The lamp above the bed was swaying as if in a heavy draught; I
remembered that it had been swaying as we entered. There was no fog in
the room, but already from the bleak corridor outside it was entering;
murky, yellow clouds steaming in at the open door. Save for the gulping
of the dying man, and the sobbing breaths of Beeton, there was no
sound. Six irregular lines Sir Gregory Hale scrawled upon the page;
then suddenly his body became a dead weight in my arms. Gently I laid
him back upon the pillows, gently his finger from the notebook, and,
my head almost touching Smith's as we both craned forward over the
page, read, with great difficulty, the following:--

"Guard my diary.... Tibetan frontier ... Key of India. Beware man ...
with the limp. Yellow ... rising. Watch Tibet ... the _Si-Fan_...."

From somewhere outside the room, whether above or below I could not be
sure, came a faint, dragging sound, accompanied by a _tap--tap--tap_....



CHAPTER III

"SAKYA MUNI"


The faint disturbance faded into silence again. Across the dead man's
body I met Smith's gaze. Faint wreaths of fog floated in from the
outer room. Beeton clutched the foot of the bed, and the structure
shook in sympathy with his wild trembling. That was the only sound
now; there was absolutely nothing physical so far as my memory serves
to signalize the coming of the brown man.