The woman's story of the
yellow man on the stairs suddenly assumed a totally different
aspect--a new and sinister aspect. Could it be that the pigtail
was at the bottom of the mystery?--could it be that some
murderous Chinaman who had been lurking in hiding, waiting his
opportunity, had in some way gained access to my chambers during
that brief absence? If so, was he gone?
From the table drawer I took out a revolver, ascertained that it
was fully loaded, and turning up light after light as I
proceeded, conducted a room-to-room search. It was without
result; there was absolutely nothing to indicate that anyone had
surreptitiously entered or departed from my chambers.
I returned to the study and sat gazing at the revolver lying on
the blotting-pad before me. Perhaps my mind worked slowly, but I
think that fully fifteen minutes must have passed before it
dawned on me that the explanation not only of the missing pigtail
but of the other incidents of the night, was simple enough. The
yellow man had been a fabrication, and my dark-eyed visitor had
not been in quest of "Raphael Philips," but in quest of the
pigtail: and her quest had been successful!
"What a hopeless fool I am!" I cried, and banged my fist down
upon the table, "there was no yellow man at all--there was-----"
My door bell rang.
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