The Yellow Face by Fred M. White — Read

It was impossible, boxed up as he was in the stuffy atmosphere of the wardrobe, for Jack to hear anything of what was going on in the next room. But it was pretty easy to guess what was the meaning of Anstruther's strange intrusion. There was only one thing for it, and that was to possess his soul in patience and hope that Anstruther had no intention of spending the night there. It was perfectly obvious that he had come only with the intention of hearing what was taking place in the next room. It was impossible for anybody possessed of ordinary intellect not to admire Anstruther, whose brilliant qualities could not be ignored. Even now, excited as he was, Masefield could not repress his admiration for the man he both feared and disliked.

It really was a marvelous thing that Anstruther should be so soon upon the track of the man with whom he had parted on friendly terms not an hour ago. Was this the result of some perfect system of spying, or was it that Anstruther's wonderful instinct led him to believe that Carrington was ready to plot against him whilst professing to act upon his advice? Masefield had plenty of time to ponder this question, for the figure on the wardrobe above gave no signs as yet of having had enough of it. Nor was Jack's situation rendered more pleasant by the knowledge that he might have to pass the night in a perpendicular position and half stifled by the stuffy atmosphere of the wardrobe.