pardon me," said Fing-Su politely. "I put that rather awkwardly, I am afraid. What I meant to convey was that I had called for a friendly talk. I understand that some of my hot-headed young men, quite without my knowledge, paid you a little attention last night. I have chastized them. Nobody knows better than you, Mr Lynne, that they are the veriest children. They thought I had been insulted——"

    "Who is that?" It was Joe Bray's voice, speaking from the living-room.

    Clifford turned savagely and silenced him. Had Fing-Su heard? And if he had, did he recognize the voice? Apparently he did not.

    "You have a friend staying with you? I think that is wise," he said in the same courteous tone. "As I was remarking——"

    "Listen! I'm not going to waste my time with that monkey stuff. Fing-Su, you're getting to the end of your rope."

    "It is a long rope," said Fing-Su, "and it covers a wide area. You are a fool, Lynne, not to throw in your lot with me. In five years I shall be the most powerful man in China."

    "You'll conquer China, will you?" asked the other sardonically. "And Europe, too, perhaps?"

    "Perhaps," said Fing-Su. "You have no vision, my friend. Do you not see that with our preponderant man-strength all the wars of the future will be decided by our race? A professional yellow army will decide the fate of Europe. A great mercenary army—think of it, Lynne—to be bargained for and sold to the highest bidder. An army that sits everlastingly on the threshold of Europe!"

    "What do you want now?" asked Clifford brusquely.

    Fing-Su had a trick of conveying reproach by his very intonation, and now he replied in a hurt tone:

    "Is it necessary that we should be enemies, Mr Lynne? I have no feeling against you. All I wish is to buy from you at a reasonable price a founders' share in the company—"

    The coolness of the request momentarily struck Clifford dumb. It aroused in him also a sudden feeling of apprehension. Fing-Su would not dare advance such an iniquitous request unless he had the wherewithal to bargain.

    "And what do you propose giving me in exchange?" he asked slowly, and heard the quick intake of the other's breath.

    "A thing very precious to you, Mr Lynne." He spoke deliberately. "You have a friend in your house and evidently he can hear, and I am not prepared to make a statement before a witness. Will you come a little way up the road with me?"

    "Walk ahead," said Clifford curtly, and, turning, Fing-Su went before him.

    Within a few yards of the main road the Chinaman stopped and turned.

    "There is a lady——" he began.

    Lynne's hand shot out and gripped him by his coat. Something hard pressed against the Chinaman's waistcoat.

    "You've got Joan Bray, have you?" demanded Cliff through his teeth. "You've got her! Is that what you're trying to say?"

    "There is no need for heroics——" began Fing-Su.

    "Tell me where she is."

    "I am sorry you take this view," said Fing-Su, regret in his voice, "and as you threaten me I have no course to follow but——"

    He took off his hat as though to cool his heated head and looked into its interior.

    Suddenly from its crown, with a fierce hiss, came a thick spray of liquid that drenched Clifford's face.

    Pure ammonia, stifling, blinding ...!

    In his agony his pistol fell with a clatter to the ground, and the Chinaman, with a quick thrust of his head, sent him sprawling. Kneeling by his side, Fing-Su thrust his hand into the inside of Clifford's waistcoat. He felt a crackle—a paper was sewn there.

    And then came a diversion; the sound of footsteps, flying down the road—a woman, he saw, with his keen eyes that could penetrate the blackest gloom of night. Instinct saved Joan Bray. As she turned into the lane she stopped suddenly, conscious of the huddled figure on the ground.

    "Who is that?" she asked.

    At the sound of her voice Fing-Su leapt to his feet with a squeal of rage.

    "Miss Bray!"

    She recognized him, and for a moment was petrified with fright, then, as he leapt at her, she raised her hand in the desperation of terror and flung the thing she had been carrying. The black ball dropped short of Fing-Su, but fell on the ground at his feet.

    There was a dull explosion, and instantly the road, the wood, the very Slaters' Cottage, were illuminated by the light of the magnesium bomb. In a panic the Chinaman turned and plunged into the wood and a second later was lost to sight. On and on he ran blindly, until he came to a low hedge which separated him from the road. Near at hand a motor-car was drawn up by the side of the road, its lights dimmed. He stopped only long enough to lift out a stout and swooning girl and bundle her on to the roadside, and then the car sped furiously towards Egham.

    A quarter of an hour later a search party went out to look for Mabel Narth, and it was Joe Bray who had the fortune to find her. And to comfort her.

    Fing-Su sat cross-legged on a divan in his over-furnished and over-scented office. The hour was four, and the roofs and steeples of East London showed black against the dawn.