Theydon entered the sitting room.  He opened the letters.  Two were of no moment; the third was a request from the editor of a magazine that the “copy” of his article on the “Forbes Peace Propaganda” should be forwarded as speedily as practicable.  What a mad world it was, to be sure!  Here was an important periodical waiting impatiently for the views of the millionaire on the best means of securing peace on earth and good will to all men, while that same master mind was obsessed with fear of a few Chinese bandits.  Society was looking to Forbes for a promised panacea against war and its evils; Forbes himself was wondering whether bolts and locks and armed servants and policemen would protect him and his from the claws of the Young Manchus!

Theydon heard Bates locking and bolting the outer door of the flat with a certain thankfulness.  He was thinking of the sheer impossibility of any marauder gaining access to No. 18, when he opened the small parcel which the valet had spoken of.  He speculated idly as to the nature of its contents, because he could not remember having ordered any article which would be contained in so tiny a package.

He took out a piece of stout paper, folded twice, and a little white object fell to the table and rolled over several times, finally coming to rest with a curious suddenness.  It was a small, carved, ivory skull!

CHAPTER XIII

 Some new moves in the game

Theydon gazed dazedly at the skull for the best part of a minute.  His state of mind was that of a man, utterly incredulous, who nevertheless thinks he sees a ghost.  Then he recovered himself and laughed angrily, harshly, because he had not succeeded better in controlling his nerves.

He examined the paper.  It bore no writing of any kind.  It was precisely similar in color and texture to the two typed slips which Forbes had received, but the sender had evidently thought that the skull was symbolical enough of deadly intent without troubling to add a written threat.

The ivory skull was an exact replica of its predecessors.  The set teeth, the scowling grin of the gaunt jawbones, the dull menace of the empty eye sockets, were equally convincing, equally disconcerting.

Lighting a cigarette, Theydon scrutinized the address and postmarks.  In a sense, it was ludicrous to find “Francis B. Theydon, Esq., 18 Innesmore Mansions, W. C.,” typed in plain script on the wrapper.  What an unholy alliance of modern science and medievalism!  The mind almost refused to focus itself on the tragic aspect of the affair, yet the hour at which the package was posted, 5:30 p. m. in the West Strand, showed conclusively that Wong Li Fu, at any rate, had not sent the death’s head by his own hand, but had entrusted it to a confederate.  The notion brought in its train the departure of Miss Beale from her hotel, “because she had seen a Chinaman there.”  “Every little helps,” mused Theydon, “I must let Scotland Yard know.”