FOY was gloating fiendishly as he stooped above the prostrate form of Cleve Branch. The sight of a helpless victim was one that this insidious monster relished.
Foo Chow, cold and observant, was a menace also. In neither of those glaring faces could Cleve see a sign of mercy.
Foy’s right hand came from his robe. It held a wicked-looking knife, sharp-pointed and long of blade.
Speaking in his native tongue, the Chinese slayer addressed Foo Chow. He passed the knife to Foo Chow, and the actor examined it. He returned the knife to Foy.
The slayer seemed in no hurry to do his work. Usually silent, he was loquacious now. His quaintly intonated voice was explaining to Foo Chow that the art of the death thrust was as well known in America as in China — by those who had studied it so cunningly as had Foy.
Cleve could not understand the meaning of the words; but there was something in their inflection that made him realize their malice. Foo Chow listened, unmoved.
Foy crouched low. He placed his hand above Cleve’s heart, and seemed to be choosing the exact place for this thrust — a perfect thrust that Foo Chow would long remember. This, Foy had said, was to be a model stroke — one which Foo Chow would be proud to witness.
The pointed blade poised motionless, a foot above Cleve’s breast. Cleve could not see it, but he sensed its presence.
He had divined, from Foy’s attitude, that the slayer intended to perform a quick, effective murder. That, at least, would be better than a death by torture.
One lone, wild thought came into Cleve’s maddened brain. That thought was of The Shadow — the strange man from the dark, who twice had saved him from death.