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Updated: June 17, 2025
The tone of the conversation was growing harsh and the atmosphere of the library portentous with brewing storms. There was a short, silent interval. "This is what I had feared and expected," said the clergyman. "This was my reason for not seeking official protection." "The phantom Yellow Peril," said Nayland Smith, "to-day materializes under the very eyes of the Western world."
"It is opposed to his interests that you should return to Bhutan. A more gullible agent would be preferable. Therefore, unless you implicitly obey my instructions, you will never leave England!" Graham Guthrie breathed quickly. I was growing more used to the gloom, and I could dimly discern him, his face turned towards Nayland Smith, whilst with his hand he clutched the bed-rail.
"My inquiries in the Manuscript Room of the British Museum," said Nayland Smith, his voice momentarily growing stronger and some of the old fire creeping back into his eyes, "have proved entirely successful." Sir Lionel Barton, Dr. Hamilton, and myself hung upon every word; and often I fond myself glancing at the old-fashioned clock on the doctor's mantel-piece.
And now Smith and Kennedy, who lid, were up to their knees in a running tide. An icy shower-bath drenched us from above; ahead was a solid wall of falling water. Again, and louder, nearer, boomed and rattled the thunder; its mighty voice was almost lost in the roar of that subterranean cataract. Nayland Smith, using his hands as a megaphone, cried;
It was not so. Then: "What's this?" muttered my friend hoarsely. Constables were moving on a little crowd of curious idlers who pressed about the steps of Sir Crichton Davey's house and sought to peer in at the open door. Without waiting for the cab to draw up to the curb, Nayland Smith recklessly leaped out and I followed close at his heels.
What had been the meaning of that scream which I had heard but to which in my frantic state of mind I had paid comparatively little attention? There was a great stirring all about me. "Smith!" I cried from the window; "Smith, for mercy's sake where are you?" Footsteps came racing up the stairs. Behind me the door burst open and Nayland Smith stumbled into the room.
It illuminated wanly the sun-baked face of Nayland Smith, his eyes gleaming with unnatural brightness. I bent forward, and the dying light of the match touched that other face. "Oh, God!" whispered Smith. A faint puff of wind extinguished the match. In all my surgical experience I had never met with anything quite so horrible.
As I stooped to examine it, I glanced back, painfully, over my shoulder and saw Nayland Smith tiptoeing away from me along the passage toward the light! Inwardly I cursed his folly, but the temptation to peep in at that little window proved too strong for me, as it had proved too strong for him.
I was perilously near to losing my nerve when the crisp, incisive tones of Nayland Smith's voice came to stimulate me like a cold douche. "This wanton sacrifice of horrors speaks eloquently of a forlorn hope! Sweep the walls with light, Kennedy; all those filthy things are nocturnal and they will retreat before us as we advance." His words proved true.
"John often came home at half-past two from the Yard," continued Weymouth; "so we naturally thought poor Mary was wandering in her mind. But last night and it's not to be wondered at my wife couldn't sleep, and she was wide awake at half-past two." "Well?" Nayland Smith was standing before him, alert, bright-eyed. "She heard it, too!"
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