Robert Hume-Frazer waited for no preliminary explanation of an official character. He wanted to feel that man's bones crack under his grasp. He had the strong man's ambition to close with an opponent worthy of his thews and sinews. Without any warning, he made for the Japanese, who seemed to await his oncoming with singular equanimity, though otherwise quivering with baulked hate. But Brett had seen something that aroused a lightning-like suspicion. Twice had the Japanese looked at a small, shining thing in his hand, as though to make sure it was there. So the barrister was just in time to grasp Robert's shoulder and hold him back. "No," he cried, "you must not touch him. I command it. He cannot escape." "Then let me have a go at him first," growled Frazer, whose face was pale with passion. "No, no. Leave him to me. Winter, do you hear me? Stand back, I say." Brett's imperative tone brooked no disobedience. Thus, in a segment of a circle, the five enclosed the one against the wall--Ooma barricaded by the table, the others ready to defeat any stratagem he might endeavour to put in force. "Now listen to me, Ooma," said the barrister sternly. "You must drop that thing you have in your right hand. You must hold both your hands high above your head. If you move either of them again I will shoot you. If you do not obey me before I count five I will shoot you. One! Two! Three!--" The Japanese, gasping a horrible sort of sob, three times plunged the instrument he held into his left arm. Then he flung it straight at Robert. One would have thought his vengeance would be directed against Brett, whom he must have credited by this time with his capture. No; he singled out a Hume-Frazer for his last attack. The instrument struck a button on Robert's coat and fell to the floor, where it lay twisted out of shape by the force of the impact. It was a hypodermic syringe. Again Ooma uttered that weird cry. "This is the end," he said. "You have not beaten me. It is Fate." He folded his arms and looked at them. A change came over his face. He was no longer a tiger at bay, but a human being, calm, dignified, almost impressive. "I arrest you--" began Winter. "You fool!" laughed the Japanese, with a quiet contempt in his tone; "I shall be dead in twenty minutes. That syringe contained snake poison, the undiluted venom of the karait. Put away your pistols. They are not wanted." Quite nonchalantly he leaned back against the bookcase that lined the wall. He turned his eyes to Robert. "You have the luck of your race," he said "If that point had reached your skin no human skill could have saved you. As it is, you are spared, and I must go. The same blood flows in our veins, yet you are my enemy. I wish I could once get my fingers round your throat before my strength fails." "Come from behind that table and try," was the quick rejoinder. Ooma made to accept the challenge, but Brett intervened.