“Foy!” he said. “Foy. His hand is ready” — the words were in Chinese — “ready to strike tomorrow night! Foy, The Slayer, is ready!”
A murderous grin came over the leering features of Foy. The man’s yellow skin was livid in the dull light of the room. The brass dragon image was lying on a taboret. Ling Soo drew a silk cloth from beneath his robe. With it he stroked his hands, then his forehead, and finally the brass image.
“Ling Soo has planned,” he said solemnly, in Chinese. “Foy shall strike. His victim shall be the man who bears the mark of death! Green Eyes has spoken!”
Grinning, Foy stared at his master. Ling Soo cackled again as he tapped his forehead knowingly.
Handing the brass image to Foy, the leader of the Wu-Fan, plodded toward his throne, with his servant advancing, crouched, beside him.
A strange, insidious pair! One had planned death. The other was to deal it.
Yet more sinister than these living men was the long shadow that lay across the floor in front of Ling Soo’s thronelike chair. It was a living shadow — a phantom shade that was foreboding!
Foy retired to the outer room. Ling Soo rested on his throne. He was staring toward the floor. The sinister blotch was there no longer.
Keen, though he was, Ling Soo had not sensed the presence of The Shadow!