Free The Yellow Snake by Edgar Wallace

announced.
        Mr Ferdinand Leggat, that amiable and affable man, had arrived via the garage in a closed cab, and had been admitted by Lynne's chauffeur through the back door; there was excellent reason for this secrecy.
        As he entered the little dining-room he half turned as though to shut the door behind him, but the butler who followed made this unnecessary. On Mr Leggat's face there was something that was not exactly fear, and yet might not be diagnosed as comfort. He was unhappy.
        "I wish you could have made it a little later, Mr Lynne," he said, as his host motioned him to a seat.
        "There's nothing as innocent as daylight," said Clifford quietly. "Besides, nobody suspects a taxi. You hailed it, I suppose, in the orthodox way? You mumbled a few instructions to the driver and he brought you here. If it had been a long, grey limousine that had picked you up in some dark street, you might have been under suspicion."
        "These cabmen talk," said the other, fiddling with his knife and fork.
        "Not this cabman; he is my own chauffeur, whom I have had for eight years. You'll find all you want to eat and drink on the sideboard—help yourself."
        "Isn't your servant coming in?" asked the other nervously.
        "If he was, I shouldn't ask you to help yourself," said Clifford. "I want a little talk with you before you go—that is why I asked you to come so early. What happened today?"
        He went to the buffet, helped himself to a small piece of chicken and salad, and brought it back to the table.
        "What happened?" he asked again.
        Mr Leggat had evidently no appetite, for he carried back to the table a whisky bottle and a large siphon.
        "St Clay is furious. You want to be careful of that fellow, Lynne; he's a dangerous man."
        Clifford Lynne smiled.
        "Have I brought you all the way from your South Kensington home to learn that?" he said sardonically. "Of course he's dangerous! What happened?"'
        "I don't exactly know. I saw Spedwell for a few minutes, and he told me that St Clay——"
        "Call him Fing-Su—that St Clay stuff gives me a headache."
        "He said that Fing-Su raised hell at first, and then insisted that Narth should treat the matter as a joke. If I were you, I'd watch that girl of yours."
        Clifford raised his eyes to the other.
        "You mean Miss Bray—I'd rather you said 'Miss Bray.' 'That girl of yours' sounds just a little disrespectful," he sai'd coldly. "Do you mind?"
        Leggat forced a smile.
        "I didn't know you were so darned particular," he grunted.
        "I am—a little," said the other. "Yes, Fing-Su is dangerous; I've no doubt about that. I wonder if you realize how deadly he is?"
        "I?" asked Leggat, in surprise. "Why?"
        The other looked at him strangely.
        "I gather that you have joined his precious Joyful Hands and that you've taken some sort of mumbo-jumbo oath?"
        Leggat moved uneasily in his chair.
        "Oh, that! Well, I don't take much notice of that sort of thing," he said awkwardly. "Secret societies are all very well in their way, but they're a game—playing at mystery and all that sort of thing. Besides, Fing-Su has a fine business in London; he wouldn't try any monkey tricks. Why, he told me that in a year's time he will have almost the whole of the South China trade in his hands, and they say he has trading stations up as far as the Tibetan frontier! The man must be making thousands a year profit! That secret society of his is a trading dodge. Spedwell told me that there are lodges in almost every big town in China. Naturally that's good for business. He has made himself a small god amongst the natives. Look at the offices he is building at Tower Hill, and the factory out at Peckham."
        "The factory at Peckham I intend looking at tonight," said Lynne, and the man's face fell.
        "What's the sense of