The Yellow Face

by Fred M. White

Seymour was delighted to find Anstruther ready to take up the spirit of the game. "Nothing comes amiss to me," he said. "To conjure up a scene like this would, perhaps, tax my efforts pretty severely, but I should get there all the same. If anybody requires a little something in the way of perpetual life or untold gold, they have only to drop me a postcard and the thing is as good as done."

"Delightful," Anstruther's partner cried. "I was just wondering how I was going to settle my racing debts, and now you come forward in the kindest way, and relieve me of all further anxiety. It is really more than kind of you."

"As for me," Anstruther said, "I am concerned more with the future than the past. I have a little scheme on hand which is troubling me a good deal. Without going into details, shall I be successful? Now, can you tell me that?"

Seymour gravely consulted a crystal ball, which he had taken from the pocket of his flowing robe. Others were listening by this time, for the conversation at Seymour's table was both amusing and interesting. He looked up from the ball in the same grave fashion. "You are giving me a hard task," he said. "I do not know you; I have not even seen your face. And yet your soul is reflected in my faithful crystal, and your heart's desire lies bare before me."

"But you have not told me if I shall be successful," Anstruther said. "That is the point, after all."

"You will not be successful," Seymour said in a loud voice, which had the desired effect of attracting much attention to the speaker. "There is something dark that stands between you and the thing you so much desire. The crystal is not so clear as usual, but I can see in it a face. It is a strange face--dark and repulsive, and yet absolutely familiar. Yes, it is the face of the poster, the features of which have puzzled London for the last three months. It is this face which comes between you and your heart's desire. Do I interest you?"

Quite a score of guests were listening by now. They were thrilled and puzzled, and not a little interested. Seymour was playing his part splendidly; even Jack and Rigby, who were in the plot, had to admit that. Nothing could be seen as to the way in which Anstruther took this shot, for his features were hidden behind his mask; but Rigby noticed that his hands were clutched upon the edge of the table-cloth, is if they were about the throat of some hateful foe. Anstruther sat quite quietly, almost rigidly, for a few moments, then burst into a hoarse, strident laugh.

"This is ridiculous," he said. "Surely you must be aware of the fact that those Nostalgo posters are nothing more or less than a clever advertisement."

"Nevertheless, they have more to do with you than you imagine," Seymour went on in the same grave way. "They stand between you like a sheet and the execution of your plans. Let me look into my crystal again. Ah, the scene grows clearer. I see a ruined temple; I see some weird religious ceremony, and the unconscious form of a man laid out for a sacrifice. He rises at length; he is no longer good to look upon, his face has become the face of Nostalgo. Call it foolish if you like----"

With a cry of something like anger, Anstruther rose to his feet. He seemed to suppress himself almost immediately, then sat down again.