'From San Francisco, evidently,' thought Mr. Bee-
son, who having somewhat recovered from his fright
was groping his way to a solution of the evening's
events.
But now another actor appeared upon the scene.
Out of the square black hole in the middle of the
floor protruded the head of the departed Chinaman,
his glassy eyes turned upward in their angular slits
and fastened on the dangling queue above with a
look of yearning unspeakable. Mr. Beeson groaned,
and again spread his hands upon his face. A mild
odour of opium pervaded the place. The phantom,
clad only in a short blue tunic quilted and silken but
covered with grave-mould, rose slowly, as if pushed
by a weak spiral spring. Its knees were at the level
of the floor, when with a quick upward impulse like
the silent leaping of a flame it grasped the queue
with both hands, drew up its body and took the tip
in its horrible yellow teeth. To this it clung in a
seeming frenzy, grimacing ghastly, surging and
plunging from side to side in its efforts to disengage
its property from the beam, but uttering no sound.
It was like a corpse artificially convulsed by means
of a galvanic battery. The contrast between its su-
perhuman activity and its silence was no less than
hideous!
Mr. Beeson cowered in his bed. The swarthy lit-
tle gentleman uncrossed his legs, beat an impatient
tattoo with the toe of his boot and consulted a heavy
gold watch.
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