“Be careful what you do, Yellow Dog. He laughs best who laughs last. I warn you that this house is virtually in the hands of the police.”
“Is that so, my dear inspector?”
There was another laugh, but this time John Steadman fancied there was some subtle change in the quality.
“But I rather think the police do not know where this house ends, and those of others begin!”
“Shall I supply you with the names of the others? The police know more than you think, you dog!” said the inspector daringly.
“And less than they think,” said the raucous voice mockingly, “or you and your friend would hardly find yourselves here, dear inspector.”
“Damnation!” Steadman knew that the detective was struggling fiercely from those clutching, enveloping arms.
“In case, however, that there is just the thinnest substratum of truth in your statement, Furnival,” the mocking voice went on, “perhaps we had better waste no more time but get on to business.”
The silvery bell tinkled again, the light was switched on.
Steadman saw that all the golden chairs were empty, that there was apparently no one in the room with the inspector and himself but that figure on the dais. He saw that the inspector had given up struggling and that by some means he had managed to tear the yellow mask from his face, which was unwontedly scarlet from his efforts to free himself.