



Produced by Donald Lainson; Anonymous Volunteers; David Widger





THE YELLOW CLAW

by Sax Rohmer


CONTENTS

CHAPTER

      I  THE LADY OF THE CIVET FURS

     II  MIDNIGHT--AND MR. KING

    III  INSPECTOR DUNBAR TAKES CHARGE

     IV  A WINDOW IS OPENED

      V  DOCTORS DIFFER

     VI  AT SCOTLAND YARD

    VII  THE MAN IN THE LIMOUSINE

   VIII  CABMEN TWO

     IX  THE MAN IN BLACK

      X  THE GREAT UNDERSTANDING

     XI  PRESENTING M. GASTON MAX

    XII  MR. GIANAPOLIS

   XIII  THE DRAFT ON PARIS

    XIV  EAST 18642

     XV  CAVE OF THE GOLDEN DRAGON

    XVI  HO-PIN'S CATACOMBS

   XVII  KAN-SUH CONCESSIONS

  XVIII  THE WORLD ABOVE

    XIX  THE LIVING DEAD

     XX  ABRAHAM LEVINSKY BUTTS IN

    XXI  THE STUDIO IN SOHO

   XXII  M. MAX MOUNTS CAGLIOSTRO'S STAIRCASE

  XXIII  RAID IN THE RUE ST.-CLAUDE

   XXIV  OPIUM

    XXV  FATE'S SHUTTLECOCK

   XXVI  "OUR LADY OF THE POPPIES"

  XXVII  GROVE OF A MILLION APES

 XXVIII  THE OPIUM AGENT

   XXIX  M. MAX OF LONDON AND M. MAX OF PARIS

    XXX  MAHARA

   XXXI  MUSK AND ROSES

  XXXII  BLUE BLINDS

 XXXIII  LOGIC VS. INTUITION

  XXXIV  M. MAX REPORTS PROGRESS

   XXXV  TRACKER TRACKED

  XXXVI  IN DUNBAR'S ROOM

 XXXVII  THE WHISTLE

XXXVIII  THE SECRET TRAPS

  XXXIX  THE LABYRINTH

     XL  DAWN AT THE NORE

    XLI  WESTMINSTER--MIDNIGHT




THE YELLOW CLAW




I

THE LADY OF THE CIVET FURS


Henry Leroux wrote busily on. The light of the table-lamp, softened and
enriched by its mosaic shade, gave an appearance of added opulence to
the already handsome appointments of the room. The little table-clock
ticked merrily from half-past eleven to a quarter to twelve.

Into the cozy, bookish atmosphere of the novelist's study penetrated the
muffled chime of Big Ben; it chimed the three-quarters. But, with his
mind centered upon his work, Leroux wrote on ceaselessly.

An odd figure of a man was this popular novelist, with patchy and
untidy hair which lessened the otherwise striking contour of his brow.
A neglected and unpicturesque figure, in a baggy, neutral-
dressing-gown; a figure more fitted to a garret than to this spacious,
luxurious workroom, with the soft light playing upon rank after rank
of rare and costly editions, deepening the tones in the Persian carpet,
making red morocco more red, purifying the vellum and regilding the
gold of the choice bindings, caressing lovingly the busts and statuettes
surmounting the book-shelves, and twinkling upon the scantily-covered
crown of Henry Leroux. The door bell rang.

Leroux, heedless of external matters, pursued his work. But the door
bell rang again and continued to ring.

"Soames! Soames!" Leroux raised his voice irascibly, continuing to write
the while. "Where the devil are you! Can't you hear the door bell?"

Soames did not reveal himself; and to the ringing of the bell was added
the unmistakable rattling of a letter-box.

"Soames!" Leroux put down his pen and stood up. "Damn it! he's out! I
have no memory!"

He retied the girdle of his dressing-gown, which had become unfastened,
and opened the study door. Opposite, across the entrance lobby, was
the outer door; and in the light from the lobby lamp he perceived two
laughing eyes peering in under the upraised flap of the letter-box. The
ringing ceased.

"Are you VERY angry with me for interrupting you