The Yellow Face

by Fred M. White

The box was sealed at length with the intaglio ring, then another guest came forward and volunteered to keep it in his charge. "That is exceedingly good of you," Seymour went on; "only you will quite see that we cannot carry this through properly unless the gentleman who has taken charge of the box volunteers his name."

"No trouble about that," the second guest cried. "I am Sir Frederick Ormond, Under-Secretary of Foreign Affairs. I hope that my name will be sufficient guarantee."

Seymour nodded, and the statesman dropped the packet into the pocket of his cloak. Anstruther laughed unpleasantly.

"And what is the upshot of all this to be?" he asked. "It is on the knees of the gods," Seymour said gravely. "Your individuality will become impressed upon the crystal through the grips of your hands, and at the end of the period suggested you will be able to see your whole future there. I dare say Sir Frederick will produce the crystal when the proper time comes."

Anstruther turned away with a little laugh of contempt, and, as if nothing out of the common had happened, Seymour turned and began to discuss ordinary topics with his hostess. Supper was practically over by this time, and most of the guests were streaming back once more in the direction of the ballroom. Amongst the few who still remained were Jack and Claire, the latter, of course, being Jack's supper partner.

"That was very cleverly done," Claire said. "I suppose there is some hidden meaning behind it?"

"Of course," Jack said. "Only I have not the remotest idea what it was. Don't let us go back to the ballroom yet--I have discovered one of the jolliest little places leading off the hall, where we can sit and have a cozy chat without the least fear of interruption."

It was precisely as Jack had said--a little alcove, dimly lighted and filled with ferns, from which they could see much that was going on without being seen in their turn. It was very quiet down there, and Jack made the most of his opportunities. A silence fell upon the pair presently, one of those long, delicious silences, only possible where there is a perfect understanding. Jack came out of his reverie presently, conscious that Claire was gripping him tightly by the arm. With the point of her fan she indicated the figure of Anstruther, who had come down evidently in search of the telephone. The instrument was almost immediately opposite the alcove, and Anstruther, little dreaming that he was being watched, plied the handle vigorously. He gave a number presently which was his own in Panton Square.

"Are you there?" he whispered; "are you there? Confound the girl! why doesn't she speak? Oh, so you are there at last. What? Oh, yes, yes. I am speaking to you. You know who I am. Yes, there is danger--danger that is urgent and immediate. I have no time to explain now; you are to come here masked at once. Do not come to the front door, but to the lane behind. You will find a small, green gate there, with Number Five upon it in white letters. I will see that the gate is unlocked. Then make your way straight up the garden, and into the summer-house which is at the top of the marble steps by the fountain. You are not to be more than half-an-hour."

Anstruther rang off, and replaced the receiver on the hooks. He strolled away without the slightest idea that every word he said was audible to the pair of lovers in the alcove. Jack turned to Claire with eager eyes.