gnored him as though he were a
tobacconist's dummy. They went on with their exotic cackle, as though
he was no longer in their midst. They did not so much as turn an eye
in his direction. And still Blake felt reasonably sure of his position.

It was not until the woman squeaked, like a frightened mouse, and ran
whimpering into the corner of the room, that he realized what was
happening. He was not familiar with the wrist movement by which the
smallest bodied of the three men was producing a knife from his sleeve.
The woman, however, had understood from the first.

"White man, look out!" she half sobbed from her corner. "Oh, white
man!" she repeated in a shriller note as the Chinaman, bending low,
scuttled across the room to the corner where she cowered.

Blake saw the knife by this time. It was thin and long, for all the
world like an icicle, a shaft of cutting steel ground incredibly thin,
so thin, in fact, that at first sight it looked more like a point for
stabbing than a blade for cutting.

The mere glitter of that knife electrified the staring white man into
sudden action. He swung about and tried to catch at the arm that held
the steel icicle. He was too late for that, but his fingers closed on
the braided queue. By means of this queue he brought the Chinaman up
short, swinging him sharply about so that he collided flat faced with
the room wall.

Then, for the first time, Blake grew into a comprehension of what
surrounded him. He wheeled about, stooped and caught up the
papier-mache tea-tray from the floor and once more stood with his back
to the wall. He stood there, on guard, for a second figure with a
second steel icicle was sidling up to him. He swung viciously out and
brought the tea-tray down on the hand that held this knife, crippling
the fingers and sending the steel spinning across the room. Then with
his free hand he tugged the revolver from his coat pocket, holding it
by the barrel and bringing the metal butt down on the queue-wound head
of the third man, who had no knife, but was struggling with the woman
for the metal icicle she had caught up from the floor.

Then the five seemed to close in together, and the fight became
general. It became a melee. With his swinging right arm Blake
battered and pounded with his revolver butt. With his left hand he
made cutting strokes with the heavy papier-mache tea-tray, keeping
their steel, by those fierce sweeps, away from his body. One Chin