The Limp of the Clan Chen

The Limp of the Clan Chen
By Edgar Wallace
Death May Come to Oriental Feudists. But Oriental Feuds Never Die—At Least not until Oriental Cunning Finds a Way of Evening the Scales
THE pace of his Excellency Chi Li Chen slackened as he reached the edge of the snow-line, but increased again for a hundred meters or more where his skis fluffed into a pocket of snow that lay in the blue shadow of the Cret d'y Beau. At the rim of the pocket the brown earth showed an uncompromising barrier, and he turned and checked in a flurry of flying white particles.
For a moment he stood, an odd little figure, leaning on his ski-sticks. His mask of a face was turned to the valley below and the green-gray spread of the lake. Then he shuffled forward to a promising boulder, sat down and, stripping his gloves, began slowly to unbuckle the straps which bound his feet to the runners.
He sat for a long time motionless as though reluctant to leave the solitude of the mountains. Then, searching slowly through the pockets of his woolen jacket, he produced a pipe and as slowly filled it, his thin yellow fingers caressing the polished bowl, his black eyes fixed absently on the valley slope below, white with t

Đọc bản gốc tại Wikisource tiếng Anh