“These chambers are 36-b!” I said. “But I am not Raphael Philips, nor
have I ever heard of him. My name is Malcolm Knox. There is evidently
some mistake, but”--returning the slip of paper--“pardon me if I remind
you, I have yet to learn the cause of your alarm.”
“I was followed across the court and up the stairs.”
“Followed! By whom?”
“By a dreadful-looking man, chattering in some tongue I did not
understand!”
My amazement was momentarily growing greater.
“What kind of a man?” I demanded rather abruptly.
“A yellow-faced man--remember I could only just distinguish him in the
darkness on the stairway, and see little more of him than his eyes at
that, and his ugly gleaming teeth--oh! it was horrible!”
“You astound me,” I said; “the thing is utterly incomprehensible.” I
switched off the light of the lamp. “I'll see if there's any sign of him
in the court below.”
“Oh, don't leave me! For heaven's sake don't leave me alone!”
She clutched my arm in the darkness.
“Have no fear; I merely propose to look out from this window.”
Suiting the action to the word, I peered down into the court below. It
was quite deserted. The night was a very dark one, and there were many
patches of shadow in which a man might have lain concealed.
“I can see no one,” I said, speaking as confidently as possible, and
relighting the lamp, “if I call a cab for you and see you safely into
it, you will have nothing to fear, I think.”
“I have a cab waiting,” she replied, and lowering the veil she stood up
to go.
“Kindly allow me to see you to it. I am sorry you have been subjected to
this annoyance, especially as you have not attained the object of your
visit.”
“Thank you so much for your kindness; there must be some mistake about
the address, of course.”
She clung to my arm very tightly as we descended the stairs, and often
glanced back over her shoulder affrightedly, as we crossed the court.
There was not a sign of anyone about, however, and I could not make
up my mind whether the story of the yellow man was a delusion or a
fabrication. I inclined to the latter theory, but the object of such a
deception was more difficult to determine.
Sure enough, a taxicab was waiting at the entrance to the court; and my
visitor, having seated herself within, extended her hand to me, and even
through the thick veil I could detect her brilliant smile.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Knox,” she said, “and a thousand apologies. I am
sincerely sorry to have given you all this trouble.”
The cab drove off. For a moment I stood looking after it, in a state of
dreamy incertitude, then turned and slowly retraced my steps. Reopening
the door of my chambers with my key, I returned to my study and sat down
at the table to endeavour to arrange the facts of what I recognized to
be a really amazing episode. The adventure, trifling though it seemed,
undoubtedly held some hidden significance that at present was not
apparent to me. In accordance with the excellent custom of my friend,
Paul Harley, I prepared to make notes of the occurrence while the facts
were still fresh in my memory. At the moment that I was about to begin,
I made an astounding discovery.
Although I had been absent only a few minutes, and had locked my door
behind me, the pigtail was gone!
I sat quite still, listening intently. The woman's story of the yellow
man on the stairs suddenly assumed a totally different aspect--a new and
sinister aspect. Could it be that the pigtail was at the bottom of the
mystery?--could it be that some murderous Chinaman who had been lurking
in hiding, waiting his opportunity, had in some way gained access to my
chambers during that brief absence? If so, was he gone?
From the table drawer I took out a revolver, ascertained that it was
fully loaded, and turning up light after light as I proceeded, conducted
a room-to-room search. It was without result; there was absolutely
nothing to indicate that anyone had surreptitiously entered or departed
from my chambers.
I returned to the study and sat gazing at the revolver lying on the
blotting-pad before me. Perhaps my mind worked slowly, but I think that
fully fifteen minutes must have passed before it dawned on me that the
explanation not only of the missing pigtail but of the other incidents
of the night, was simple enough. The yellow man had been a fabrication,
and my dark-eyed visitor had not been in quest of “Raphael Philips,” but
in quest of the pigtail: and her quest had been successful!
“What a hopeless fool I am!” I cried, and banged my fist down upon the
table, “there was no yellow man at all--there was-----”
My door bell rang. I sprang nervously to my feet, glanced at the
revolver on the table--and finally dropped it into my coat pocket ere
going out and opening the door.
On the landing stood a police constable and an officer in plain clothes.
“Your name is Malcolm Knox?” asked the constable, glancing at a
note-book which he held in his hand.
“It is,” I replied.
“You are required to come at once to Bow Street to identify a woman
who was found murdered in a taxi-cab in the Strand about eleven o'clock
to-night.”