The Yellow Snake Read online

  “But, Mr Lynne, for the money it will cost you you could get one of the best houses in Sunningdale–-“

  “This is my ideal home,” said Clifford Lynne, “and it’s got to be snakeproof!”

  He looked round his little estate. The fence that marked the boundaries of the grounds was invisible behind the screen of the trees.

  “All these firs had better be cut down,” he said. “I want a clear line of fire.”

  “Line of what?” almost squeaked the builder.

  “And the steel shutters must have loopholes—I forgot to tell you that. Give me that book.”

  He almost snatched the builder’s notebook from his hand and began to sketch.

  “That shape, and those dimensions,” he said, handing the book back. “Are you taking on this job?”

  “I’ll take it on,” said the builder. “I can promise you that the house will be fit for occupation in a week, but it’s going to cost you–-“

  “I know what it will cost me if this house is not ready,” interrupted Clifford Lynne.

  He put his hand in his pocket, took out a fat notebook and, opening it, extracted ten bills, each for a hundred pounds.

  “I’m not asking you for a contract, because I’m a business man.” (He was given to that kind of paradox.) “This is Wednesday; the furniture will arrive on Tuesday next. Have fires lit in every room and keep them going. I may or may not see you for a week, but here is my telephone number. By the way, open a trench to the main road. I want a ‘phone in here, and the wire must run underground—and deep at that. Snakes dig!”

  Without another word he stepped into the car and sent it bumping and swaying along the rough road, and presently was lost to view.

  “This is where I start not sleeping,” said the builder, and he was very nearly right.

  It was raining the next morning, a gentle drizzle that looked like continuing for the whole of the day, according to Mr Narth’s chauffeur, who took a melancholy interest in the vagaries of the English climate.

  It was Mr Stephen Narth’s boast that he never noticed what the weather was like. But there was something in the gloomy skies and dismal landscapes that so accorded with his own mental condition that the weather obtruded itself upon him, and added something to his depression.

  And yet, he told himself a dozen times between Sunningdale and his office, there was no reason in the world why he should be depressed. It was true that the apparition that had dawned upon him was hardly conducive to cheer. But he had found a way of fulfilling the conditions of old Bray’s will, and Joan’s readiness to comply with his wishes was really a matter for congratulation.

  Clifford Lynne was an irritation and an eyesore. He was also the fly in the ointment. (The illustrations were Mr Narth’s own.) Curiously enough, the advent of the poisonous snake in his drawing-room did not greatly perturb Stephen Narth. It was unusual, a little startling, but since he knew nothing of the deadly nature of yellow heads, and could not see anything particularly significant in the mysterious arrival of the box, he followed his practice of dismissing from his mind the problem he could not elucidate. It was all the easier because it was somebody else’s problem.

  The incident, so far as he was concerned, had importance only because his drawing-room carpet had to be taken up and sent to the cleaners for repair—there were two neatly punctured holes which had to be filled. Clifford Lynne was theatrical. It was a favourite description of Mr Narth’s invariably applied to all phenomena of life that produced an emotional reaction. When all was said and done—and this thought cheered him considerably—Joe Bray’s fortune was within his grasp. The clouds that had obscured his horizon the day before were dissipated, and all that was necessary for him to do was to hurry on the wedding and secure the large fortune which was to be his as soon as the conditions were satisfied.

  He was almost happy as he went through the private door of his office, and could turn a genial face upon the two men who were awaiting him. Major Spedwell sprawled across one end of the table, a cigar clenched between his teeth, while Mr Leggat was standing by the window, his hands clasped behind him, staring out into the driving rain.

  “Hallo, you fellows!” said Narth jovially. “You look as cheerful as mutes at a funeral.”

  Leggat turned round.

  “What are you happy about, anyway?” he asked.

  Stephen Narth had not made up his mind whether he should take his colleagues completely into his confidence. With the money that was coming from the Bray estate he could afford to drop his questionable acquaintances, and wipe out, as only money can wipe out, the delinquencies of his past, starting fresh with a clean slate and a fat and comfortable balance at the bank.

  “Joe Bray is dead,” he blurted, “and he’s left me the greater part of his money.”

  In his exhilaration he was trapped into this incautious declaration, and cursed himself for his stupidity before the words were out of his mouth.

  If Stephen had expected the news to create a sensation, he was disappointed.

  “Is that so?” said Leggat sarcastically. “And when does the money come into your hands?”

  “In a month or two,” said the other airily.

  “A month or two is a month or two late,” said Major Spedwell, his dark face creased in an unpleasant smile. “I’ve seen the auditors this morning, and it is imperative that the fifty thousand pounds should be found by tomorrow.”

  “In fact,” broke in Leggat, “we’re up against it, Narth. We’ve got to raise that money in the next twenty-four hours. Of course, if there are no ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’ about the legacy, you’d be able to borrow the money on the strength of it. Is there a contingency in the will?”

  Narth frowned at this; what did the man know? But the other met his eyes unflinchingly.

  “There is a contingency,” admitted Narth, “but that has practically been overcome.”

  Leggat shook his head.

  “‘Practically’ doesn’t cut any ice,” he said. “Is the will such that you could tomorrow borrow fifty thousand pounds upon it?”

  “No,” said Narth shortly. “In point of fact, I don’t know the value of the estate. And there is a contingency–-“

  “Exactly!” said Spedwell. “That’s the position, and it’s a pretty bad position! You couldn’t raise a fiver on a will with a contingency that had not been satisfied, and on an estate the exact value of which you do not know. I’ll bet you haven’t even a copy of the will.”

  Stephen Narth’s eyes narrowed.

  “You’re talking by the book, Major,” he said. “Somebody has been telling you a great deal more than I know.”

  Major Spedwell shifted uncomfortably.

  “Somebody’s told me nothing,” he said loudly. “The only thing that interests Leggat and me is whether you can raise that fifty thousand pounds and, knowing that you can’t, we’ve saved you a whole lot of trouble by asking our friend St Clay to come along and see you.”

  “Your friend St Clay? The man you mentioned yesterday?”

  And then there flashed into the memory of Stephen Narth the recollection of Clifford Lynne’s prophecy, “You are seeing him tomorrow.”

  “Grahame St Clay, eh? Has he got money to burn?” he asked.

  Spedwell nodded slowly.

  “Yes, he’s got money to burn, and he’s willing to burn it; and if you take my tip, Narth, you will be the furnace!”

  “But I don’t know him. Where do I meet him?”

  Spedwell walked to the door that led to the general office.

  “He’s been waiting outside till we had a word with you.”

  Stephen Narth looked at him in bewilderment. A man with fifty thousand pounds to lend, waiting for the opportunity of making the loan!

  “Here?” he said incredulously.

  Major Spedwell opened the door.

  “Meet Mr Grahame St Clay,” he said, and there walked into the office an immaculately dressed gentleman.

  Even Narth stared at him
open-mouthed, for Grahame St Clay was beyond all question a Chinaman!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “This is Mr Grahame St Clay,” Spedwell introduced the visitor again, and mechanically Stephen Narth put out his hand.

  Until that moment all Chinamen were alike to Stephen Narth, but somehow, as he looked into the brown eyes, he distinguished in this man a difference that he could not exactly define. The eyes were set wide apart; the nose, thin and long, and the thin lips, differed from those features he was used to associating with men of the Mongolian type. Perhaps it was the full chin which gave Grahame St Clay his distinction. Certainly when he spoke he was like no Chinaman that Stephen Narth had ever seen or heard.

  “This is Mr Narth? I am delighted to meet you. In fact, I have sought many opportunities of making your acquaintance.”

  It was the voice of an educated man, with just that slight drawl and exaggerated pronunciation which is peculiar to one trained in a public school and finished at one of the great universities.

  “May I sit down?”

  Narth nodded mutely, and the newcomer laid a handsome portfolio on the table before him.

  “You are a little dazed to discover that I am a Chinaman?” Mr St Clay laughed softly. “‘Yellow Peril’ is the term which is usually employed, is it not? I would object to being called a peril, for I am the most unoffending man that ever came from China,” he said good-humouredly.

  As he spoke, he was opening the portfolio, and took out a flat-covered pad, tied with red ribbon. Very carefully he slipped the bow, took off the top layer of cardboard and revealed to the eyes of Stephen Narth a thick pad of banknotes. From where he stood he saw they were thousand-pound notes.

  “Fifty, I think, is the amount you require?” said Mr St Clay presently, and with the dexterity of a bank cashier he counted the requisite number, placed the little bundle on one side, carefully retied the pad, and slipped it back into the leather case. “We are all friends here, I think.” Mr St Clay beamed from one of Stephen Narth’s partners to the other. “I can speak without restraint?”

  Narth nodded.

  “Very well.” He folded the fifty notes and, to the surprise of the senior partner, put the money into his waistcoat pocket. “There is naturally a condition attaching to this loan,” he said. “Even I, poor, untutored Chinaman though I be, am not so utterly lost to the practice of commerce that I could loan this large sum of money unconditionally. Frankly, Mr Narth, it is required of you that you should become one of us.”.

  “One of you?” said Stephen Narth slowly. “I don’t quite get you.”

  It was Spedwell who supplied the information.

  “Mr St Clay is running a big organization in this country. It’s a sort of–-” He paused awkwardly.

  “Secret society,” suggested Mr St Clay pleasantly. “That sounds very mysterious and terrifying, does it not? But really there’s nothing to it! I have a certain mission in life, and I require the help of intelligent men on whom I can rely. We Chinamen have rather the qualities of children. We love pomp and mystery. We are, in fact, the true exotics of the world. Mostly we like to play at things, and the Joyful Hands is frankly my invention. Our object is to uplift the Chinese people, to bring as it were light into dark places.” He paused, and added: “And all that sort of thing.”

  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.

  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 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?”