Sax Rohmer - THE YELLOW CLAW

clean-shaven, and inclined to pallor. The hirsute blue tinge about

the jaw and lips helped to accentuate the virile strength of the long,

flexible mouth, which could be humorous, which could be sorrowful, which

could be grim. In the dark eyes of the man lay a wealth of experience,

acquired in a lifelong pilgrimage among many peoples, and to many lands.

His dark brows were heavily marked, and his close-cut hair was splashed

with gray.

Let us glance at the lady who accepted his white-gloved hand, and who

sprang alertly onto the platform beside him.

She was a woman bordering on the forties, with a face of masculine

vigor, redeemed and effeminized, by splendid hazel eyes, the kindliest

imaginable. Obviously, the lady was one who had never married, who

despised, or affected to despise, members of the other sex, but who had

never learned to hate them; who had never grown soured, but who found

the world a garden of heedless children--of children who called for

mothering. Her athletic figure was clothed in a “sensible” tweed

traveling dress, and she wore a tweed hat pressed well on to her head,

and brown boots with the flattest heels conceivable. Add to this a

Scotch woolen muffler, and a pair of woolen gloves, and you have a

mental picture of the second traveler--a truly incongruous companion for

the first.

Joining the crowd pouring in the direction of the exit gates, the

two chatted together animatedly, both speaking English, and the man

employing that language with a perfect ease and command of words which

nevertheless failed to disguise his French nationality. He spoke with

an American accent; a phenomenon sometimes observable in one who has

learned his English in Paris.

The irritating formalities which beset the returning traveler--and the

lady distinctly was of the readily irritated type--were smoothed away by

the magic personality of her companion. Porters came at the beck of his

gloved hand; guards, catching his eye, saluted and were completely his

servants; ticket inspectors yielded to him the deference ordinarily

reserved for directors of the line.

Outside the station, then, her luggage having been stacked upon a cab,

the lady parted from her companion with assurances, which were returned,

that she should hope to improve the acquaintance.

The address to which the French gentleman politely requested the

cabman to drive, was that of a sound and old-established hotel in the

neighborhood of the Strand, and at no great distance from the station.

Then, having stood bareheaded until the cab turned out into the traffic

stream of that busy thoroughfare, the first traveler, whose baggage

consisted of a large suitcase, hailed a second cab and drove to the

Hotel Astoria--the usual objective of Americans.

Taking leave of him for the moment, let us follow the lady.

Her arrangements were very soon made at the hotel, and having removed

some of the travel-stains from her person and partaken of one cup of

China tea, respecting the quality whereof she delivered herself of some

caustic comments, she walked down into the Strand and mounted to the top

of a Victoria bound 'bus.

That she was not intimately acquainted with London, was a fact readily

observable by her fellow passengers; for as the 'bus went rolling

westward, from the large pocket of her Norfolk jacket she took out a

guide-book provided with numerous maps, and began composedly to consult

its complexities.

When the conductor came to collect her fare, she had made up her mind,

and was replacing the guidebook in her pocket.

“Put me down by the Storis, Victoria Street, conductor,” she directed,

and handed him a penny--the correct fare.

It chanced that at about the time, within a minute or so, of the

American lady's leaving the hotel, and just as red rays, the harbingers

of dusk, came creeping in at the latticed widow of her cozy work-room,

Helen Cumberly laid down her pen with a sigh. She stood up, mechanically

rearranging her hair as she did so, and crossed the corridor to her

bedroom, the window whereof overlooked the Square.

She peered down into the central garden. A common-looking man sat upon

a bench, apparently watching the labors of the gardener, which consisted

at the moment of the spiking of scraps of paper which disfigured the

green carpet of the lawn.

Helen returned to her writing-table and reseated herself. Kindly

twilight veiled her, and a chatty sparrow who perched upon the

window-ledge pretended that he had not noticed two tears which trembled,

quivering, upon the girl's lashes. Almost unconsciously, for it was an

established custom, she sprinkled crumbs from the tea-tray beside her

upon the ledge, whilst the tears dropped upon a written page and two

more appeared in turn upon her lashes.

The sparrow supped enthusiastically, being joined in his repast by two

talkative companions. As the last fragments dropped from the girl's

white fingers, she withdrew her hand, and slowly--very slowly--her head

sank down, pillowed upon her arms.

For some five minutes she cried silently; the sparrows, unheeded, bade

her good night, and flew to their nests in the trees of the Square.

Then, very resolutely, as if inspired by a settled purpose, she stood up

and recrossed the corridor to her bedroom.

She turned on the lamp above the dressing-table and rapidly removed the

traces of her tears, contemplating in dismay a redness of her pretty

nose which did not prove entirely amenable to treatment with the

powder-puff. Finally, however, she switched off the light, and, going

out on to the landing, descended to the door of Henry Leroux's flat.

In reply to her ring, the maid, Ferris, opened the door. She wore her

hat and coat, and beside her on the floor stood a tin trunk.

“Why, Ferris!” cried Helen--“are you leaving?”

“I am indeed, miss!” said the girl, independently.

“But why? whatever will Mr. Leroux do?”

“He'll have to do the best he can. Cook's goin' too!”

“What! cook is going?”

“I am!” announced a deep, female voice.

And the cook appeared beside the maid.

“But whatever--” began Helen; then, realizing that she could achieve

no good end by such an attitude: “Tell Mr. Leroux,” she instructed the

maid, quietly, “that I wish to see him.”

Ferris glanced rapidly at her companion, as a man appeared on the

landing, to inquire in an abysmal tone, if “them boxes was ready to be

took?” Helen Cumberly forestalled an insolent refusal which the cook, by

furtive wink, counseled to the housemaid.

“Don't trouble,” she said, with an easy dignity reminiscent of her

father. “I will announce myself.”

She passed the servants, crossed the lobby, and rapped upon the study

door.

“Come in,” said the voice of Henry Leroux.

Helen opened the door. The place was in semidarkness, objects being but

dimly discernible. Leroux sat in his usual seat at the writing-table.

The room was in the utmost disorder, evidently having received no

attention since its overhauling by the police. Helen pressed the switch,

lighting the two lamps.

Leroux, at last, seemed in his proper element: he exhibited an unhealthy

pallor, and it was obvious that no razor had touched his chin for at

least three days. His dark blue eyes the eyes of a dreamer--were heavy

and dull, with shadows pooled below them. A biscuit-jar, a decanter and