The Mystery of the Four Fingers | Page 3

his long nursed revenge."
"Not in a place like this," Venner smiled.
"Why not? In the old days these things used to be played out to the
accompaniment of thunder and lightning on a blasted heath. Now we
are much more quiet and gentle in our methods. It is quite evident that
our handsome friend is expecting someone to dine with him. He gives a
most excellent dinner to his enemy, points out to him his faults in the
most gentlemanly fashion, and then proceeds to poison him with a
specially prepared cigar. I can see the whole thing in the form of a short
story."
Venner smiled at the conceit of his companion. He was more than half
inclined to take a sentimental view of the thing himself. He turned to
the waiter to give some order, and as he did so, his eyes encountered
two more people, a man and a woman, who, at that moment, entered
the dining-room. The man was somewhat past middle age, with a large
bald head, covered with a shining dome of yellow skin, and a yellow
face lighted by a pair of deep-sunk dark eyes. The whole was set off
and rendered sinister by a small hook nose and a little black moustache.
For the rest, the man was short and inclined to be stout. He walked with

a wonderfully light and agile step for a man of his weight; in fact he
seemed to reach his seat much as a cat might have done. Indeed, despite
his bulk, there was something strangely feline about the stranger.
Venner gave a peculiar gasp and gurgle. His eyes started. All the blood
receded from his brown face, leaving him ghastly white under his tan.
It was no aspect of fear--rather one of surprise,--of strong and
unconquerable emotion. At the same moment Venner's hand snapped
the stem of his wine glass, and the champagne frothed upon the table.
"Who is that man?" Venner asked of the waiter. His tone was so
strained and harsh that he hardly recognised his own voice. "Who is the
man, I say? No, no; I don't mean him. I mean that stout man, with the
lady in white, over there."
The waiter stared at the speaker in astonishment. He seemed to wonder
where he had been all these years.
"That, sir, is Mr. Mark Fenwick, the American millionaire."
Venner waved the speaker aside. He was recovering from his emotion
now and the blood had returned once more to his cheeks. He became
conscious of the fact that Gurdon was regarding him with a polite, yet
none the less critical, wonder.
"What is the matter?" the latter asked. "Really, the air seems full of
mystery. Do you know that for the last two minutes you have been
regarding that obese capitalist with a look that was absolutely
murderous? Do you mean to tell me that you have ever seen him
before?"
"Indeed, I have," Venner replied. "But on the last occasion of our
meeting, he did not call himself Mark Fenwick, or by any other name
so distinctly British. Look at him now; look at his yellow skin with the
deep patches of purple at the roots of the little hair he has. Mark the
shape of his face and the peculiar oblique slit of his eyelids. Would you
take that man for an Englishman?"

"No, I shouldn't," Gurdon said frankly. "If I had to hazard a guess, I
should say he is either Portuguese or perhaps something of the Mexican
half caste."
"You would not be far wrong," Venner said quietly. "I suppose you
thought that the appearance of that man here tonight was something of
a shock to me. You can little guess what sort of a shock it has been. I
promise to tell you my story presently, so it will have to keep. In the
meantime, it is my mood to sit here and watch that man."
"Personally, I am much more interested in his companion," Gurdon
laughed. "A daughter of the gods, if ever there was one. What a face,
and what a figure! Do you mean to say that you didn't notice her as she
came in?"
"Positively I didn't," Venner confessed. "My whole attention was
rivetted on the man. I tell you I can see absolutely nothing but his great,
yellow, wicked face, and for the background the romantic spot where
we last met."
It was Gurdon's turn now to listen. He leant forward in his chair, his
whole attention concentrated upon the figure of the stranger, huddled
up in the armchair at the little table opposite. He touched Venner on the
arm, and indicated the figure of the man who had suffered so cruelly in
some form or other.
"The plot thickens," Venner murmured. "Upon