The Yellow Face

by Fred M. White

It was not a particularly desirable neighborhood, as the man Nostalgo had pointed out. The destination was a side street of great dingy houses, which a generation or two back had been inhabited by wealthy tradesmen and the like. Now the large houses had been cut up into small flats and tenements, and for the most part were occupied by artisans and the like. The gutter swarmed with children, disheveled-looking women stood gossiping on the door-steps; round a flaming gin palace a group of loafers had gathered. It seemed to Jack high time to dismiss his hansom, for evidently vehicles of that kind were not frequent visitors to the street. More than one of the loafers lounging heavily against the greasy walls looked pointedly at Jack, but he was not the class of man to be tackled single-handed, and therefore he was allowed to proceed unmolested to No. 14, where he asked for Mr. James Smith.

A surly-looking porter, evidently considerably the worse for drink, replied that Smith lived on the fifth floor.

"Not that I have ever seen him," he growled, propitiated by Jack's half-crown; "sort of secretive chap, only goes out after dark and all that sort of thing. Shouldn't wonder if the police came and walked off with him any day; but that's no business of mine, so long as he pays his rent regularly and don't give no trouble. Keeps a couple of servants, he does; but they ain't English, and we don't have no truck with them."

Unenlightened by this fragment of a biography, Jack made his way up the greasy staircase. There must have been scores of families living in the self-same house, for Jack could hear the cries of children, and an occasional oath from some angry man. He came at length to the fifth floor, the outer door of which was closed, and on this he knocked. He knocked a third time before the door was cautiously opened, and the sallow, almond-eyed face of a Chinaman peered out. Apparently the Celestial was satisfied as to his visitor, for he merely bowed and stood aside so that Jack might enter. Then the door was closed again and locked. There was another door at the end of a dingy passage, the walls of which had not been papered for years; but a passage through this revealed a different state of affairs entirely.

It was idle to enquire by what magic this thing had been brought about, but here, in this home of wretchedness and desolation, was a luxurious and comfortable home. In what appeared to be the hall was a remarkably fine specimen of Persian carpet. There were Moorish hangings, luxurious lounges and divans--the whole illuminated by a shaded lamp which depended from the ceiling. Jack could see other rooms beyond, quite as luxuriously furnished. In one of them a table had been laid out with a fair white cloth, and on the snowy damask appeared to be what was a perfectly appointed meal.

Jack could see the shaded lights falling on the flowers and silver, upon gold-necked bottles, and ruby wines in cut-glass decanters. A negro dressed like an English butler came silently from the room, carrying a silver coffee service in his hand. It was a fairy kind of dream, coming as it did upon the edge of stern reality. Jack would have been surprised had he not been long past that emotion. As it was, he allowed the Chinese servant to relieve him of his hat and coat, after which he was escorted to a small room at the back, where his queer host was smoking something quite exceptional in the way of a cigar.

"I thought you would come," he said. It was only when he stood up under the full light of the lamps that Jack could see what a fine figure of a man he was. "Sit down and try one of these cigars--dinner will not be ready for quite a quarter of an hour. You are rather surprised to find anything of this kind here, eh?"

"Well, rather," Jack said drily; "you hardly expect eastern palaces in the slums. I won't be vulgarly curious and ask why a man of your apparent means prefers to take up his quarters here, but what I want to know is this--how on earth did you manage to get all this luxury and refinement here without arousing the suspicions of your neighbors? There are men--ay, and women, too--under the same roof who would murder you cheerfully, if only to get hold of your silver coffee service."

"Oh, that's explained easily enough," Nostalgo cried. "My two servants are very faithful to me; they practically know no English, and when they go out they are dressed very very differently to what you see them now. As to the rest, we smuggled the things here a few at a time, and we did the papering and upholstering between us. As to why I choose to live here--ah, that is quite another matter."

The stranger finished with a stern abruptness that told Jack pretty plainly he was not expected to ask any further questions on that head. "You will know more about me presently," he said. "Meanwhile, I dare say you are curious to know what brought me lying apparently dead near Panton Square, and how my body disappeared from the police station. Of course, you suspect Anstruther of being at the bottom of the whole business; in fact, I presume Lord Barmouth told you all about that."