As he uttered the words that smashed all that Kao had planned for, Keith sensed rather than saw the swift change of emotion sweeping through the yellow-visaged Moloch staring up at him.  For a space the oriental’s evil eyes had widened, exposing wider rims of saffron white, betraying his amazement, the shock of Keith’s unexpected revolt, and then the lids closed slowly, until only dark and menacing gleams of fire shot between them, and Keith thought of the eyes of a snake.  Swift as the strike of a rattler Kao was on his feet, his gown thrown back, one clawing hand jerking a derringer from his silken belt.  In the same breath he raised his voice in a sharp call.

Keith sprang back.  The snake-like threat in the Chinaman’s eyes had prepared him, and his Service automatic leaped from its holster with lightning swiftness.  Yet that movement was no swifter than the response to Kao’s cry.  The panel shot open, the screens moved, tapestries billowed suddenly as if moved by the wind, and Kao’s servants sprang forth and were at him like a pack of dogs.  Keith had no time to judge their number, for his brain was centered in the race with Kao’s derringer.  He saw its silver mountings flash in the candle-glow, saw its spurt of smoke and fire.  But its report was drowned in the roar of his automatic as it replied with a stream of lead and flame.  He saw the derringer fall and Kao crumple up like a jackknife.  His brain turned red as he swung his weapon on the others, and as he fired, he backed toward the door.  Then something caught him from behind, twisting his head almost from his shoulders, and he went down.

He lost his automatic.  Weight of bodies was upon him; yellow hands clutched for his throat; he felt hot breaths and heard throaty cries.  A madness of horror possessed him, a horror that was like the blind madness of Laocoon struggling with his sons in the coils of the giant serpent.  In these moments he was not fighting men.  They were monsters, yellow, foul-smelling, unhuman, and he fought as Laocoon fought.  As if it had been a cane, he snapped the bone of an arm whose hand was throttling him; he twisted back a head until it snapped between its shoulders; he struck and broke with a blind fury and a giant strength, until at last, torn and covered with blood, he leaped free and reached the door.  As he opened it and sprang through, he had the visual impression that only two of his assailants were rising from the floor.

For the space of a second he hesitated in the little hallway.  Down the stairs was light—­and people.  He knew that he was bleeding and his clothes were torn, and that flight in that direction was impossible.  At the opposite end of the hall was a curtain which he judged must cover a window.  With a swift movement he tore down this curtain and found that he was right.  In another second he had crashed the window outward with his shoulder, and felt the cool air of the night in his face.  The door behind him was still closed when he crawled out upon a narrow landing at the top of a flight of steps leading down into the alley.  He paused long enough to convince himself that his enemies were making no effort to follow him, and as he went down the steps, he caught himself grimly chuckling.  He had given them enough.