Read The Yellow Snake for Free Online Page A

little estate. The fence that marked the boundaries of the grounds was invisible behind the screen of the trees.
        "All these firs had better be cut down," he said. "I want a clear line of fire."
        "Line of what?" almost squeaked the builder.
        "And the steel shutters must have loopholes—I forgot to tell you that. Give me that book."
        He almost snatched the builder's notebook from his hand and began to sketch.
        "That shape, and those dimensions," he said, handing the book back. "Are you taking on this job?"
        "I'll take it on," said the builder. "I can promise you that the house will be fit for occupation in a week, but it's going to cost you——"
        "I know what it will cost me if this house is not ready," interrupted Clifford Lynne.
        He put his hand in his pocket, took out a fat notebook and, opening it, extracted ten bills, each for a hundred pounds.
        "I'm not asking you for a contract, because I'm a business man." (He was given to that kind of paradox.) "This is Wednesday; the furniture will arrive on Tuesday next. Have fires lit in every room and keep them going. I may or may not see you for a week, but here is my telephone number. By the way, open a trench to the main road. I want a 'phone in here, and the wire must run underground—and deep at that. Snakes dig!"
        Without another word he stepped into the car and sent it bumping and swaying along the rough road, and presently was lost to view.
        "This is where I start not sleeping," said the builder, and he was very nearly right.
        It was raining the next morning, a gentle drizzle that looked like continuing for the whole of the day, according to Mr Narth's chauffeur, who took a melancholy interest in the vagaries of the English climate.
        It was Mr Stephen Narth's boast that he never noticed what the weather was like. But there was something in the gloomy skies and dismal landscapes that so accorded with his own mental condition that the weather obtruded itself upon him, and added something to his depression.
        And yet, he told himself a dozen times between Sunningdale and his office, there was no reason in the world why he should be depressed. It was true that the apparition that had dawned upon him was hardly conducive to cheer. But he had found a way of fulfilling the conditions of old Bray's will, and Joan's readiness to comply with his wishes was really a matter for congratulation.
        Clifford Lynne was an irritation and an eyesore. He was also the fly in the ointment. (The illustrations were Mr Narth's own.) Curiously enough, the advent of the poisonous snake in his drawing-room did not greatly perturb Stephen Narth. It was unusual, a little startling, but since he knew nothing of the deadly nature of yellow heads, and could not see anything particularly significant in the mysterious arrival of the box, he followed his practice of dismissing from his mind the problem he could not elucidate. It was all the easier because it was somebody else's problem.
        The incident, so far as he was concerned, had importance only because his drawing-room carpet had to be taken up and sent to the cleaners for repair—there were two neatly punctured holes which had to be filled. Clifford Lynne was theatrical. It was a favourite description of Mr Narth's invariably applied to all phenomena of life that produced an emotional reaction. When all was said and done—and this thought cheered him considerably—Joe Bray's fortune was within his grasp. The clouds that had obscured his horizon the day before were dissipated, and all that was necessary for him to do was to hurry on the wedding and secure the large fortune which was to be his as soon as the conditions were satisfied.
        He was almost happy as he went through the private door of his office, and could turn a genial face upon the two men who were awaiting him. Major Spedwell sprawled across one end of the