rceive the drift of my argument?" cried Max. "You grasp what I
mean when I say that we were too hasty? This syndicate existed for a
more terrible purpose than the promulgating of a Chinese vice; it had
in its clutches men entrusted with national secrets, men of genius but
slaves of a horrible drug. Under the influence of that drug, my
friends, how many of those secrets may they not have divulged?"

His words were received in hushed silence.

"What became of those stolen plans?" he continued, speaking now in a
very low voice. "In the stress of recent years has the Haley torpedo
made its appearance so that we might learn to which Government the
plans had been taken? No! the same mystery surrounds the fate of the
information filched from the drugged brain of 'M. Blank.' In a word"--
he raised a finger dramatically--"someone is hoarding up those
instruments of destruction! Who is it that collects such things and
for what purpose does he collect them?"

Following another tense moment of silence:

"Let us have your own theory, M. Max," said the Assistant Commissioner.

Gaston Max shrugged his shoulders.

"It is not worthy of the name of a theory," he replied, "the surmise
which I have made. But recently I found myself considering the fact
that 'The Scorpion' might just conceivably be a Chinaman. Now, 'Mr.
King,' we believe was a Chinaman, and 'Mr. King,' as I am now
convinced, operated not for a personal but for a deeper, political
purpose. He stole the brains of genius and _accumulated_ that genius.
Is it not possible that these contrary operations may be part of a
common plan?"

CHAPTER II

THE RED CIRCLE

"You are not by any chance," suggested Stuart, smiling slightly,
"hinting at that defunct bogey, the 'Yellow Peril'?"

"Ah!" cried Max, "but certainly I am not! Do not misunderstand me.
This group with which we are dealing is shown to be not of a national
but of an international character. The same applied to the organisation
of 'Mr. King.' But a Chinaman directed the one, and I begin to suspect
that a Chinaman directs the other. No, I speak of no ridiculous
'Yellow Peril,' my friends. John Chinaman, as I have known him, is the
whitest man breathing; but can you not imagine"--he dropped his voice
again in that impressive way which was yet so truly Gallic--"can you
not imagine a kind of Oriental society which like a great, a
formidable serpent, lies hidden somewhere below that deceptive jungle
of the E