There was a short, silent interval.
"This is what I had feared and expected," said the clergyman. "This was my reason for
not seeking official protection."
"The phantom Yellow Peril," said Nayland Smith, "to-day materializes under the very
eyes of the Western world."
"You scoff, sir, and so do others. We take the proffered right hand of friendship nor
inquire if the hidden left holds a knife! The peace of the world is at stake, Mr. Eltham.
Unknowingly, you tamper with tremendous issues."
Mr. Eltham drew a deep breath, thrusting both hands in his pockets.
"You are painfully frank, Mr. Smith," he said; "but I like you for it. I will reconsider my
position and talk this matter over again with you to-morrow."
Thus, then, the storm blew over. Yet I had never experienced such an overwhelming
sense of imminent peril-- of a sinister presence--as oppressed me at that moment. The
very atmosphere of Redmoat was impregnated with Eastern devilry; it loaded the air like
some evil perfume. And then, through the silence, cut a throbbing scream-- the scream of
a woman in direst fear.
"My God, it's Greba!" whispered Mr. Eltham.
