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-colored 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!”