As he leaped, the hand was depressed with a lightning movement, but,
lunging suddenly upward, Max seized the barrel of the pistol, and with
a powerful wrench, twisted it from the grasp of the yellow hand. It was
his own Browning!
At the time--in that moment of intense nervous excitement--he ascribed
his sensations to his swift bout with Death--with Death who almost
had conquered; but later, even now, as he wrenched the weapon into
his grasp, he wondered if physical fear could wholly account for the
sickening revulsion which held him back from that rectangular opening in
the bookcase. He thought that he recognized in this a kindred horror--as
distinct from terror--to that which had come to him with the odor of
roses through this very trap, upon the night of his first visit to the
catacombs of Ho-Pin.
It was not as the fear which one has of a dangerous wild beast, but
as the loathing which is inspired by a thing diseased, leprous,
contagious....
A mighty effort of will was called for, but he managed to achieve it.
He drew himself upright, breathing very rapidly, and looked through into
the room--the room which he had occupied, and from which a moment ago
the murderous yellow hand had protruded.
That room was empty... empty as he had left it!
"Mille tonnerres! he has escaped me!" he cried aloud, and the words did
not seem of his own choosing.
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