The bed was empty! Not only empty, but the covers were unturned.
Henry Arnaud was not there!
THE lean, leering face of the Chinaman became a hideous, glaring monstrosity. The stooping man wheeled quickly, looking for his prey.
With the lamp still lighted, he dropped beside the bed, and his peering eyes glared beneath. Arnaud was not hiding there.
Writhing serpentlike along the floor, the man approached the wardrobe — the only spot in the lighted room that afforded a hiding place.
The big door of the upright chest was latched — a sign that no one could be within. But the Chinaman intended to make sure. He was willing to rely upon his blade, even though his intended victim might be on the alert.
His clawlike hand clutched the little knob of the wardrobe. It drew the door open, and the Chinaman leaped into the space behind it, his knife blade launching for a thrust.
That deadly arm stopped midway. The wardrobe, like the bed, was empty!
Revolting though the yellow face had become, the look of perplexity now upon it was ludicrous. The man stood momentarily thwarted, but his bewilderment did not last. He sprang back across the room and extinguished the table lamp.
The sinister face from the dark had returned to the dark. But those insidious eyes were still searching. They peered from the front window of the room.