The Yellow Face

by Fred M. White

There appeared to be no fear of that, seeing that the curtain was a comparatively thick one. Over the mantelpiece were the pipe and bracket of a solitary gas-jet. In a fit of idle curiosity Rigby turned on the tap and applied a match to the burner. Much to his surprise, a blue fishtail flame spurted out bright and clear.

"Well, these people don't seem to have half done it," he exclaimed; "they've evidently tapped the gas much in the same way that they tap the electric light, but why they want both beats me."

"Doubtless for something like business purposes," Jack suggested. "It is pretty evident that these people have a lot of mechanical contrivances here, therefore something in the way of heaters would be necessary. My word, how close this room is!"

Rigby was emphatically of the same opinion. He turned off the roaring flame of gas and pulled back the curtain from the window. He successfully fumbled for the catch, and at length managed to raise the sash. The cool, sweet night breeze was grateful to a degree after the stifling atmosphere of the room.

There were no lights to be seen, for the simple reason that they were at the back of the house, and looking down into a dreary sort of forecourt formed by the houses on either side and a big building beyond. As their eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, it was possible to note the fact that the forecourt had at one time been carefully cultivated, for a broken fountain could be made out, and what appeared at one time to have been a well-tended rose garden.

"There's somebody down there," Rigby whispered. "Unless I am greatly mistaken the said somebody is smoking a most excellent cigar. Can't you smell it?"

"Of course I can," Jack responded. "These seem to be rather an aristocratic type of rascal. If you look across to the far corner, beyond that fountain place, you will see the tip of a cigar glowing like a star."

It was exactly as Jack had said. They could see the cigar glowing and fading as the smoker inhaled or exhaled the fragrant tobacco, and a moment later they saw something more. Out of the gloom there approached the figure of a woman, tall, slender, and bareheaded, her dress hidden by a long black cloak that reached to the ground. She spoke quickly and hurriedly, so quickly indeed that the two men at the window found it impossible to follow what she said. They could see pretty plainly, however, and did not fail to notice the fact that the strange woman appeared to be pleading for some favor. She stretched out her long, bare arms to her companion in an attitude of supplication; her long-cloak fell away from her shoulders, disclosing an evening dress of some pale, transparent material. There were diamonds, too, in her fair hair.

"What is the use of wasting my time like this?" the man with the cigar demanded. "You ought to have been at your destination long ago."

"But I couldn't go, I really couldn't, until I had seen you again. Besides, there is no place like this, and no better spot for an interview that one wants to keep a profound secret. For instance, it is hardly possible that any prying eyes are overlooking us. I can't imagine anybody being hidden in this old house. When Anstruther locked that bedroom door just now, do you really suppose he imagined there was anybody on the premises?"