Softly, steadily, the door of Henry Arnaud’s room opened until it was ajar like that of the room across the way.
In this end of the hall, the light was dim and obscure. Even so, the filtering rays might have attracted the attention of a man awake upon the bed. But there was no sign to show that Henry Arnaud had stirred.
The sinister approacher took this as a good sign. He stepped softly into the room, and closed the door behind him.
He crept around the foot of the bed, and passed slowly by the half-opened window. He was close to the floor; the dim, reflected glow from Chinatown was not sufficient to betray the presence of the sneaking native who had come from that section of the city, to be here tonight.
But those vague rays of light did tell something of the man’s purpose. Something gleamed in one of the creeper’s hands. It was the blade of a long, vicious knife — the silent weapon of a noiseless assassin.
The crawling Chinaman stopped at the table by the head of the bed. He listened there; then loomed upward. His body extended over the bed. His knife was in his right hand, ready to deliver a well-aimed thrust. His left hand gripped the cord of the table lamp.
The hovering creature was one who planned his purpose well. He was ready to perform two operations simultaneously. That hand toying with the cord was prepared for its duty.
When the light came on, the knife blade would descend swiftly toward a vital spot before the sleeping victim could become cognizant of danger.
Click! The light was on. Its sudden glare revealed the face from the dark — the yellow, leering face whose peering eyes were seeking the helpless form of the man in the bed.
The knife blade gleamed beside that sinister countenance. But it remained suspended — motionless.