THE YELLOW CLAW. Sax Rohmer

about the secret of it. And now, I shall be glad, Sowerby, if

      you will be after that taxi-man again. Report at one o'clock. I shall be

      here.”

      With his hand on the door-knob: “By the way,” said Sowerby, “who the

      blazes is Mr. King?”

      Inspector Dunbar looked up.

      “Mr. King,” he replied slowly, “is the solution of the mystery.”

      THE MAN IN THE LIMOUSINE

      The house of the late Horace Vernon was a modern villa of prosperous

      appearance; but, on this sunny September morning, a palpable atmosphere

      of gloom seemed to overlie it. This made itself perceptible even to the

      toughened and unimpressionable nerves of Inspector Dunbar. As he mounted

      the five steps leading up to the door, glancing meanwhile at the lowered

      blinds at the windows, he wondered if, failing these evidences and his

      own private knowledge of the facts, he should have recognized that the

      hand of tragedy had placed its mark upon this house. But when the door

      was opened by a white-faced servant, he told himself that he should, for

      a veritable miasma of death seemed to come out to meet him, to envelop

      him.

      Within, proceeded a subdued activity: somber figures moved upon the

      staircase; and Inspector Dunbar, having presented his card, presently

      found himself in a well-appointed library.

      At the table, whereon were spread a number of documents, sat a lean,

      clean-shaven, sallow-faced man, wearing gold-rimmed pince-nez; a man

      whose demeanor of business-like gloom was most admirably adapted to that

      place and occasion. This was Mr. Debnam, the solicitor. He gravely

      waved the detective to an armchair, adjusted his pince-nez, and coughed,

      introductorily.

      “Your communication, Inspector,” he began (he had the kind of voice

      which seems to be buried in sawdust packing), “was brought to me this

      morning, and has disturbed me immeasurably, unspeakably.”

      “You have been to view the body, sir?”

      “One of my clerks, who knew Mrs. Vernon, has just returned to this house

      to report that he has identified her.”

      “I should have preferred you to have gone yourself, sir,” began Dunbar,

      taking out his notebook.

      “My state of health, Inspector,” said the solicitor, “renders it

      undesirable that I should submit myself to an ordeal so unnecessary--so

      wholly unnecessary.”

      “Very good!” muttered Dunbar, making an entry in his book; “your clerk,

      then, whom I can see in a moment, identifies the murdered woman as Mrs.

      Vernon. What was her Christian name?”

      “Iris--Iris Mary Vernon.”

      Inspector Dunbar made a note of the fact.

      “And now,” he said, “you will have read the copy of that portion of my

      report which I submitted to you this morning--acting upon information

      supplied by Miss Helen Cumberly?”

      “Yes, yes, Inspector, I have read it--but, by the way, I do not know

      Miss Cumberly.”

      “Miss Cumberly,” explained the detective, “is the daughter of Dr.

      Cumberly, the Harley Street physician. She lives with her father in

      the flat above that of Mr. Leroux. She saw the body by accident--and

      recognized it as that of a lady who had been named to her at the last

      Arts Ball.”

      “Ah!” said Debnam, “yes--I see--at the Arts Ball, Inspector. This is a

      mysterious and a very ghastly case.”

      “It is indeed, sir,” agreed Dunbar. “Can you throw any light upon the

      presence of Mrs. Vernon at Mr. Leroux's flat on the very night of her

      husband's death?”

      “I can--and I cannot,” answered the solicitor, leaning back in the

      chair and again adjusting his pince-nez, in the manner of a man having

      important matters--and gloomy, very gloomy, matters--to communicate.

      “Good!” said the inspector, and prepared to listen.

      “You see,” continued Debnam, “the late Mrs. Vernon was not actually

      residing with her husband at the date of his death.”

      “Indeed!”

      “Ostensibly”--the solicitor shook a lean forefinger at his

      vis-a-vis--“ostensibly, Inspector, she was visiting her sister in

      Scotland.”

      Inspector Dunbar sat up very straight, his brows drawn down over the

      tawny eyes.

      “These visits were of frequent occurrence, and usually of about a

      week's duration. Mr. Vernon, my late client, a man--I'll not deny it--of

      inconstant affections (you understand me, Inspector?), did not greatly

      concern himself with his wife's movements. She belonged to a smart

      Bohemian set, and--to use a popular figure of speech--burnt the candle

      at both ends; late dances, night clubs, bridge parties, and other

      feverish pursuits, possibly taken up as a result of the--shall I say

      cooling?--of her husband's affections”...

      “There was another woman in the case?”

      “I fear so, Inspector; in fact, I am sure of it: but to return to Mrs.

      Vernon. My client provided her with ample funds; and I, myself, have

      expressed to him astonishment respecting her expenditures in Scotland. I

      understand that her sister was in comparatively poor circumstances,

      and I went so far as to point out to Mr. Vernon that one hundred

      pounds was--shall I say an excessive?--outlay upon a week's sojourn in

      Auchterander, Perth.”

      “A hundred pounds!”

      “One hundred pounds!”

      “Was it queried by Mr. Vernon?”

      “Not at all.”

      “Was Mr. Vernon personally acquainted with this sister in Perth?”

      “He was not,