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pistol in the stranger’s hand was leveled at the leper, who was making for the door in long strides!
    All about was confusion; Yun Shatu was shrieking volubly in Chinese and the four China boys and Yussef Ali were rushing in from all sides, knives glittering in their hands.
    All this I saw with unnatural clearness even as I marked the stranger’s face. As the fleeing leper gave no evidence of halting, I saw the eyes harden to steely points of determination, sighting along the pistol barrel — the features set with the grim purpose of the slayer. The leper was almost to the outer door, but death would strike him down ere he could reach it.
    And then, just as the finger of the stranger tightened on the trigger, I hurled myself forward and my right fist crashed against his chin. He went down as though struck by a trip-hammer, the revolver exploding harmlessly in the air.
    In that instant, with the blinding flare of light that sometimes comes to one, I knew that the leper was none other than the Man Behind the Screen!
    I bent over the fallen man, who though not entirely senseless had been rendered temporarily helpless by that terrific blow. He was struggling dazedly to rise but I shoved him roughly down again and seizing the false beard he wore, tore it away. A lean bronzed face was revealed, the strong lines of which not even the artificial dirt and grease-paint could alter.
    Yussef Ali leaned above him now, dagger in hand, eyes slits of murder. The brown sinewy hand went up — I caught the wrist.
    “Not so fast, you black devil! What are you about to do?”
    “This is John Gordon,” he hissed, “the Master’s greatest foe! He must die, curse you!”
    John Gordon! The name was familiar somehow, and yet I did not seem to connect it with the London police nor account for the man’s presence in Yun Shatu’s dope-joint. However, on one point I was determined.
    “You don’t kill him, at any rate. Up with you!” This last to Gordon, who with my aid staggered up, still very dizzy.
    “That punch would have dropped a bull,” I said in wonderment; “I didn’t know I had it in me.”
    The false leper had vanished. Yun Shatu stood gazing at me as immobile as an idol, hands in his wide sleeves, and Yussef Ali stood back, muttering murderously and thumbing his dagger edge, as I led Gordon out of the opium room and through the innocent-appearing bar which lay between that room and the street.
    Out in the street I said to him: “I have no idea as to who you are or what you are doing here, but you see what an unhealthful place it is for you. Hereafter be advised by me and stay away.”
    His only answer was a searching glance, and then be turned and walked swiftly though somewhat unsteadily up the street.
    6. The Dream Girl
     
    “I have reached these lands but newly
    From an ultimate dim Thule.”
— Poe
     
    Outside my room sounded a light footstep. The doorknob turned cautiously and slowly; the door opened. I sprang erect with a gasp. Red lips, half-parted, dark eyes like limpid seas of wonder, a mass of shimmering hair — framed in my drab doorway stood the girl of my dreams!
    She entered, and half-turning with a sinuous motion, closed the door. I sprang forward, my hands outstretched, then halted as she put a finger to her lips.
    “You must not talk loudly,” she almost whispered. “He did not say I could not come; yet —”
    Her voice was soft and musical, with just a touch of foreign accent which I found delightful. As for the girl herself, every intonation, every movement proclaimed the Orient. She was a fragrant breath from the East. From her night-black hair, piled high above her alabaster forehead, to her little feet, encased in high-heeled pointed slippers, she portrayed the highest ideal of Asiatic loveliness — an effect which was heightened rather than lessened by the English blouse and skirt which she wore.
    “You are beautiful!” I said dazedly. “Who are you?”
    “I am Zuleika,” she answered