The Yellow Snake (6 page)

    Stephen Narth smiled.

    "It seems quite a praiseworthy object," he said. "I shall be delighted to join you."

    The brown eyes had an hypnotic quality. They transfixed him in that second, and he had the terrifying sensation that he had momentarily surrendered his will to a dominating but beneficent power. That was the strange thing about the Chinaman: he created of himself an atmosphere of beneficence.

    "That is well," he said simply, took the wad of notes from his pocket and placed them gently on the table. "No, no, I do not require a receipt—between gentlemen that is unnecessary. You are not a graduate of Oxford? It is a pity. I prefer dealing with men who have that bond with me, but it is sufficient that you are a gentleman."

    He rose abruptly.

    "I think that is all," he said. "In three days you will hear from me, and I must ask you to hold yourself free to keep any appointment which may be made for you at any hour of the day or night in the course of the next week. I hope that is not too irksome a condition?"

    His eyes were smiling as he put the question.

    "No, indeed," said Stephen, and gathered up his money with a shaking hand (for the life of him he could not trace the cause of his agitation). "I must say, Mr St Clay, I'm very grateful to you. You have got me out of a very embarrassing situation. How embarrassing, you cannot know."

    "Indeed, I know everything," said the other quietly.

    And then Stephen remembered.

    "Why did he call you the Yellow Snake?"

    The Chinaman was staring at him with round, unwinking eyes, and, thinking that he had not heard, Stephen repeated the question.

    "Mr Clifford Lynne called me that," said St Clay slowly.

    Only for a second did the inscrutable face of the man show that the shaft unconsciously directed had got home.

    "Yellow Snake...how vulgar! How like Clifford Lynne!"

    He recovered himself instantly, and with a deep laugh, both pleasant and musical, he gathered up his portfolio.

    "You will hear from me——" he began.

    "One moment, Mr St Clay," said Narth. "You spoke about the object of your league. What is that object?"

    The native looked at him thoughtfully for a second, and then:

    "The dominion of the world," he said simply, and with a nod he turned and was gone.

    In this way came Grahame St Clay, Bachelor of Arts, into the life of Stephen Narth, and henceforth his fate was to be bound by hooks of steel to the will of one who was first to dominate and then to crush him.

    Joan Bray was an early riser from necessity. Her position in the Narth household had been reached by a series of drifts—mainly in the direction of the servants' hall. Mr Narth did not employ a housekeeper: it was an unnecessary expense in view of the fact that Joan was available; and gradually she had accumulated all the responsibilities of an upper servant, without any of the emoluments. She was, in fact, a liaison officer between the pantry and the parlour. It was she who had to arrange the monthly settlements with tradesmen, and confront the raging protests of a man who regarded household expenses as an unnecessary waste of money.

    So fully occupied was her day that she had formed the habit of rising at six and taking an hour in the open before the household was awake. The rain of the previous day had left the ground wet and the air cold, but it was such a morning as invited the feet of youth, for the sky was blue, save where it was flecked by a lacing of white cloud.

    This morning she had a special objective. The tremendous happening at Slaters' Cottage was the talk of Sunningdale. From her window on the previous evening she had seen the loaded trolleys disappearing into the wood, and the night had provided a strange and fascinating spectacle. She lived near enough to the Slaters' Cottage to hear the sound of hammer and pick, and she had seen the trees silhouetted against the blinding radiance of the naphtha lamps.

    Mr Narth had also been an uncomfortable witness of this extraordinary activity, and had made a journey late at night to the Slaters' Cottage, there to discover the extent of Clifford Lynne's folly. So far, Joan had learnt of these doings at third hand. The early morning offered an opportunity for a more intimate investigation, and she diverged from the road to satisfy her curiosity. She could not go far; a gang of men were tearing up the path. Three laden lorries were parked unevenly before the cottage, which was alive with men, and reminded her of a troubled ant-hill. The local builder, whom she knew, came up with a smile.

    "What do you think of this, Miss Joan—a thousand pounds worth of repair work on a hundred pound cottage!"

    She could only look and wonder. In the night, the roof had been stripped of slates and supporting beams, so that only the bare shell of the cottage remained.

    "We got the floors out and the pipes laid by four o'clock," said the builder proudly. "I've hired every labourer within twenty miles."

    "But why on earth is Mr Lynne doing all this?" she asked.

    "You know him, Miss?" asked the man, in surprise, and she went red. It was impossible to explain that the Slaters' Cottage was to be her home (as she believed) and that his eccentric employer was her future husband.

    "Yes, I know him," she said awkwardly. "He is—a friend of mine."

    "Oh!"

    Evidently this statement checked a certain frankness on the part of Mr Carter. Joan could almost guess what he would have said.

    She was smiling as she came back to the road. This freakish and feverish rebuilding of Slaters' Cottage was exactly the thing she would have expected from Clifford Lynne. Why she should, she did not know. Only it seemed as though he had been especially revealed to her; that she alone of the family understood him.

    She heard a clatter of hoofs behind her, and moved to the side of the road.

    "
Bon jour
—which I understand is French!"

    She turned, startled. It was the man who at that moment was in her thoughts. He was riding a shaggy old pony, sleepy-eyed, almost as dishevelled as himself.

    "What an awful trouble you must have had to find a horse that matched you!" she said. "I've seen your car—that was a perfect fit!"

    Clifford Lynne's eyes puckered as though he was laughing, but no sound came; yet she could have sworn he was shaking with laughter.

    "You're very rude," he said, as he slipped from the pony's back, "and offensive! But don't let us start quarrelling before we are married. And where did you see the car?"

    She did not answer this.

    "Why are you rebuilding this awful old cottage?" she asked. "Mr Carter said it will cost you thousands."

    He looked at her for a little while without speaking, fingering his beard.

    "I thought I would," he said absently. "I'm kind of eccentric. Living in a hot climate for so long may have affected my brain. I've known lots of fellows go like that! It's rather romantic, too," he mused. "I thought I'd get some climbing roses and honeysuckle, and perhaps run a cabbage patch and chickens—are you fond of chickens?" he asked innocently. "Black Dorkings or White Wyandottes, or vice versa? Or ducks perhaps?"

    They had reached the end of the road, the shaggy pony following obediently.

    "Old Mr Bray was rather set on your marrying one of our family, wasn't he?" she asked, so unexpectedly that for the moment he was taken aback.

    "Why, yes," he said.

    "And you were awfully fond of Mr Bray?"

    He nodded.

    "Yes, I think so. You see, we lived together for so long, and he was a likeable old devil. And he nursed me through cholera, and if it hadn't been for him I should have pegged out—which is Spanish for died. I certainly liked him."

    "You liked him so much," she challenged, "that when he asked you to come to England and marry one of his relations, you promised——"

    "Not immediately," he pleaded. "I made no promise for an awful long time. To tell you the truth, I thought he was mad."

    "But you did promise," she insisted. "And shall I tell you something else you promised?"

    He was silent.

    "You told poor Mr Bray you would say nothing that would make the girl reject you and spoil his plans!"

    Only for a moment was the bearded man embarrassed.

    "Clairvoyance was never a favourite science with me," he said. "It's too near witchcraft. I knew an old woman up in Kung-chang-fu who——"

    "Don't try to turn the subject, Mr Lynne. You promised Mr Bray that when his relations produced a girl of the family for you to marry, you would say nothing which would make her change her mind, that you would in fact express no unwillingness to marry."

    He fondled his invisible chin.

    "Well, maybe you're right," he confessed. "But I've said nothing," he added quickly. "Have I told you that I'm not a marrying man, and loathe the idea of matrimony? Have I told you how poor old Joe has blighted my young life? Have I gone on my knees and begged you to refuse me? Own up, Joan Bray!"

    She shook her head; the smile that was in her eyes was now twitching at her lips.

    "You've said nothing, but you've made yourself look a scarecrow."

    "And fearfully repulsive?" he asked hopefully.

    She shook her head.

    "Not quite. I'm going to marry you; I suppose you know that?"

    The gloom in his face was such that she could have smacked him.

    "I don't want to marry you, of course," she said tartly, "but there are—there are reasons."

    "Old Narth has forced you into it," he said accusingly.

    "Just as old Mr Bray forced you into it," she replied at once. "It is a queer position, and it would be tragic if it wasn't laughable. I don't know what's going to happen, but there's one thing I wish you to do."

    "What is that?" he asked.

    "Go to a barber's and have that ridiculous beard shaved," she said. "I want to see what you look like."

    He sighed wearily.

    "In that case I'm booked," he said. "Once you see my face you will never, never give me up. I was the best-looking man in China."

    He held out his hand.

    "Congratulations," he said simply, and she dissolved into laughter, and was still laughing when she came up the drive and met Mr Narth's suspicious frown.

    "What is amusing you?" asked Stephen, who at the moment had good reason for being anything but amused.

    "I've just been talking to my—fiancé," she said, and Stephen's face cleared.

    "Oh, the wild man!" he said.

    He had a letter in his hand. The morning post came early at Sunningdale.

    "Joan, I want you to come to the City today—to lunch."

    This was a surprising invitation. As a rule when she went to the City she lunched alone.

    "A little bit of a lunch in the office," he said awkwardly. "And I want you to meet a friend of mine—er—a rather brilliant fellow, an Oxford graduate and all that sort of thing."

    His manner rather than his words puzzled her. He was so obviously ill at ease that she could only wonder at the cause of his embarrassment.

    "Is Letty coming?" she asked.

    "No, no," he said quickly. "Only you and I and my—um—friend. I suppose you've none of those stupid prejudices against—er—foreigners?"

    "Foreigners? Why, no—you mean he isn't European?"

    "Yes," said Mr Narth, and coughed. "He is Asiatic; in point of fact, he's a Chinaman. But he's an awfully important person in his own country, my dear, a mandarin or a governor or something, and a perfect gentleman. I wouldn't ask you to meet anybody I shouldn't care to meet myself."

    "Why, of course, Mr Narth, if you wish me to ..."

    "His name is Grahame St Clay. He has large commercial interests both in this country and abroad."

    Grahame St Clay?

    Where she had heard that name before, she could not for the moment recall. She asked a question as to the hour and went into the house, wondering for what especial reason she had been chosen as Mr Narth's luncheon guest and why he was so anxious for her to meet his new acquaintance. She had never heard the name before until——

    Try as she did, she could not remember when it had been mentioned.

    Mr Narth, somewhat relieved, went back to the library and read the letter again. This was the first consequence of his loan, and already he was regretting a transaction which gave a Chinaman the right of addressing him as 'My dear Narth.' There were only a dozen lines of neat writing:

    Since I met you today, I have heard that your niece, Miss Joan Bray has become engaged to Clifford Lynne, whom I know slightly. I should very much like to meet this young lady. Won't you either bring her to lunch at the Albemarle, or, if it is more convenient to you, to the City? Perhaps you would fix your own time and place. Please arrange this and telephone me as soon as you get to your office.

    The letter had been expressed and posted in London the night before, and the tone of assurance which St Clay had adopted was particularly irritating to a man of Narth's susceptibilities. To do full justice to his character, it may be said in truth that he had no very strong objection to Joan meeting the man. Where Joan was concerned he took a broad view. Had it been Letty or Mabel, he might have felt differently—but it was Joan.

    But, being strangely minded, he was by no means anxious to be seen in public lunching with an Oriental, and for that reason had decided that the meal should be in the boardroom, where he had given many little repasts to his business associates.