The Yellow Snake by Edgar Wallace Read Free Book Online Page A

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.
     

 
CHAPTER EIGHT
     
     
        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