et apart from the
whirl of events; a spectator. Even when a vague yellow light crept
across the room from the direction of the door, and flickered unsteadily
on the bed, I remained unmoved to a certain degree, although passively
alive to the significance of the incident. I realized that the ultimate
issue was at hand, but either because I was emotionally exhausted, or
from some other cause, the pending climax failed to disturb me.

Going on tiptoe, in stockinged feet, across my field of vision, passed
Kegan Van Roon! He was in his shirt-sleeves and held a lighted candle in
one hand whilst with the other he shaded it against the draught from
the window. He was a cripple no longer, and the smoked glasses were
discarded; most of the light, at the moment when first I saw him, shone
upon his thin, olive face, and at sight of his eyes much of the mystery
of Cragmire Tower was resolved. For they were oblique, very slightly,
but nevertheless unmistakably oblique. Though highly educated, and
possibly an American citizen, Van Roon was a Chinaman!

Upon the picture of his face as I saw it then, I do not care to
dwell. It lacked the unique horror of Dr. Fu-Manchu's unforgettable
countenance, but possessed a sort of animal malignancy which the
latter lacked... He approached within three or four feet of the bed,
peering--peering. Then, with a timidity which spoke well for Nayland
Smith's reputation, paused and beckoned to some one who evidently stood
in the doorway behind him. As he did so I noted that the legs of his
trousers were caked with greenish brown mud nearly up to the knees.

The huge mulatto, silent-footed, crossed to the bed in three strides.
He was stripped to the waist, and, excepting some few professional
athletes, I had never seen a torso to compare with that which, brown and
glistening, now bent over Nayland Smith. The muscular development was
simply enormous; the man had a neck like a column, and the thews around
his back and shoulders were like ivy tentacles wreathing some gnarled
oak.

Whilst Van Roon, his evil gaze upon the bed, held the candle aloft,
the mulatto, with a curious preparatory writhing movement of the mighty
shoulders, lowered his outstretched fingers to the disordered bed
linen...

I pushed open the cupboard door and thrust out the Browning. As I did
so a dramatic thing happened. A tall, gaunt figure shot suddenly upright
from beyond the bed. It was Nayland Smith!

Upraised in his hand he he