Zaroff paused in mid-bite, leaving Rainsford's question dangling mid-air like the steak skewered on his ivory-handled fork. It was the moment of truth. "You are wrong, sir," he exhaled, "the Cape buffalo is not the most dangerous game." He sipped his port. "Here in my preserve on this island, " he added ominously, "I hunt more dangerous game yet."

Rainsford paused in astonishment. Could the rumors among the seafaring class be true? "You have hunted the HSK? The Black Spectre? Tyrant of the Orient and destroyer of Men?" Zaroff nodded quietly. "You've faced off against the Peking Guillotine, and risked the death of a thousand strokes?"" Again Zaroff offered his grim and silent confirmation, and the scale of his island retreat was clear at last. In the wilds outside the sumptuous mansion in which they dined, the woods teemed with the most savage of characters. In the days to come they would hunt and hunt and hunt. There would be no end to the hanzi.