Out onto the paved pathway communicating with the
wharf came Smith, shepherding his tottering charge.
I was too far away to hear any conversation that might
take place between the two, but, unless Smith gave
the pre-arranged signal, I must approach no closer.
Thus, as one sees a drama upon the screen, I saw what
now occurred—occurred with dramatic, lightning
swiftness.
Releasing Smith’s arm, the old woman suddenly
stepped back ... at the instant that another figure,
a repellent figure which approached, stooping, apish,
with a sort of loping gait, crossed from some spot
invisible to me, and sprang like a wild animal upon
Smith’s back!
It was a Chinaman, wearing a short loose garment of
the smock pattern, and having his head bare, so that
I could see his pigtail coiled upon his yellow crown.
That he carried a cord, I perceived in the instant
of his spring, and that he had whipped it about Smith’s
throat with unerring dexterity was evidenced by the
one, short, strangled cry that came from my friend’s
lips.
Then Smith was down, prone upon the crazy planking,
with the ape-like figure of the Chinaman perched between
his shoulders—bending forward—
the wicked yellow fingers at work, tightening—tightening—tightening
the strangling-cord!
Uttering a loud cry of horror, I went racing along
the gangway which projected actually over the moving
Thames waters, and gained the wharf. But, swift
as I had been, another had been swifter!
A tall figure (despite the brilliant moon, I doubted
the evidence of my sight), wearing a tweed overcoat
and a soft felt hat with the brim turned down, sprang
up, from nowhere as it seemed, swooped upon the horrible
figure squatting, simianesque, between Smith’s
shoulder-blades, and grasped him by the neck.
I pulled up shortly, one foot set upon the wharf.
The new-comer was the double of Nayland Smith!
Seemingly exerting no effort whatever, he lifted the
strangler in that remorseless grasp, so that the Chinaman’s
hands, after one quick convulsive upward movement,
hung limply beside him like the paws of a rat in the
grip of a terrier.
“You damned murderous swine!” I heard
in a repressed, savage undertone. “The
knife failed, so now the cord has an innings!
Go after your pal!”
Releasing one hand from the neck of the limp figure,
the speaker grasped the Chinaman by his loose, smock-like
garment, swung him back, once—a mighty
swing—and hurled him far out into the river
as one might hurl a sack of rubbish!
ARREST OF SAMARKAN
“As the high gods willed it,” explained
Nayland Smith, tenderly massaging his throat, “Mr.
Forsyth, having just left the docks, chanced to pass
along Three Colt Street on Wednesday night at exactly
the hour that I was expected! The resemblance
between us is rather marked and the coincidence of
dress completed the illusion. That devilish Eurasian
woman, Zarmi, who has escaped us again—of
course you recognized her?—made a very
natural mistake. Mr. Forsyth, however, made no
mistake!”
