The Yellow Snake Read Online Free PDF Page A

Lynne," he said, and they gasped in unison. That scarecrow! Letty's proper indignation overcame her more feminine emotions.
        "That ...! Was he the man you wanted me...us ...?"
        He glanced significantly at Joan. She was at the open window, her eyes shaded by a white hand from the glare of the afternoon sun. At the moment the butler was staggering to the lawn, a rope-like object gripped at the end of the tongs, Clifford Lynne came over the hedge, one leg after another in a flying leap, his absurd whiskers flowing all ways. He stopped at the sight of the snake.
        "Yellow head!" he said thoughtfully. "Yellow head—what a lad!"
        Letty dropped her voice as the queer man came leisurely into the room, his hands thrust into his pockets.
        "Has anybody seen a Chink about here?" he asked.
        Letty and Mabel spoke together, though he was addressing the one person in the ornate library who was neither obviously palpitating or patently fearful.
        "Chinamen—two?" he said thoughtfully. "I thought so! Moses!"
        He walked to the window and stared out. Then he came back to the table, lifted the cottonwool gingerly from the box, layer by layer.
        "Only one, by gum! But what a perfect houndski!"
        He peered out into the sunlit garden.
        "Thought they'd use a knife. These fellows can throw a knife wonderfully. One of 'em killed a foreman of mine a year ago from a distance of a hundred and twenty yards."
        He was addressing Joan, and his voice was friendly and conversational.
        "Did you catch him?" she asked.
        The bearded man nodded.
        "Got him on the law and order side of the mountains and hanged him. A nice fellow in many ways," he mused, "but temperamental. There is only one way to deal with a temperamental coolie, and that is to hang him."
        He was looking at Letty now, and she regarded his views on temperament as ill-timed, if not actually insulting. He saw her rosebud lips curl up in a smile, but did not feel uncomfortable.
        "You?" he asked.
        She started.
        "No—I—I mean, what do you mean?"
        She knew very well what he meant. Clifford Lynne could broadcast thought, and in the tenseness of the moment her receptivity was particularly good.
        "I've got to marry somebody."
        He glanced now at Mabel Narth, darkly red, her baby blue eyes malignant with the contempt she felt.
        "Neither my sister nor I is the lucky girl," she said with a certain malicious sweetness. "You ought to know Joan..." She glanced round at Mr Narth. "Father!"
        Awkwardly enough he introduced the girl.
        "Oh!"
        Just "Oh!" It might have meant disappointment or relief or just surprise.
        "Well—I am here. Ready for the——" He hesitated for a word. Joan could have sworn that the word he almost used was "sacrifice," but he changed it to "occasion."
        "Old Joe Bray is dead," said the stranger. "I suppose you know that? Poor old lunatic! It would have been better for a lot of people if he had died six months ago. A dear old soul, a great old sportsman, but slightly mad."
        Again he addressed Joan. She could observe him now, for he was emerging from the blinding flash of his dramatic arrival. Close upon six feet in height, even his nondescript clothing could not disguise a fine physique. The face was tanned a deep mahogany. His straggling beard was as brown as his long hair and his rather shaggy eyebrows. This bearded man was alive—every inch of him. That was her first impression—his immense vitality. She glanced down at his shapeless shoes; they were home-made, she guessed, and whilst one was fastened with a thin piece of hide, the other lace was of string, and unravelled string at that.
        It was a moment for Mr Narth to assert his authority. Natural circumstances made him the most important person in the room. He was not only the head of the house, but he