The city is wrapped in a heavy shroud of dense yellow fog. Streetlights, weird as elfin lamps, glow mistily like something fashioned in a dream. The murmur of creeping traffic is low, hushed, and mysterious.

Behind an ancient wall surrounding unkempt lawns, a vast, gloomy, old mansion crouches like an evil beast of prey. Vines of ivy spill like tendrils of blood from the cracked and crumbling walls. Then again, perhaps the predator has become the victim and the vines creeping up, like tentacles from a sea of vegetation, threaten to consume the abandoned domicile, to pull it down and under, to devour it whole. In disrepair with windows boarded shut, the place is dark, forbidding, and haunting.

A blade of white light suddenly pierces the darkness as a curious black limousine turns off the narrow street into a private drive. It proceeds past the iron gate, up the circular drive, then stops in front of the main entrance. Switching on the inside light, a smartly uniformed chauffer jumps out and opens the door for his passenger. A wonderfully gowned and beautifully exotic woman emerges. The chauffer closes the car door, returns to his seat and drives out the way he had come in. Standing alone, the woman watches as the taillights fade into the mist and vanish. Certain the driver is out of sight, veiled in the blackness of night, she strides toward the house.

Though its outward appearance is unwelcoming, unknown to all but a chosen few, unvisited by uninvited guests, lurking inside that neglected facade is a luxurious dwelling. The interior walls are concealed by thick, brocade, tapestries, magnificently figured with golden dragons. The floors are richly carpeted with lavish, deep-piled, oriental rugs. With each room elegantly furnished, cushioned, and perfumed, a secret palace of eastern magnificence resides like a hidden jewel in the grimy casket of London.

Sitting silently, partially hidden in darkness is the shadowy figure of a man. Enveloped in a flowing, yellow, silk robe, he sits completely still, motionless and unmoving. Watching fearfully, that beautiful and exotic woman, Kharahmin, now stands before him. She is timid, apprehensive, and submissive.

The ominous figure studies her carefully thru his long and narrow eyes. Presently, he leans forward and slowly nods. With a simple but courtly gesture of his hand, he motions her to rest on the thick pillow-like cushion before him. This is not so much an invitation as a command.

The soft twinkling of a beaded curtain chimes as it parts to reveal a fashionably gowned, exquisitely beautiful Eurasian girl. Little more than a child, she could be no more than fifteen. Garbed in a short, thin silk, sheath of a dress with a mandarin collar, the child looks less like a human being than a delicate work of art. She carries a tray upon which sets a cup, a pot of fragrant tea, and a freshly sliced orange. This she sets before Kharahmin. Returning to her master's side, the young girl takes her place on a large round cushion, which lay on the lush carpeted floor beside her master's feet. She looks up at him with seemingly genuine affection.

"You have followed my instructions, Kharahmin?"

"The letter for Sir Clayton Davis, Number Five West End Road, has been delivered to the courier office. It is to be delivered by private messenger tomorrow."

"Good and our friend, who believes he can forestall the hand of Dr. Fu Hong Wu, Mr. Ryland Smyth the detective, what of him?"

"At this moment master, he approaches the house of Dr. Arthur Phillips Beaker on Baker Street."

"Dr. Phillips of Baker Street is a fool and of little consequence. Then it is time, Kharahmin, to conclude matters with Sir Clayton Davis."