CHAPTER XXVIII

THE MANDARIN KI-MING Nayland Smith strode up and down the little sitting-room, tugging almost savagely at the lobe of his left ear. To-night his increasing greyness was very perceptible, and with his feverishly bright eyes staring straight before him, he looked haggard and ill, despite the deceptive tan of his skin. “Petrie,” he began in his abrupt fashion, “I am losing confidence in myself.” “Why!” I asked in surprise. “I hardly know: but for some occult reason I feel afraid.” “Afraid?” “Exactly; afraid. There is …