Sax Rohmer

Secret of the atom bomb?”
“Rot! There’s no secret about it. You know that as well as I do. Once a weapon of war is given publicity, it loses its usefulness. I gain nothing by having a rock in my boxing-glove if the other fellow has one too. No. It’s something else.”

You mean the sallow man?”
“Sallow? He’s Burmese! They’re not all Communists, you know.”

He was in New York at the request of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and had been given almost autocratic powers by Washington.

That’s some kind of Asiatic. I saw his face!

“May I ask,” he growled, “since when Chinese have been admitted to membership?”

“What did he look like?”
“Yellow.”
“Indian?”
“No, sir. Some kind of Oriental. Then, only today, right in my own club, I caught another Asiatic watching me!

Pompeian frescoes, and given an Egyptian cigarette and a cup of orange-scented China tea.

They were in many languages, including Greek, Chinese, and Arabic.

Professor Hoffmeyer had substituted a yellow house robe. The eyes which the glasses had concealed were long, narrow, and emerald-green. The uncovered hands had pointed fingernails. This gaunt, upright, Chinese ascetic was taller by inches than Professor Hoffmeyer.
And his face might have inspired a painter seeking a model for the Fallen Angel.
This not because it was so evil but because of a majestic and remorseless power which it possessed—a power which resided in the eyes. They were not the eyes of a normal man,

They were the eyes of one who has shaken off those inhibitions common to humanity, who is undisturbed by either love or hate, untouched by fear, unmoved by compassion.