The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu, by Sax Rohmer

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Title: The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu

Author: Sax Rohmer

Release Date: May 24, 2008 [EBook #173]
[Last updated: October 13, 2012]

Language: English

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This etext was updated by Stewart A. Levin of Englewood, CO.





The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu


by

Sax Rohmer





CHAPTER I


"A GENTLEMAN to see you, Doctor."

From across the common a clock sounded the half-hour.

"Ten-thirty!" I said.  "A late visitor.  Show him up, if you please."

I pushed my writing aside and tilted the lamp-shade, as footsteps
sounded on the landing.  The next moment I had jumped to my feet, for a
tall, lean man, with his square-cut, clean-shaven face sun-baked to the
hue of coffee, entered and extended both hands, with a cry:

"Good old Petrie!  Didn't expect me, I'll swear!"

It was Nayland Smith--whom I had thought to be in Burma!

"Smith," I said, and gripped his hands hard, "this is a delightful
surprise!  Whatever--however--"

"Excuse me, Petrie!" he broke in.  "Don't put it down to the sun!" And
he put out the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

I was too surprised to speak.

"No doubt you will think me mad," he continued, and, dimly, I could see
him at the window, peering out into the road, "but before you are many
hours older you will know that I have good reason to be cautious.  Ah,
nothing suspicious!  Perhaps I am first this time."  And, stepping back
to the writing-table he relighted the lamp.

"Mysterious enough for you?" he laughed, and glanced at my unfinished
MS.  "A story, eh?  From which I gather that the district is beastly
healthy--what, Petrie?  Well, I can put some material in your way that,
if sheer uncanny mystery is a marketable commodity, ought to make you
independent of influenza and broken legs and shattered nerves and all
the rest."

I surveyed him doubtfully, but there was nothing in his appearance to
justify me in supposing him to suffer from delusions.  His eyes were
too bright, certainly, and a hardness now had crept over his face.  I
got out the whisky and siphon, saying:

"You have taken your leave early?"

"I am not on leave," he replied, and slowly filled his pipe.  "I am on
duty."

"On duty!" I exclaimed.  "What, are you moved to London or something?"

"I have got a roving commission, Petrie, and it doesn't rest with me
where I am to-day nor where I shall be to-morrow."

There was something ominous in the words, and, putting down my glass,
its contents untasted, I faced round and looked him squarely in the
eyes.  "Out with it!" I said.  "What is it all about?"

Smith suddenly stood up and stripped off his coat.  Rolling back his
left shirt-sleeve he revealed a wicked-looking wound in the fleshy part
of the forearm.  It was quite healed, but curiously striated for an
inch or so around.

"Ever seen one like it?" he asked.

"Not exactly," I confessed.  "It appears to have been deeply
cauterized."

"Right!  Very deeply!" he rapped.  "A barb steeped in the venom of a
hamadryad went in there!"

A shudder I could not repress ran coldly through me at mention of that
most deadly of all the reptiles of the East.

"There's only one treatment," he continued, rolling his sleeve down
again, "and that's with a sharp knife, a match, and a broken cartridge.
I lay on my back, raving, for three days afterwards, in a forest that
stank with malaria, but I should have been lying there now if I had
hesitated.  Here's the point.  It was not an accident!"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that it was a deliberate attempt on my life, and I am hard upon
the tracks of the man who extracted that venom--patiently, drop by
drop--from the poison-glands of the snake, who prepared that arrow, and
who caused it to be shot at me."

"What fiend is this?"

"A fiend who, unless my calculations are at fault is now in London, and
who regularly wars with pleasant weapons of that kind.  Petrie, I have
traveled from Burma not in the interests of the British Government
merely, but in the interests of the entire white race, and I honestly
believe--though I pray I may be wrong--that its survival depends
largely upon the success of my mission."

To say that I was perplexed conveys no idea of the mental chaos created
by these extraordinary statements, for into my humdrum suburban life
Nayland Smith had brought fantasy of the wildest.  I did not know what
to think, what to believe.

"I am wasting precious time!" he rapped decisively, and, draining his
glass, he stood up.  "I came straight to you, because you are the only
man I dare to trust.  Except the big chief at headquarters, you are the
only person in England, I hope, who knows that Nayland Smith has
quitted Burma.  I must have someone with me, Petrie, all the time--it's
imperative!  Can you put me up here, and spare a few days to the
strangest business, I promise you, that ever was recorded in fact or
fiction?"

I agreed readily enough, for, unfortunately, my professional duties
were not onerous.

"Good man!" he cried, wringing my hand in his impetuous way.  "We start
now."

"What, to-night?"

"To-night!  I had thought of turning in, I must admit.  I have not
dared to sleep for forty-eight hours, except in fifteen-minute
stretches.  But there is one move that must be made to-night and
immediately.  I must warn Sir Crichton Davey."

"Sir Crichton Davey--of the India--"

"Petrie, he is a doomed man!  Unless he follows my instructions without
question, without hesitation--before Heaven, nothing can save him!  I
do not know when the blow will fall, how it will fall, nor from whence,
but I know that my first duty is to warn him.  Let us walk down to the
corner of the common and get a taxi."

How strangely does the adventurous intrude upon the humdrum; for, when
it intrudes at all, more often than not its intrusion is sudden and
unlooked for.  To-day, we may seek for romance and fail to find it:
unsought, it lies in wait for us at most prosaic corners of life's
highway.

The drive that night, though it divided the drably commonplace from the
wildly bizarre--though it was the bridge between the ordinary and the
outre--has left no impression upon my mind.  Into the heart of a weird
mystery the cab bore me; and in reviewing my memories of those days I
wonder that the busy thoroughfares through which we passed did not
display before my eyes signs and portents--warnings.

It was not so.  I recall nothing of the route and little of import that
passed between us (we both were strangely silent, I think) until we
were come to our journey's end.  Then:

"What's this?" muttered my friend hoarsely.

Constables were moving on a little crowd of curious idlers who pressed
about the steps of Sir Crichton Davey's house and sought to peer in at
the open door.  Without waiting for the cab to draw up to the curb,
Nayland Smith recklessly leaped out and I followed close at his heels.

"What has happened?" he demanded breathlessly of a constable.

The latter glanced at him doubtfully, but something in his voice and
bearing commanded respect.

"Sir Crichton Davey has been killed, sir."

Smith lurched back as though he had received a physical blow, and
clutched my shoulder convulsively.  Beneath the heavy tan his face had
blanched, and his eyes were set in a stare of horror.

"My God!" he whispered.  "I am too late!"

With clenched fists he turned and, pressing through the group of
loungers, bounded up the steps.  In the hall a man who unmistakably was
a Scotland Yard official stood talking to a footman.  Other members of
the household were moving about, more or less aimlessly, and the chilly
hand of King Fear had touched one and all, for, as they came and went,
they glanced ever over their shoulders, as if each shadow cloaked a
menace, and listened, as it seemed, for some sound which they dreaded
to hear.  Smith strode up to the detective and showed him a card, upon
glancing at which the Scotland Yard man said something in a low voice,
and, nodding, touched his hat to Smith in a respectful manner.

A few brief questions and answers, and, in gloomy silence, we followed
the detective up the heavily carpeted stair, along a corridor lined
with pictures and busts, and into a large library.  A group of people
were in this room, and one, in whom I recognized Chalmers Cleeve, of
Harley Street, was bending over a motionless form stretched upon a
couch.  Another door communicated with a small study, and through the
opening I could see a man on all fours examining the carpet.  The
uncomfortable sense of hush, the group about the physician, the bizarre
figure crawling, beetle-like, across the inner room, and the grim hub,
around which all this ominous activity turned, made up a scene that
etched itself indelibly on my mind.

As we entered Dr. Cleeve straightened himself, frowning thoughtfully.

"Frankly, I do not care to venture any opinion at present regarding the
immediate cause of death," he said.  "Sir Crichton was addicted to
cocaine, but there are indications which are not in accordance with
cocaine-poisoning. I fear that only a post-mortem can establish the
facts--if," he added, "we ever arrive at them.  A most mysterious case!"

Smith stepping forward and engaging the famous pathologist in
conversation, I seized the opportunity to examine Sir Crichton's body.

The dead man was in evening dress, but wore an old smoking-jacket. He
had been of spare but hardy build, with thin, aquiline features, which
now were oddly puffy, as were his clenched hands.  I pushed back his
sleeve, and saw the marks of the hypodermic syringe upon his left arm.
Quite mechanically I turned my attention to the right arm.  It was
unscarred, but on the back of the hand was a faint red mark, not unlike
the imprint of painted lips.  I examined it closely, and even tried to
rub it off, but it evidently was caused by some morbid process of local
inflammation, if it were not a birthmark.

Turning to a pale young man whom I had understood to be Sir Crichton's
private secretary, I drew his attention to this mark, and inquired if
it were constitutional.  "It is not, sir," answered Dr. Cleeve,
overhearing my question.  "I have already made that inquiry.  Does it
suggest anything to your mind?  I must confess that it affords me no
assistance."

"Nothing," I replied.  "It is most curious."

"Excuse me, Mr. Burboyne," said Smith, now turning to the secretary,
"but Inspector Weymouth will tell you that I act with authority.  I
understand that Sir Crichton was--seized with illness in his study?"

"Yes--at half-past ten.  I was working here in the library, and he
inside, as was our custom."

"The communicating door was kept closed?"

"Yes, always.  It was open for a minute or less about ten-twenty-five,
when a message came for Sir Crichton.  I took it in to him, and he then
seemed in his usual health."

"What was the message?"

"I could not say.  It was brought by a district messenger, and he
placed it beside him on the table.  It is there now, no doubt."

"And at half-past ten?"

"Sir Crichton suddenly burst open the door and threw himself, with a
scream, into the library.  I ran to him but he waved me back.  His eyes
were glaring horribly.  I had just reached his side when he fell,
writhing, upon the floor.  He seemed past speech, but as I raised him
and laid him upon the couch, he gasped something that sounded like 'The
red hand!' Before I could get to bell or telephone he was dead!"

Mr. Burboyne's voice shook as he spoke the words, and Smith seemed to
find this evidence confusing.

"You do not think he referred to the mark on his own hand?"

"I think not.  From the direction of his last glance, I feel sure he
referred to something in the study."

"What did you do?"

"Having summoned the servants, I ran into the study. But there was
absolutely nothing unusual to be seen.  The windows were closed and
fastened.  He worked with closed windows in the hottest weather.  There
is no other door, for the study occupies the end of a narrow wing, so
that no one could possibly have gained access to it, whilst I was in
the library, unseen by me.  Had someone concealed himself in the study
earlier in the evening--and I am convinced that it offers no
hiding-place--he could only have come out again by passing through
here."

Nayland Smith tugged at the lobe of his left ear, as was his habit when
meditating.

"You had been at work here in this way for some time?"

"Yes.  Sir Crichton was preparing an important book."

"Had anything unusual occurred prior to this evening?"

"Yes," said Mr. Burboyne, with evident perplexity; "though I attached
no importance to it at the time.  Three nights ago Sir Crichton came
out to me, and appeared very nervous; but at times his nerves--you
know?  Well, on this occasion he asked me to search the study.  He had
an idea that something was concealed there."

"Some THING or someone?"

"'Something' was the word he used.  I searched, but fruitlessly, and he
seemed quite satisfied, and returned to his work."

"Thank you, Mr. Burboyne.  My friend and I would like a few minutes'
private investigation in the study."



CHAPTER II


SIR CRICHTON DAVEY'S study was a small one, and a glance sufficed to
show that, as the secretary had said, it offered no hiding-place. It
was heavily carpeted, and over-full of Burmese and Chinese ornaments
and curios, and upon the mantelpiece stood several framed photographs
which showed this to be the sanctum of a wealthy bachelor who was no
misogynist.  A map of the Indian Empire occupied the larger part of one
wall.  The grate was empty, for the weather was extremely warm, and a
green-shaded lamp on the littered writing-table afforded the only
light.  The air was stale, for both windows were closed and fastened.

Smith immediately pounced upon a large, square envelope that lay beside
the blotting-pad. Sir Crichton had not even troubled to open it, but my
friend did so.  It contained a blank sheet of paper!

"Smell!" he directed, handing the letter to me.  I raised it to my
nostrils.  It was scented with some pungent perfume.

"What is it?"  I asked.

"It is a rather rare essential oil," was the reply, "which I have met
with before, though never in Europe.  I begin to understand, Petrie."

He tilted the lamp-shade and made a close examination of the scraps of
paper, matches, and other debris that lay in the grate and on the
hearth.  I took up a copper vase from the mantelpiece, and was
examining it curiously, when he turned, a strange expression upon his
face.

"Put that back, old man," he said quietly.

Much surprised, I did as he directed.

"Don't touch anything in the room.  It may be dangerous."

Something in the tone of his voice chilled me, and I hastily replaced
the vase, and stood by the door of the study, watching him search,
methodically, every inch of the room--behind the books, in all the
ornaments, in table drawers, in cupboards, on shelves.

"That will do," he said at last.  "There is nothing here and I have no
time to search farther."

We returned to the library.

"Inspector Weymouth," said my friend, "I have a particular reason for
asking that Sir Crichton's body be removed from this room at once and
the library locked.  Let no one be admitted on any pretense whatever
until you hear from me." It spoke volumes for the mysterious
credentials borne by my friend that the man from Scotland Yard accepted
his orders without demur, and, after a brief chat with Mr. Burboyne,
Smith passed briskly downstairs.  In the hall a man who looked like a
groom out of livery was waiting.

"Are you Wills?" asked Smith.

"Yes, sir."

"It was you who heard a cry of some kind at the rear of the house about
the time of Sir Crichton's death?"

"Yes, sir.  I was locking the garage door, and, happening to look up at
the window of Sir Crichton's study, I saw him jump out of his chair.
Where he used to sit at his writing, sir, you could see his shadow on
the blind.  Next minute I heard a call out in the lane."

"What kind of call?"

The man, whom the uncanny happening clearly had frightened, seemed
puzzled for a suitable description.

"A sort of wail, sir," he said at last.  "I never heard anything like
it before, and don't want to again."

"Like this?" inquired Smith, and he uttered a low, wailing cry,
impossible to describe.  Wills perceptibly shuddered; and, indeed, it
was an eerie sound.

"The same, sir, I think," he said, "but much louder."

"That will do," said Smith, and I thought I detected a note of triumph
in his voice.  "But stay!  Take us through to the back of the house."

The man bowed and led the way, so that shortly we found ourselves in a
small, paved courtyard.  It was a perfect summer's night, and the deep
blue vault above was jeweled with myriads of starry points.  How
impossible it seemed to reconcile that vast, eternal calm with the
hideous passions and fiendish agencies which that night had loosed a
soul upon the infinite.

"Up yonder are the study windows, sir.  Over that wall on your left is
the back lane from which the cry came, and beyond is Regent's Park."

"Are the study windows visible from there?"

"Oh, yes, sir."

"Who occupies the adjoining house?"

"Major-General Platt-Houston, sir; but the family is out of town."

"Those iron stairs are a means of communication between the domestic
offices and the servants' quarters, I take it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then send someone to make my business known to the Major-General's
housekeeper; I want to examine those stairs."

Singular though my friend's proceedings appeared to me, I had ceased to
wonder at anything.  Since Nayland Smith's arrival at my rooms I seemed
to have been moving through the fitful phases of a nightmare.  My
friend's account of how he came by the wound in his arm; the scene on
our arrival at the house of Sir Crichton Davey; the secretary's story
of the dying man's cry, "The red hand!"; the hidden perils of the
study; the wail in the lane--all were fitter incidents of delirium than
of sane reality.  So, when a white-faced butler made us known to a
nervous old lady who proved to be the housekeeper of the next-door
residence, I was not surprised at Smith's saying:

"Lounge up and down outside, Petrie.  Everyone has cleared off now.  It
is getting late.  Keep your eyes open and be on your guard.  I thought
I had the start, but he is here before me, and, what is worse, he
probably knows by now that I am here, too."

With which he entered the house and left me out in the square, with
leisure to think, to try to understand.

The crowd which usually haunts the scene of a sensational crime had
been cleared away, and it had been circulated that Sir Crichton had
died from natural causes.  The intense heat having driven most of the
residents out of town, practically I had the square to myself, and I
gave myself up to a brief consideration of the mystery in which I so
suddenly had found myself involved.

By what agency had Sir Crichton met his death?  Did Nayland Smith know?
I rather suspected that he did.  What was the hidden significance of
the perfumed envelope?  Who was that mysterious personage whom Smith so
evidently dreaded, who had attempted his life, who, presumably, had
murdered Sir Crichton?  Sir Crichton Davey, during the time that he had
held office in India, and during his long term of service at home, had
earned the good will of all, British and native alike.  Who was his
secret enemy?

Something touched me lightly on the shoulder.

I turned, with my heart fluttering like a child's. This night's work
had imposed a severe strain even upon my callous nerves.

A girl wrapped in a hooded opera-cloak stood at my elbow, and, as she
glanced up at me, I thought that I never had seen a face so seductively
lovely nor of so unusual a type.  With the skin of a perfect blonde,
she had eyes and lashes as black as a Creole's, which, together with
her full red lips, told me that this beautiful stranger, whose touch
had so startled me, was not a child of our northern shores.

"Forgive me," she said, speaking with an odd, pretty accent, and laying
a slim hand, with jeweled fingers, confidingly upon my arm, "if I
startled you.  But--is it true that Sir Crichton Davey has
been--murdered?"

I looked into her big, questioning eyes, a harsh suspicion laboring in
my mind, but could read nothing in their mysterious depths--only I
wondered anew at my questioner's beauty.  The grotesque idea
momentarily possessed me that, were the bloom of her red lips due to
art and not to nature, their kiss would leave--though not
indelibly--just such a mark as I had seen upon the dead man's hand.
But I dismissed the fantastic notion as bred of the night's horrors,
and worthy only of a mediaeval legend.  No doubt she was some friend or
acquaintance of Sir Crichton who lived close by.

"I cannot say that he has been murdered," I replied, acting upon the
latter supposition, and seeking to tell her what she asked as gently as
possible.

"But he is--Dead?"

I nodded.

She closed her eyes and uttered a low, moaning sound, swaying dizzily.
Thinking she was about to swoon, I threw my arm round her shoulder to
support her, but she smiled sadly, and pushed me gently away.

"I am quite well, thank you," she said.

"You are certain?  Let me walk with you until you feel quite sure of
yourself."

She shook her head, flashed a rapid glance at me with her beautiful
eyes, and looked away in a sort of sorrowful embarrassment, for which I
was entirely at a loss to account.  Suddenly she resumed:

"I cannot let my name be mentioned in this dreadful matter, but--I
think I have some information--for the police.  Will you give this
to--whomever you think proper?"

She handed me a sealed envelope, again met my eyes with one of her
dazzling glances, and hurried away.  She had gone no more than ten or
twelve yards, and I still was standing bewildered, watching her
graceful, retreating figure, when she turned abruptly and came back.

Without looking directly at me, but alternately glancing towards a
distant corner of the square and towards the house of Major-General
Platt-Houston, she made the following extraordinary request:

"If you would do me a very great service, for which I always would be
grateful,"--she glanced at me with passionate intentness--"when you
have given my message to the proper person, leave him and do not go
near him any more to-night!"

Before I could find words to reply she gathered up her cloak and ran.
Before I could determine whether or not to follow her (for her words
had aroused anew all my worst suspicions) she had disappeared!  I heard
the whir of a restarted motor at no great distance, and, in the instant
that Nayland Smith came running down the steps, I knew that I had
nodded at my post.

"Smith!"  I cried as he joined me, "tell me what we must do!" And
rapidly I acquainted him with the incident.

My friend looked very grave; then a grim smile crept round his lips.

"She was a big card to play," he said; "but he did not know that I held
one to beat it."

"What!  You know this girl!  Who is she?"

"She is one of the finest weapons in the enemy's armory, Petrie.  But a
woman is a two-edged sword, and treacherous.  To our great good
fortune, she has formed a sudden predilection, characteristically
Oriental, for yourself.  Oh, you may scoff, but it is evident.  She was
employed to get this letter placed in my hands.  Give it to me."

I did so.

"She has succeeded.  Smell."

He held the envelope under my nose, and, with a sudden sense of nausea,
I recognized the strange perfume.

"You know what this presaged in Sir Crichton's case?  Can you doubt any
longer?  She did not want you to share my fate, Petrie."

"Smith," I said unsteadily, "I have followed your lead blindly in this
horrible business and have not pressed for an explanation, but I must
insist before I go one step farther upon knowing what it all means."

"Just a few steps farther," he rejoined; "as far as a cab.  We are
hardly safe here.  Oh, you need not fear shots or knives.  The man
whose servants are watching us now scorns to employ such clumsy,
tell-tale weapons."

Only three cabs were on the rank, and, as we entered the first,
something hissed past my ear, missed both Smith and me by a miracle,
and, passing over the roof of the taxi, presumably fell in the enclosed
garden occupying the center of the square.

"What was that?" I cried.

"Get in--quickly!"  Smith rapped back.  "It was attempt number one!
More than that I cannot say.  Don't let the man hear.  He has noticed
nothing.  Pull up the window on your side, Petrie, and look out behind.
Good!  We've started."

The cab moved off with a metallic jerk, and I turned and looked back
through the little window in the rear.

"Someone has got into another cab.  It is following ours, I think."

Nayland Smith lay back and laughed unmirthfully.

"Petrie," he said, "if I escape alive from this business I shall know
that I bear a charmed life."

I made no reply, as he pulled out the dilapidated pouch and filled his
pipe.

"You have asked me to explain matters," he continued, "and I will do so
to the best of my ability.  You no doubt wonder why a servant of the
British Government, lately stationed in Burma, suddenly appears in
London, in the character of a detective.  I am here, Petrie--and I bear
credentials from the very highest sources--because, quite by accident,
I came upon a clew.  Following it up, in the ordinary course of
routine, I obtained evidence of the existence and malignant activity of
a certain man.  At the present stage of the case I should not be
justified in terming him the emissary of an Eastern Power, but I may
say that representations are shortly to be made to that Power's
ambassador in London."

He paused and glanced back towards the pursuing cab.

"There is little to fear until we arrive home," he said calmly.
"Afterwards there is much.  To continue:  This man, whether a fanatic
or a duly appointed agent, is, unquestionably, the most malign and
formidable personality existing in the known world today.  He is a
linguist who speaks with almost equal facility in any of the civilized
languages, and in most of the barbaric.  He is an adept in all the arts
and sciences which a great university could teach him.  He also is an
adept in certain obscure arts and sciences which no university of
to-day can teach.  He has the brains of any three men of genius.
Petrie, he is a mental giant."

"You amaze me!" I said.

"As to his mission among men.  Why did M. Jules Furneaux fall dead in a
Paris opera house?  Because of heart failure?  No!  Because his last
speech had shown that he held the key to the secret of Tongking.  What
became of the Grand Duke Stanislaus?  Elopement?  Suicide?  Nothing of
the kind.  He alone was fully alive to Russia's growing peril.  He
alone knew the truth about Mongolia.  Why was Sir Crichton Davey
murdered?  Because, had the work he was engaged upon ever seen the
light it would have shown him to be the only living Englishman who
understood the importance of the Tibetan frontiers.  I say to you
solemnly, Petrie, that these are but a few.  Is there a man who would
arouse the West to a sense of the awakening of the East, who would
teach the deaf to hear, the blind to see, that the millions only await
their leader?  He will die.  And this is only one phase of the devilish
campaign.  The others I can merely surmise."

"But, Smith, this is almost incredible!  What perverted genius controls
this awful secret movement?"

"Imagine a person, tall, lean and feline, high-shouldered, with a brow
like Shakespeare and a face like Satan, a close-shaven skull, and long,
magnetic eyes of the true cat-green. Invest him with all the cruel
cunning of an entire Eastern race, accumulated in one giant intellect,
with all the resources of science past and present, with all the
resources, if you will, of a wealthy government--which, however,
already has denied all knowledge of his existence.  Imagine that awful
being, and you have a mental picture of Dr. Fu-Manchu, the yellow peril
incarnate in one man."



CHAPTER III


I SANK into an arm-chair in my rooms and gulped down a strong peg of
brandy.

"We have been followed here," I said.  "Why did you make no attempt to
throw the pursuers off the track, to have them intercepted?"

Smith laughed.

"Useless, in the first place.  Wherever we went, HE would find us.  And
of what use to arrest his creatures?  We could prove nothing against
them.  Further, it is evident that an attempt is to be made upon my
life to-night--and by the same means that proved so successful in the
case of poor Sir Crichton."

His square jaw grew truculently prominent, and he leapt stormily to his
feet, shaking his clenched fists towards the window.

"The villain!" he cried.  "The fiendishly clever villain!  I suspected
that Sir Crichton was next, and I was right.  But I came too late,
Petrie!  That hits me hard, old man.  To think that I knew and yet
failed to save him!"

He resumed his seat, smoking hard.

"Fu-Manchu has made the blunder common to all men of unusual genius,"
he said.  "He has underrated his adversary.  He has not given me credit
for perceiving the meaning of the scented messages.  He has thrown away
one powerful weapon--to get such a message into my hands--and he thinks
that once safe within doors, I shall sleep, unsuspecting, and die as
Sir Crichton died.  But without the indiscretion of your charming
friend, I should have known what to expect when I receive her
'information'--which by the way, consists of a blank sheet of paper."

"Smith," I broke in, "who is she?"

"She is either Fu-Manchu's daughter, his wife, or his slave.  I am
inclined to believe the last, for she has no will but his will,
except"--with a quizzical glance--"in a certain instance."

"How can you jest with some awful thing--Heaven knows what--hanging
over your head?  What is the meaning of these perfumed envelopes?  How
did Sir Crichton die?"

"He died of the Zayat Kiss.  Ask me what that is and I reply 'I do not
know.'  The zayats are the Burmese caravanserais, or rest-houses. Along
a certain route--upon which I set eyes, for the first and only time,
upon Dr. Fu-Manchu--travelers who use them sometimes die as Sir
Crichton died, with nothing to show the cause of death but a little
mark upon the neck, face, or limb, which has earned, in those parts,
the title of the 'Zayat Kiss.' The rest-houses along that route are
shunned now.  I have my theory and I hope to prove it to-night, if I
live.  It will be one more broken weapon in his fiendish armory, and it
is thus, and thus only, that I can hope to crush him.  This was my
principal reason for not enlightening Dr. Cleeve.  Even walls have ears
where Fu-Manchu is concerned, so I feigned ignorance of the meaning of
the mark, knowing that he would be almost certain to employ the same
methods upon some other victim.  I wanted an opportunity to study the
Zayat Kiss in operation, and I shall have one."

"But the scented envelopes?"

"In the swampy forests of the district I have referred to a rare
species of orchid, almost green, and with a peculiar scent, is
sometimes met with.  I recognized the heavy perfume at once.  I take it
that the thing which kills the traveler is attracted by this orchid.
You will notice that the perfume clings to whatever it touches.  I
doubt if it can be washed off in the ordinary way.  After at least one
unsuccessful attempt to kill Sir Crichton--you recall that he thought
there was something concealed in his study on a previous
occasion?--Fu-Manchu hit upon the perfumed envelopes.  He may have a
supply of these green orchids in his possession--possibly to feed the
creature."

"What creature?  How could any kind of creature have got into Sir
Crichton's room tonight?"

"You no doubt observed that I examined the grate of the study.  I found
a fair quantity of fallen soot.  I at once assumed, since it appeared
to be the only means of entrance, that something has been dropped down;
and I took it for granted that the thing, whatever it was, must still
be concealed either in the study or in the library.  But when I had
obtained the evidence of the groom, Wills, I perceived that the cry
from the lane or from the park was a signal.  I noted that the
movements of anyone seated at the study table were visible, in shadow,
on the blind, and that the study occupied the corner of a two-storied
wing and, therefore, had a short chimney.  What did the signal mean?
That Sir Crichton had leaped up from his chair, and either had received
the Zayat Kiss or had seen the thing which someone on the roof had
lowered down the straight chimney.  It was the signal to withdraw that
deadly thing.  By means of the iron stairway at the rear of
Major-General Platt-Houston's, I quite easily, gained access to the
roof above Sir Crichton's study--and I found this."

Out from his pocket Nayland Smith drew a tangled piece of silk, mixed
up with which were a brass ring and a number of unusually large-sized
split-shot, nipped on in the manner usual on a fishing-line.

"My theory proven," he resumed.  "Not anticipating a search on the
roof, they had been careless.  This was to weight the line and to
prevent the creature clinging to the walls of the chimney.  Directly it
had dropped in the grate, however, by means of this ring I assume that
the weighted line was withdrawn, and the thing was only held by one
slender thread, which sufficed, though, to draw it back again when it
had done its work.  It might have got tangled, of course, but they
reckoned on its making straight up the carved leg of the writing-table
for the prepared envelope.  From there to the hand of Sir
Crichton--which, from having touched the envelope, would also be
scented with the perfume--was a certain move."

"My God!  How horrible!" I exclaimed, and glanced apprehensively into
the dusky shadows of the room.  "What is your theory respecting this
creature--what shape, what color--?"

"It is something that moves rapidly and silently.  I will venture no
more at present, but I think it works in the dark.  The study was dark,
remember, save for the bright patch beneath the reading-lamp. I have
observed that the rear of this house is ivy-covered right up to and
above your bedroom.  Let us make ostentatious preparations to retire,
and I think we may rely upon Fu-Manchu's servants to attempt my
removal, at any rate--if not yours."

"But, my dear fellow, it is a climb of thirty-five feet at the very
least."

"You remember the cry in the back lane?  It suggested something to me,
and I tested my idea--successfully.  It was the cry of a dacoit.  Oh,
dacoity, though quiescent, is by no means extinct.  Fu-Manchu has
dacoits in his train, and probably it is one who operates the Zayat
Kiss, since it was a dacoit who watched the window of the study this
evening.  To such a man an ivy-covered wall is a grand staircase."

The horrible events that followed are punctuated, in my mind, by the
striking of a distant clock.  It is singular how trivialities thus
assert themselves in moments of high tension.  I will proceed, then, by
these punctuations, to the coming of the horror that it was written we
should encounter.

The clock across the common struck two.

Having removed all traces of the scent of the orchid from our hands
with a solution of ammonia Smith and I had followed the programme laid
down.  It was an easy matter to reach the rear of the house, by simply
climbing a fence, and we did not doubt that seeing the light go out in
the front, our unseen watcher would proceed to the back.

The room was a large one, and we had made up my camp-bed at one end,
stuffing odds and ends under the clothes to lend the appearance of a
sleeper, which device we also had adopted in the case of the larger
bed.  The perfumed envelope lay upon a little coffee table in the
center of the floor, and Smith, with an electric pocket lamp, a
revolver, and a brassey beside him, sat on cushions in the shadow of
the wardrobe.  I occupied a post between the windows.

No unusual sound, so far, had disturbed the stillness of the night.
Save for the muffled throb of the rare all-night cars passing the front
of the house, our vigil had been a silent one.  The full moon had
painted about the floor weird shadows of the clustering ivy, spreading
the design gradually from the door, across the room, past the little
table where the envelope lay, and finally to the foot of the bed.

The distant clock struck a quarter-past two.

A slight breeze stirred the ivy, and a new shadow added itself to the
extreme edge of the moon's design.

Something rose, inch by inch, above the sill of the westerly window.  I
could see only its shadow, but a sharp, sibilant breath from Smith told
me that he, from his post, could see the cause of the shadow.

Every nerve in my body seemed to be strung tensely.  I was icy cold,
expectant, and prepared for whatever horror was upon us.

The shadow became stationary.  The dacoit was studying the interior of
the room.

Then it suddenly lengthened, and, craning my head to the left, I saw a
lithe, black-clad form, surmounted by a Yellow face, sketchy in the
moonlight, pressed against the window-panes!

One thin, brown hand appeared over the edge of the lowered sash, which
it grasped--and then another.  The man made absolutely no sound
whatever.  The second hand disappeared--and reappeared.  It held a
small, square box.  There was a very faint CLICK.

The dacoit swung himself below the window with the agility of an ape,
as, with a dull, muffled thud, SOMETHING dropped upon the carpet!

"Stand still, for your life!" came Smith's voice, high-pitched.

A beam of white leaped out across the room and played full upon the
coffee-table in the center.

Prepared as I was for something horrible, I know that I paled at sight
of the thing that was running round the edge of the envelope.

It was an insect, full six inches long, and of a vivid, venomous, red
color!  It had something of the appearance of a great ant, with its
long, quivering antennae and its febrile, horrible vitality; but it was
proportionately longer of body and smaller of head, and had numberless
rapidly moving legs.  In short, it was a giant centipede, apparently of
the scolopendra group, but of a form quite new to me.

These things I realized in one breathless instant; in the next--Smith
had dashed the thing's poisonous life out with one straight, true blow
of the golf club!

I leaped to the window and threw it widely open, feeling a silk thread
brush my hand as I did so.  A black shape was dropping, with incredible
agility from branch to branch of the ivy, and, without once offering a
mark for a revolver-shot, it merged into the shadows beneath the trees
of the garden.  As I turned and switched on the light Nayland Smith
dropped limply into a chair, leaning his head upon his hands.  Even
that grim courage had been tried sorely.

"Never mind the dacoit, Petrie," he said.  "Nemesis will know where to
find him.  We know now what causes the mark of the Zayat Kiss.
Therefore science is richer for our first brush with the enemy, and the
enemy is poorer--unless he has any more unclassified centipedes.  I
understand now something that has been puzzling me since I heard of
it--Sir Crichton's stifled cry.  When we remember that he was almost
past speech, it is reasonable to suppose that his cry was not 'The red
hand!' but 'The red ANT!'  Petrie, to think that I failed, by less than
an hour, to save him from such an end!"



CHAPTER IV


"THE body of a lascar, dressed in the manner usual on the P. & O.
boats, was recovered from the Thames off Tilbury by the river police at
six A.M. this morning.  It is supposed that the man met with an
accident in leaving his ship."

Nayland Smith passed me the evening paper and pointed to the above
paragraph.

"For 'lascar' read 'dacoit,'" he said.  "Our visitor, who came by way
of the ivy, fortunately for us, failed to follow his instructions.
Also, he lost the centipede and left a clew behind him.  Dr. Fu-Manchu
does not overlook such lapses."

It was a sidelight upon the character of the awful being with whom we
had to deal.  My very soul recoiled from bare consideration of the fate
that would be ours if ever we fell into his hands.

The telephone bell rang.  I went out and found that Inspector Weymouth
of New Scotland Yard had called us up.

"Will Mr. Nayland Smith please come to the Wapping River Police Station
at once," was the message.

Peaceful interludes were few enough throughout that wild pursuit.

"It is certainly something important," said my friend; "and, if
Fu-Manchu is at the bottom of it--as we must presume him to
be--probably something ghastly."

A brief survey of the time-tables showed us that there were no trains
to serve our haste.  We accordingly chartered a cab and proceeded east.

Smith, throughout the journey, talked entertainingly about his work in
Burma.  Of intent, I think, he avoided any reference to the
circumstances which first had brought him in contact with the sinister
genius of the Yellow Movement.  His talk was rather of the sunshine of
the East than of its shadows.

But the drive concluded--and all too soon.  In a silence which neither
of us seemed disposed to break, we entered the police depot, and
followed an officer who received us into the room where Weymouth waited.

The inspector greeted us briefly, nodding toward the table.

"Poor Cadby, the most promising lad at the Yard," he said; and his
usually gruff voice had softened strangely.

Smith struck his right fist into the palm of his left hand and swore
under his breath, striding up and down the neat little room.  No one
spoke for a moment, and in the silence I could hear the whispering of
the Thames outside--of the Thames which had so many strange secrets to
tell, and now was burdened with another.

The body lay prone upon the deal table--this latest of the river's
dead--dressed in rough sailor garb, and, to all outward seeming, a
seaman of nondescript nationality--such as is no stranger in Wapping
and Shadwell.  His dark, curly hair clung clammily about the brown
forehead; his skin was stained, they told me.  He wore a gold ring in
one ear, and three fingers of the left hand were missing.

"It was almost the same with Mason."  The river police inspector was
speaking.  "A week ago, on a Wednesday, he went off in his own time on
some funny business down St. George's way--and Thursday night the
ten-o'clock boat got the grapnel on him off Hanover Hole.  His first
two fingers on the right hand were clean gone, and his left hand was
mutilated frightfully."

He paused and glanced at Smith.

"That lascar, too," he continued, "that you came down to see, sir; you
remember his hands?"

Smith nodded.

"He was not a lascar," he said shortly.  "He was a dacoit."

Silence fell again.

I turned to the array of objects lying on the table--those which had
been found in Cadby's clothing.  None of them were noteworthy, except
that which had been found thrust into the loose neck of his shirt.
This last it was which had led the police to send for Nayland Smith,
for it constituted the first clew which had come to light pointing to
the authors of these mysterious tragedies.

It was a Chinese pigtail.  That alone was sufficiently remarkable; but
it was rendered more so by the fact that the plaited queue was a false
one being attached to a most ingenious bald wig.

"You're sure it wasn't part of a Chinese make-up?" questioned Weymouth,
his eye on the strange relic.  "Cadby was clever at disguise."

Smith snatched the wig from my hands with a certain irritation, and
tried to fit it on the dead detective.

"Too small by inches!" he jerked.  "And look how it's padded in the
crown.  This thing was made for a most abnormal head."

He threw it down, and fell to pacing the room again.

"Where did you find him--exactly?" he asked.

"Limehouse Reach--under Commercial Dock Pier--exactly an hour ago."

"And you last saw him at eight o'clock last night?"--to Weymouth.

"Eight to a quarter past."

"You think he has been dead nearly twenty-four hours, Petrie?"

"Roughly, twenty-four hours," I replied.

"Then, we know that he was on the track of the Fu-Manchu group, that he
followed up some clew which led him to the neighborhood of old Ratcliff
Highway, and that he died the same night.  You are sure that is where
he was going?"

"Yes," said Weymouth; "He was jealous of giving anything away, poor
chap; it meant a big lift for him if he pulled the case off.  But he
gave me to understand that he expected to spend last night in that
district.  He left the Yard about eight, as I've said, to go to his
rooms, and dress for the job."

"Did he keep any record of his cases?"

"Of course!  He was most particular.  Cadby was a man with ambitions,
sir!  You'll want to see his book.  Wait while I get his address; it's
somewhere in Brixton."

He went to the telephone, and Inspector Ryman covered up the dead man's
face.

Nayland Smith was palpably excited.

"He almost succeeded where we have failed, Petrie," he said.  "There is
no doubt in my mind that he was hot on the track of Fu-Manchu!  Poor
Mason had probably blundered on the scent, too, and he met with a
similar fate.  Without other evidence, the fact that they both died in
the same way as the dacoit would be conclusive, for we know that
Fu-Manchu killed the dacoit!"

"What is the meaning of the mutilated hands, Smith?"

"God knows!  Cadby's death was from drowning, you say?"

"There are no other marks of violence."

"But he was a very strong swimmer, Doctor," interrupted Inspector
Ryman.  "Why, he pulled off the quarter-mile championship at the
Crystal Palace last year!  Cadby wasn't a man easy to drown.  And as
for Mason, he was an R.N.R., and like a fish in the water!"

Smith shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

"Let us hope that one day we shall know how they died," he said simply.

Weymouth returned from the telephone.

"The address is No.--Cold Harbor Lane," he reported.  "I shall not be
able to come along, but you can't miss it; it's close by the Brixton
Police Station.  There's no family, fortunately; he was quite alone in
the world.  His case-book isn't in the American desk, which you'll find
in his sitting-room; it's in the cupboard in the corner--top shelf.
Here are his keys, all intact.  I think this is the cupboard key."

Smith nodded.

"Come on, Petrie," he said.  "We haven't a second to waste."

Our cab was waiting, and in a few seconds we were speeding along
Wapping High Street.  We had gone no more than a few hundred yards, I
think, when Smith suddenly slapped his open hand down on his knee.

"That pigtail!" he cried.  "I have left it behind!  We must have it,
Petrie!  Stop!  Stop!"

The cab was pulled up, and Smith alighted.

"Don't wait for me," he directed hurriedly.  "Here, take Weymouth's
card.  Remember where he said the book was?  It's all we want.  Come
straight on to Scotland Yard and meet me there."

"But Smith," I protested, "a few minutes can make no difference!"

"Can't it!" he snapped.  "Do you suppose Fu-Manchu is going to leave
evidence like that lying about?  It's a thousand to one he has it
already, but there is just a bare chance."

It was a new aspect of the situation and one that afforded no room for
comment; and so lost in thought did I become that the cab was outside
the house for which I was bound ere I realized that we had quitted the
purlieus of Wapping.  Yet I had had leisure to review the whole troop
of events which had crowded my life since the return of Nayland Smith
from Burma.  Mentally, I had looked again upon the dead Sir Crichton
Davey, and with Smith had waited in the dark for the dreadful thing
that had killed him.  Now, with those remorseless memories jostling in
my mind, I was entering the house of Fu-Manchu's last victim, and the
shadow of that giant evil seemed to be upon it like a palpable cloud.

Cadby's old landlady greeted me with a queer mixture of fear and
embarrassment in her manner.

"I am Dr. Petrie," I said, "and I regret that I bring bad news
respecting Mr. Cadby."

"Oh, sir!" she cried.  "Don't tell me that anything has happened to
him!" And divining something of the mission on which I was come, for
such sad duty often falls to the lot of the medical man: "Oh, the poor,
brave lad!"

Indeed, I respected the dead man's memory more than ever from that
hour, since the sorrow of the worthy old soul was quite pathetic, and
spoke eloquently for the unhappy cause of it.

"There was a terrible wailing at the back of the house last night,
Doctor, and I heard it again to-night, a second before you knocked.
Poor lad!  It was the same when his mother died."

At the moment I paid little attention to her words, for such beliefs
are common, unfortunately; but when she was sufficiently composed I
went on to explain what I thought necessary.  And now the old lady's
embarrassment took precedence of her sorrow, and presently the truth
came out:

"There's a--young lady--in his rooms, sir."

I started.  This might mean little or might mean much.

"She came and waited for him last night, Doctor--from ten until
half-past--and this morning again.  She came the third time about an
hour ago, and has been upstairs since."

"Do you know her, Mrs. Dolan?"

Mrs. Dolan grew embarrassed again.

"Well, Doctor," she said, wiping her eyes the while, "I DO.  And God
knows he was a good lad, and I like a mother to him; but she is not the
girl I should have liked a son of mine to take up with."

At any other time, this would have been amusing; now, it might be
serious.  Mrs. Dolan's account of the wailing became suddenly
significant, for perhaps it meant that one of Fu-Manchu's dacoit
followers was watching the house, to give warning of any stranger's
approach!  Warning to whom?  It was unlikely that I should forget the
dark eyes of another of Fu-Manchu's servants.  Was that lure of men
even now in the house, completing her evil work?

"I should never have allowed her in his rooms--" began Mrs. Dolan
again.  Then there was an interruption.

A soft rustling reached my ears--intimately feminine.  The girl was
stealing down!

I leaped out into the hall, and she turned and fled blindly before
me--back up the stairs!  Taking three steps at a time, I followed her,
bounded into the room above almost at her heels, and stood with my back
to the door.

She cowered against the desk by the window, a slim figure in a clinging
silk gown, which alone explained Mrs. Dolan's distrust.  The gaslight
was turned very low, and her hat shadowed her face, but could not hide
its startling beauty, could not mar the brilliancy of the skin, nor dim
the wonderful eyes of this modern Delilah.  For it was she!

"So I came in time," I said grimly, and turned the key in the lock.

"Oh!" she panted at that, and stood facing me, leaning back with her
jewel-laden hands clutching the desk edge.

"Give me whatever you have removed from here," I said sternly, "and
then prepare to accompany me."

She took a step forward, her eyes wide with fear, her lips parted.

"I have taken nothing," she said.  Her breast was heaving tumultuously.
"Oh, let me go!  Please, let me go!"  And impulsively she threw herself
forward, pressing clasped hands against my shoulder and looking up into
my face with passionate, pleading eyes.

It is with some shame that I confess how her charm enveloped me like a
magic cloud.  Unfamiliar with the complex Oriental temperament, I had
laughed at Nayland Smith when he had spoken of this girl's infatuation.
"Love in the East," he had said, "is like the conjurer's mango-tree; it
is born, grows and flowers at the touch of a hand." Now, in those
pleading eyes I read confirmation of his words.  Her clothes or her
hair exhaled a faint perfume.  Like all Fu-Manchu's servants, she was
perfectly chosen for her peculiar duties.  Her beauty was wholly
intoxicating.

But I thrust her away.

"You have no claim to mercy," I said.  "Do not count upon any.  What
have you taken from here?"

She grasped the lapels of my coat.

"I will tell you all I can--all I dare," she panted eagerly, fearfully.
"I should know how to deal with your friend, but with you I am lost!
If you could only understand you would not be so cruel."  Her slight
accent added charm to the musical voice.  "I am not free, as your
English women are.  What I do I must do, for it is the will of my
master, and I am only a slave.  Ah, you are not a man if you can give
me to the police.  You have no heart if you can forget that I tried to
save you once."

I had feared that plea, for, in her own Oriental fashion, she certainly
had tried to save me from a deadly peril once--at the expense of my
friend.  But I had feared the plea, for I did not know how to meet it.
How could I give her up, perhaps to stand her trial for murder?  And
now I fell silent, and she saw why I was silent.

"I may deserve no mercy; I may be even as bad as you think; but what
have YOU to do with the police?  It is not your work to hound a woman
to death.  Could you ever look another woman in the eyes--one that you
loved, and know that she trusted you--if you had done such a thing?
Ah, I have no friend in all the world, or I should not be here.  Do not
be my enemy, my judge, and make me worse than I am; be my friend, and
save me--from HIM." The tremulous lips were close to mine, her breath
fanned my cheek.  "Have mercy on me."

At that moment I honestly would have given half of my worldly
possessions to have been spared the decision which I knew I must come
to.  After all, what proof had I that she was a willing accomplice of
Dr. Fu-Manchu?  Furthermore, she was an Oriental, and her code must
necessarily be different from mine.  Irreconcilable as the thing may be
with Western ideas, Nayland Smith had really told me that he believed
the girl to be a slave.  Then there remained that other reason why I
loathed the idea of becoming her captor.  It was almost tantamount to
betrayal!  Must I soil my hands with such work?

Thus--I suppose--her seductive beauty argued against my sense of right.
The jeweled fingers grasped my shoulders nervously, and her slim body
quivered against mine as she watched me, with all her soul in her eyes,
in an abandonment of pleading despair.  Then I remembered the fate of
the man in whose room we stood.

"You lured Cadby to his death," I said, and shook her off.

"No, no!" she cried wildly, clutching at me.  "No, I swear by the holy
name I did not!  I did not!  I watched him, spied upon him--yes!  But,
listen: it was because he would not be warned that he met his death.  I
could not save him!  Ah, I am not so bad as that.  I will tell you.  I
have taken his notebook and torn out the last pages and burnt them.
Look!  in the grate.  The book was too big to steal away.  I came twice
and could not find it.  There, will you let me go?"

"If you will tell me where and how to seize Dr. Fu-Manchu--yes."

Her hands dropped and she took a backward step.  A new terror was to be
read in her face.

"I dare not!  I dare not!"

"Then you would--if you dared?"

She was watching me intently.

"Not if YOU would go to find him," she said.

And, with all that I thought her to be, the stern servant of justice
that I would have had myself, I felt the hot blood leap to my cheek at
all which the words implied.  She grasped my arm.

"Could you hide me from him if I came to you, and told you all I know?"

"The authorities--"

"Ah!"  Her expression changed.  "They can put me on the rack if they
choose, but never one word would I speak--never one little word."

She threw up her head scornfully.  Then the proud glance softened again.

"But I will speak for you."

Closer she came, and closer, until she could whisper in my ear.

"Hide me from your police, from HIM, from everybody, and I will no
longer be his slave."

My heart was beating with painful rapidity.  I had not counted on this
warring with a woman; moreover, it was harder than I could have dreamt
of.  For some time I had been aware that by the charm of her
personality and the art of her pleading she had brought me down from my
judgment seat--had made it all but impossible for me to give her up to
justice.  Now, I was disarmed--but in a quandary.  What should I do?
What COULD I do?  I turned away from her and walked to the hearth, in
which some paper ash lay and yet emitted a faint smell.

Not more than ten seconds elapsed, I am confident, from the time that I
stepped across the room until I glanced back.  But she had gone!

As I leapt to the door the key turned gently from the outside.

"Ma 'alesh!" came her soft whisper; "but I am afraid to trust you--yet.
Be comforted, for there is one near who would have killed you had I
wished it.  Remember, I will come to you whenever you will take me and
hide me."

Light footsteps pattered down the stairs.  I heard a stifled cry from
Mrs. Dolan as the mysterious visitor ran past her.  The front door
opened and closed.



CHAPTER V


"Shen-Yan's is a dope-shop in one of the burrows off the old Ratcliff
Highway," said Inspector Weymouth.

"'Singapore Charlie's,' they call it.  It's a center for some of the
Chinese societies, I believe, but all sorts of opium-smokers use it.
There have never been any complaints that I know of.  I don't
understand this."

We stood in his room at New Scotland Yard, bending over a sheet of
foolscap upon which were arranged some burned fragments from poor
Cadby's grate, for so hurriedly had the girl done her work that
combustion had not been complete.

"What do we make of this?" said Smith.  "'. . . Hunchback . . . lascar
went up . . . unlike others . . . not return . . . till Shen-Yan'
(there is no doubt about the name, I think) 'turned me out . . . booming
sound . . . lascar in . . . mortuary I could ident . . . not for days,
or suspici . . . Tuesday night in a different make . . . snatch
. . . pigtail . . .'"

"The pigtail again!" rapped Weymouth.

"She evidently burned the torn-out pages all together," continued
Smith.  "They lay flat, and this was in the middle.  I see the hand of
retributive justice in that, Inspector.  Now we have a reference to a
hunchback, and what follows amounts to this: A lascar (amongst several
other persons) went up somewhere--presumably upstairs--at Shen-Yan's,
and did not come down again.  Cadby, who was there disguised, noted a
booming sound.  Later, he identified the lascar in some mortuary.  We
have no means of fixing the date of this visit to Shen-Yan's, but I
feel inclined to put down the 'lascar' as the dacoit who was murdered
by Fu-Manchu!  It is sheer supposition, however.  But that Cadby meant
to pay another visit to the place in a different 'make-up' or disguise,
is evident, and that the Tuesday night proposed was last night is a
reasonable deduction.  The reference to a pigtail is principally
interesting because of what was found on Cadby's body."

Inspector Weymouth nodded affirmatively, and Smith glanced at his watch.

"Exactly ten-twenty-three," he said.  "I will trouble you, Inspector,
for the freedom of your fancy wardrobe.  There is time to spend an hour
in the company of Shen-Yan's opium friends."

Weymouth raised his eyebrows.

"It might be risky.  What about an official visit?"

Nayland Smith laughed.

"Worse than useless!  By your own showing, the place is open to
inspection.  No; guile against guile!  We are dealing with a Chinaman,
with the incarnate essence of Eastern subtlety, with the most
stupendous genius that the modern Orient has produced."

"I don't believe in disguises," said Weymouth, with a certain
truculence.  "It's mostly played out, that game, and generally leads to
failure.  Still, if you're determined, sir, there's an end of it.
Foster will make your face up.  What disguise do you propose to adopt?"

"A sort of Dago seaman, I think; something like poor Cadby.  I can rely
on my knowledge of the brutes, if I am sure of my disguise."

"You are forgetting me, Smith," I said.

He turned to me quickly.

"Petrie," he replied, "it is MY business, unfortunately, but it is no
sort of hobby."

"You mean that you can no longer rely upon me?" I said angrily.

Smith grasped my hand, and met my rather frigid stare with a look of
real concern on his gaunt, bronzed face.

"My dear old chap," he answered, "that was really unkind.  You know
that I meant something totally different."

"It's all right, Smith;" I said, immediately ashamed of my choler, and
wrung his hand heartily.  "I can pretend to smoke opium as well as
another.  I shall be going, too, Inspector."

As a result of this little passage of words, some twenty minutes later
two dangerous-looking seafaring ruffians entered a waiting cab,
accompanied by Inspector Weymouth, and were driven off into the
wilderness of London's night.  In this theatrical business there was,
to my mind, something ridiculous--almost childish--and I could have
laughed heartily had it not been that grim tragedy lurked so near to
farce.

The mere recollection that somewhere at our journey's end Fu-Manchu
awaited us was sufficient to sober my reflections--Fu-Manchu, who, with
all the powers represented by Nayland Smith pitted against him, pursued
his dark schemes triumphantly, and lurked in hiding within this very
area which was so sedulously patrolled--Fu-Manchu, whom I had never
seen, but whose name stood for horrors indefinable!  Perhaps I was
destined to meet the terrible Chinese doctor to-night.

I ceased to pursue a train of thought which promised to lead to morbid
depths, and directed my attention to what Smith was saying.

"We will drop down from Wapping and reconnoiter, as you say the place
is close to the riverside.  Then you can put us ashore somewhere below.
Ryman can keep the launch close to the back of the premises, and your
fellows will be hanging about near the front, near enough to hear the
whistle."

"Yes," assented Weymouth; "I've arranged for that.  If you are
suspected, you shall give the alarm?"

"I don't know," said Smith thoughtfully.  "Even in that event I might
wait awhile."

"Don't wait too long," advised the Inspector.  "We shouldn't be much
wiser if your next appearance was on the end of a grapnel, somewhere
down Greenwich Reach, with half your fingers missing."

The cab pulled up outside the river police depot, and Smith and I
entered without delay, four shabby-looking fellows who had been seated
in the office springing up to salute the Inspector, who followed us in.

"Guthrie and Lisle," he said briskly, "get along and find a dark corner
which commands the door of Singapore Charlie's off the old Highway.
You look the dirtiest of the troupe, Guthrie; you might drop asleep on
the pavement, and Lisle can argue with you about getting home.  Don't
move till you hear the whistle inside or have my orders, and note
everybody that goes in and comes out.  You other two belong to this
division?"

The C.I.D. men having departed, the remaining pair saluted again.

"Well, you're on special duty to-night. You've been prompt, but don't
stick your chests out so much.  Do you know of a back way to
Shen-Yan's?"

The men looked at one another, and both shook their heads.

"There's an empty shop nearly opposite, sir," replied one of them.  "I
know a broken window at the back where we could climb in.  Then we
could get through to the front and watch from there."

"Good!" cried the Inspector.  "See you are not spotted, though; and if
you hear the whistle, don't mind doing a bit of damage, but be inside
Shen-Yan's like lightning.  Otherwise, wait for orders."

Inspector Ryman came in, glancing at the clock.

"Launch is waiting," he said.

"Right," replied Smith thoughtfully.  "I am half afraid, though, that
the recent alarms may have scared our quarry--your man, Mason, and then
Cadby.  Against which we have that, so far as he is likely to know,
there has been no clew pointing to this opium den.  Remember, he thinks
Cadby's notes are destroyed."

"The whole business is an utter mystery to me," confessed Ryman.  "I'm
told that there's some dangerous Chinese devil hiding somewhere in
London, and that you expect to find him at Shen-Yan's. Supposing he
uses that place, which is possible, how do you know he's there
to-night?"

"I don't," said Smith; "but it is the first clew we have had pointing
to one of his haunts, and time means precious lives where Dr. Fu-Manchu
is concerned."

"Who is he, sir, exactly, this Dr. Fu-Manchu?"

"I have only the vaguest idea, Inspector; but he is no ordinary
criminal.  He is the greatest genius which the powers of evil have put
on earth for centuries.  He has the backing of a political group whose
wealth is enormous, and his mission in Europe is to PAVE THE WAY!  Do
you follow me?  He is the advance-agent of a movement so epoch-making
that not one Britisher, and not one American, in fifty thousand has
ever dreamed of it."

Ryman stared, but made no reply, and we went out, passing down to the
breakwater and boarding the waiting launch.  With her crew of three,
the party numbered seven that swung out into the Pool, and, clearing
the pier, drew in again and hugged the murky shore.

The night had been clear enough hitherto, but now came scudding
rainbanks to curtain the crescent moon, and anon to unveil her again
and show the muddy swirls about us.  The view was not extensive from
the launch.  Sometimes a deepening of the near shadows would tell of a
moored barge, or lights high above our heads mark the deck of a large
vessel.  In the floods of moonlight gaunt shapes towered above; in the
ensuing darkness only the oily glitter of the tide occupied the
foreground of the night-piece.

The Surrey shore was a broken wall of blackness, patched with lights
about which moved hazy suggestions of human activity.  The bank we were
following offered a prospect even more gloomy--a dense, dark mass, amid
which, sometimes, mysterious half-tones told of a dock gate, or sudden
high lights leapt flaring to the eye.

Then, out of the mystery ahead, a green light grew and crept down upon
us.  A giant shape loomed up, and frowned crushingly upon the little
craft.  A blaze of light, the jangle of a bell, and it was past.  We
were dancing in the wash of one of the Scotch steamers, and the murk
had fallen again.

Discords of remote activity rose above the more intimate throbbing of
our screw, and we seemed a pigmy company floating past the workshops of
Brobdingnagian toilers.  The chill of the near water communicated
itself to me, and I felt the protection of my shabby garments
inadequate against it.

Far over on the Surrey shore a blue light--vaporous,
mysterious--flicked translucent tongues against the night's curtain.
It was a weird, elusive flame, leaping, wavering, magically changing
from blue to a yellowed violet, rising, falling.

"Only a gasworks," came Smith's voice, and I knew that he, too, had
been watching those elfin fires.  "But it always reminds me of a
Mexican teocalli, and the altar of sacrifice."

The simile was apt, but gruesome.  I thought of Dr. Fu-Manchu and the
severed fingers, and could not repress a shudder.

"On your left, past the wooden pier!  Not where the lamp is--beyond
that; next to the dark, square building--Shen-Yan's."

It was Inspector Ryman speaking.

"Drop us somewhere handy, then," replied Smith, "and lie close in, with
your ears wide open.  We may have to run for it, so don't go far away."

From the tone of his voice I knew that the night mystery of the Thames
had claimed at least one other victim.

"Dead slow," came Ryman's order.  "We'll put in to the Stone Stairs."



CHAPTER VI


A SEEMINGLY drunken voice was droning from a neighboring alleyway as
Smith lurched in hulking fashion to the door of a little shop above
which, crudely painted, were the words:


"SHEN-YAN, Barber."


I shuffled along behind him, and had time to note the box of studs,
German shaving tackle and rolls of twist which lay untidily in the
window ere Smith kicked the door open, clattered down three wooden
steps, and pulled himself up with a jerk, seizing my arm for support.

We stood in a bare and very dirty room, which could only claim kinship
with a civilized shaving-saloon by virtue of the grimy towel thrown
across the back of the solitary chair.  A Yiddish theatrical bill of
some kind, illustrated, adorned one of the walls, and another bill, in
what may have been Chinese, completed the decorations.  From behind a
curtain heavily brocaded with filth a little Chinaman appeared, dressed
in a loose smock, black trousers and thick-soled slippers, and,
advancing, shook his head vigorously.

"No shavee--no shavee," he chattered, simian fashion, squinting from
one to the other of us with his twinkling eyes.  "Too late!  Shuttee
shop!"

"Don't you come none of it wi' me!" roared Smith, in a voice of amazing
gruffness, and shook an artificially dirtied fist under the Chinaman's
nose.  "Get inside and gimme an' my mate a couple o' pipes.  Smokee
pipe, you yellow scum--savvy?"

My friend bent forward and glared into the other's eyes with a
vindictiveness that amazed me, unfamiliar as I was with this form of
gentle persuasion.

"Kop 'old o' that," he said, and thrust a coin into the Chinaman's
yellow paw.  "Keep me waitin' an' I'll pull the dam' shop down,
Charlie.  You can lay to it."

"No hab got pipee--" began the other.

Smith raised his fist, and Yan capitulated.

"Allee lightee," he said.  "Full up--no loom.  You come see."

He dived behind the dirty curtain, Smith and I following, and ran up a
dark stair.  The next moment I found myself in an atmosphere which was
literally poisonous.  It was all but unbreathable, being loaded with
opium fumes.  Never before had I experienced anything like it.  Every
breath was an effort.  A tin oil-lamp on a box in the middle of the
floor dimly illuminated the horrible place, about the walls of which
ten or twelve bunks were ranged and all of them occupied.  Most of the
occupants were lying motionless, but one or two were squatting in their
bunks noisily sucking at the little metal pipes.  These had not yet
attained to the opium-smoker's Nirvana.

"No loom--samee tella you," said Shen-Yan, complacently testing Smith's
shilling with his yellow, decayed teeth.

Smith walked to a corner and dropped cross-legged, on the floor,
pulling me down with him.

"Two pipe quick," he said.  "Plenty room.  Two piecee pipe--or plenty
heap trouble."

A dreary voice from one of the bunks came:

"Give 'im a pipe, Charlie, curse yer!  an' stop 'is palaver."

Yan performed a curious little shrug, rather of the back than of the
shoulders, and shuffled to the box which bore the smoky lamp.  Holding
a needle in the flame, he dipped it, when red-hot, into an old cocoa
tin, and withdrew it with a bead of opium adhering to the end.  Slowly
roasting this over the lamp, he dropped it into the bowl of the metal
pipe which he held ready, where it burned with a spirituous blue flame.

"Pass it over," said Smith huskily, and rose on his knees with the
assumed eagerness of a slave to the drug.

Yan handed him the pipe, which he promptly put to his lips, and
prepared another for me.

"Whatever you do, don't inhale any," came Smith's whispered injunction.

It was with a sense of nausea greater even than that occasioned by the
disgusting atmosphere of the den that I took the pipe and pretended to
smoke.  Taking my cue from my friend, I allowed my head gradually to
sink lower and lower, until, within a few minutes, I sprawled sideways
on the floor, Smith lying close beside me.

"The ship's sinkin'," droned a voice from one of the bunks.  "Look at
the rats."

Yan had noiselessly withdrawn, and I experienced a curious sense of
isolation from my fellows--from the whole of the Western world.  My
throat was parched with the fumes, my head ached.  The vicious
atmosphere seemed contaminating.  I was as one dropped--

Somewhere East of Suez, where the best is like the worst, And there
ain't no Ten Commandments and a man can raise a thirst.

Smith began to whisper softly.

"We have carried it through successfully so far," he said.  "I don't
know if you have observed it, but there is a stair just behind you,
half concealed by a ragged curtain.  We are near that, and well in the
dark.  I have seen nothing suspicious so far--or nothing much.  But if
there was anything going forward it would no doubt be delayed until we
new arrivals were well doped.  S-SH!"

He pressed my arm to emphasize the warning.  Through my half-closed
eyes I perceived a shadowy form near the curtain to which he had
referred.  I lay like a log, but my muscles were tensed nervously.

The shadow materialized as the figure moved forward into the room with
a curiously lithe movement.

The smoky lamp in the middle of the place afforded scant illumination,
serving only to indicate sprawling shapes--here an extended hand, brown
or yellow, there a sketchy, corpse-like face; whilst from all about
rose obscene sighings and murmurings in far-away voices--an uncanny,
animal chorus.  It was like a glimpse of the Inferno seen by some
Chinese Dante.  But so close to us stood the newcomer that I was able
to make out a ghastly parchment face, with small, oblique eyes, and a
misshapen head crowned with a coiled pigtail, surmounting a slight,
hunched body.  There was something unnatural, inhuman, about that
masklike face, and something repulsive in the bent shape and the long,
yellow hands clasped one upon the other.

Fu-Manchu, from Smith's account, in no way resembled this crouching
apparition with the death's-head countenance and lithe movements; but
an instinct of some kind told me that we were on the right scent--that
this was one of the doctor's servants.  How I came to that conclusion,
I cannot explain; but with no doubt in my mind that this was a member
of the formidable murder group, I saw the yellow man creep nearer,
nearer, silently, bent and peering.

He was watching us.

Of another circumstance I became aware, and a disquieting circumstance.
There were fewer murmurings and sighings from the surrounding bunks.
The presence of the crouching figure had created a sudden semi-silence
in the den, which could only mean that some of the supposed
opium-smokers had merely feigned coma and the approach of coma.

Nayland Smith lay like a dead man, and trusting to the darkness, I,
too, lay prone and still, but watched the evil face bending lower and
lower, until it came within a few inches of my own.  I completely
closed my eyes.

Delicate fingers touched my right eyelid.  Divining what was coming, I
rolled my eyes up, as the lid was adroitly lifted and lowered again.
The man moved away.

I had saved the situation!  And noting anew the hush about me--a hush
in which I fancied many pairs of ears listened--I was glad.  For just a
moment I realized fully how, with the place watched back and front, we
yet were cut off, were in the hands of Far Easterns, to some extent in
the power of members of that most inscrutably mysterious race, the
Chinese.

"Good," whispered Smith at my side.  "I don't think I could have done
it.  He took me on trust after that.  My God!  what an awful face.
Petrie, it's the hunchback of Cadby's notes.  Ah, I thought so.  Do you
see that?"

I turned my eyes round as far as was possible.  A man had scrambled
down from one of the bunks and was following the bent figure across the
room.

They passed around us quietly, the little yellow man leading, with his
curious, lithe gait, and the other, an impassive Chinaman, following.
The curtain was raised, and I heard footsteps receding on the stairs.

"Don't stir," whispered Smith.

An intense excitement was clearly upon him, and he communicated it to
me.  Who was the occupant of the room above?

Footsteps on the stair, and the Chinaman reappeared, recrossed the
floor, and went out.  The little, bent man went over to another bunk,
this time leading up the stair one who looked like a lascar.

"Did you see his right hand?" whispered Smith.  "A dacoit!  They come
here to report and to take orders.  Petrie, Dr. Fu-Manchu is up there."

"What shall we do?"--softly.

"Wait.  Then we must try to rush the stairs.  It would be futile to
bring in the police first.  He is sure to have some other exit.  I will
give the word while the little yellow devil is down here.  You are
nearer and will have to go first, but if the hunchback follows, I can
then deal with him."

Our whispered colloquy was interrupted by the return of the dacoit, who
recrossed the room as the Chinaman had done, and immediately took his
departure.  A third man, whom Smith identified as a Malay, ascended the
mysterious stairs, descended, and went out; and a fourth, whose
nationality it was impossible to determine, followed.  Then, as the
softly moving usher crossed to a bunk on the right of the outer door--

"Up you go, Petrie," cried Smith, for further delay was dangerous and
further dissimulation useless.

I leaped to my feet.  Snatching my revolver from the pocket of the
rough jacket I wore, I bounded to the stair and went blundering up in
complete darkness.  A chorus of brutish cries clamored from behind,
with a muffled scream rising above them all.  But Nayland Smith was
close behind as I raced along a covered gangway, in a purer air, and at
my heels when I crashed open a door at the end and almost fell into the
room beyond.

What I saw were merely a dirty table, with some odds and ends upon it
of which I was too excited to take note, an oil-lamp swung by a brass
chain above, and a man sitting behind the table.  But from the moment
that my gaze rested upon the one who sat there, I think if the place
had been an Aladdin's palace I should have had no eyes for any of its
wonders.

He wore a plain yellow robe, of a hue almost identical with that of his
smooth, hairless countenance.  His hands were large, long and bony, and
he held them knuckles upward, and rested his pointed chin upon their
thinness.  He had a great, high brow, crowned with sparse,
neutral-colored hair.

Of his face, as it looked out at me over the dirty table, I despair of
writing convincingly.  It was that of an archangel of evil, and it was
wholly dominated by the most uncanny eyes that ever reflected a human
soul, for they were narrow and long, very slightly oblique, and of a
brilliant green.  But their unique horror lay in a certain filminess
(it made me think of the membrana nictitans in a bird) which, obscuring
them as I threw wide the door, seemed to lift as I actually passed the
threshold, revealing the eyes in all their brilliant iridescence.

I know that I stopped dead, one foot within the room, for the malignant
force of the man was something surpassing my experience.  He was
surprised by this sudden intrusion--yes, but no trace of fear showed
upon that wonderful face, only a sort of pitying contempt.  And, as I
paused, he rose slowly to his feet, never removing his gaze from mine.

"IT'S FU-MANCHU!" cried Smith over my shoulder, in a voice that was
almost a scream.  "IT'S FU-MANCHU!  Cover him!  Shoot him dead if--"

The conclusion of that sentence I never heard.

Dr. Fu-Manchu reached down beside the table, and the floor slipped from
under me.

One last glimpse I had of the fixed green eyes, and with a scream I was
unable to repress I dropped, dropped, dropped, and plunged into icy
water, which closed over my head.

Vaguely I had seen a spurt of flame, had heard another cry following my
own, a booming sound (the trap), the flat note of a police whistle.
But when I rose to the surface impenetrable darkness enveloped me; I
was spitting filthy, oily liquid from my mouth, and fighting down the
black terror that had me by the throat--terror of the darkness about
me, of the unknown depths beneath me, of the pit into which I was cast
amid stifling stenches and the lapping of tidal water.

"Smith!" I cried. . . . "Help!  Help!"

My voice seemed to beat back upon me, yet I was about to cry out again,
when, mustering all my presence of mind and all my failing courage, I
recognized that I had better employment of my energies, and began to
swim straight ahead, desperately determined to face all the horrors of
this place--to die hard if die I must.

A drop of liquid fire fell through the darkness and hissed into the
water beside me!

I felt that, despite my resolution, I was going mad.

Another fiery drop--and another!

I touched a rotting wooden post and slimy timbers.  I had reached one
bound of my watery prison.  More fire fell from above, and the scream
of hysteria quivered, unuttered, in my throat.

Keeping myself afloat with increasing difficulty in my heavy garments,
I threw my head back and raised my eyes.

No more drops fell, and no more drops would fall; but it was merely a
question of time for the floor to collapse.  For it was beginning to
emit a dull, red glow.

The room above me was in flames!

It was drops of burning oil from the lamp, finding passage through the
cracks in the crazy flooring, which had fallen about me--for the death
trap had reclosed, I suppose, mechanically.

My saturated garments were dragging me down, and now I could hear the
flames hungrily eating into the ancient rottenness overhead.  Shortly
that cauldron would be loosed upon my head.  The glow of the flames
grew brighter . . . and showed me the half-rotten piles upholding the
building, showed me the tidal mark upon the slime-coated walls--showed
me that there was no escape!

By some subterranean duct the foul place was fed from the Thames.  By
that duct, with the outgoing tide, my body would pass, in the wake of
Mason, Cadby, and many another victim!

Rusty iron rungs were affixed to one of the walls communicating with a
trap--but the bottom three were missing!

Brighter and brighter grew the awesome light the light of what should
be my funeral pyre--reddening the oily water and adding a new dread to
the whispering, clammy horror of the pit.  But something it showed
me . . . a projecting beam a few feet above the water . . . and directly
below the iron ladder!

"Merciful Heaven!" I breathed.  "Have I the strength?"

A desire for laughter claimed me with sudden, all but irresistible
force.  I knew what it portended and fought it down--grimly, sternly.

My garments weighed upon me like a suit of mail; with my chest aching
dully, my veins throbbing to bursting, I forced tired muscles to work,
and, every stroke an agony, approached the beam.  Nearer I swam
. . . nearer.  Its shadow fell black upon the water, which now had all
the seeming of a pool of blood.  Confused sounds--a remote uproar--came
to my ears.  I was nearly spent . . . I was in the shadow of the beam!  If
I could throw up one arm. . .

A shrill scream sounded far above me!

"Petrie!  Petrie!"  (That voice must be Smith's!)  "Don't touch the
beam!  For God's sake DON'T TOUCH THE BEAM!  Keep afloat another few
seconds and I can get to you!"

Another few seconds!  Was that possible?

I managed to turn, to raise my throbbing head; and I saw the strangest
sight which that night yet had offered.

Nayland Smith stood upon the lowest iron rung . . . supported by the
hideous, crook-backed Chinaman, who stood upon the rung above!

"I can't reach him!"

It was as Smith hissed the words despairingly that I looked up--and saw
the Chinaman snatch at his coiled pigtail and pull it off!  With it
came the wig to which it was attached; and the ghastly yellow mask,
deprived of its fastenings, fell from position!  "Here!  Here!  Be
quick!  Oh!  be quick!  You can lower this to him!  Be quick!  Be
quick!"

A cloud of hair came falling about the slim shoulders as the speaker
bent to pass this strange lifeline to Smith; and I think it was my
wonder at knowing her for the girl whom that day I had surprised in
Cadby's rooms which saved my life.

For I not only kept afloat, but kept my gaze upturned to that
beautiful, flushed face, and my eyes fixed upon hers--which were wild
with fear . . . for me!

Smith, by some contortion, got the false queue into my grasp, and I,
with the strength of desperation, by that means seized hold upon the
lowest rung.  With my friend's arm round me I realized that exhaustion
was even nearer than I had supposed.  My last distinct memory is of the
bursting of the floor above and the big burning joist hissing into the
pool beneath us.  Its fiery passage, striated with light, disclosed two
sword blades, riveted, edges up along the top of the beam which I had
striven to reach.

"The severed fingers--" I said; and swooned.

How Smith got me through the trap I do not know--nor how we made our
way through the smoke and flames of the narrow passage it opened upon.
My next recollection is of sitting up, with my friend's arm supporting
me and Inspector Ryman holding a glass to my lips.

A bright glare dazzled my eyes.  A crowd surged about us, and a clangor
and shouting drew momentarily nearer.

"It's the engines coming," explained Smith, seeing my bewilderment.
"Shen-Yan's is in flames.  It was your shot, as you fell through the
trap, broke the oil-lamp."

"Is everybody out?"

"So far as we know."

"Fu-Manchu?"

Smith shrugged his shoulders.

"No one has seen him.  There was some door at the back--"

"Do you think he may--"

"No," he said tensely.  "Not until I see him lying dead before me shall
I believe it."

Then memory resumed its sway.  I struggled to my feet.

"Smith, where is she?" I cried.  "Where is she?"

"I don't know," he answered.

"She's given us the slip, Doctor," said Inspector Weymouth, as a
fire-engine came swinging round the corner of the narrow lane.  "So has
Mr. Singapore Charlie--and, I'm afraid, somebody else.  We've got six
or eight all-sorts, some awake and some asleep, but I suppose we shall
have to let 'em go again.  Mr. Smith tells me that the girl was
disguised as a Chinaman.  I expect that's why she managed to slip away."

I recalled how I had been dragged from the pit by the false queue, how
the strange discovery which had brought death to poor Cadby had brought
life to me, and I seemed to remember, too, that Smith had dropped it as
he threw his arm about me on the ladder.  Her mask the girl might have
retained, but her wig, I felt certain, had been dropped into the water.

It was later that night, when the brigade still were playing upon the
blackened shell of what had been Shen-Yan's opium-shop, and Smith and I
were speeding away in a cab from the scene of God knows how many
crimes, that I had an idea.

"Smith," I said, "did you bring the pigtail with you that was found on
Cadby?"

"Yes.  I had hoped to meet the owner."

"Have you got it now?"

"No. I met the owner."

I thrust my hands deep into the pockets of the big pea-jacket lent to
me by Inspector Ryman, leaning back in my corner.

"We shall never really excel at this business," continued Nayland
Smith.  "We are far too sentimental.  I knew what it meant to us,
Petrie, what it meant to the world, but I hadn't the heart.  I owed her
your life--I had to square the account."



CHAPTER VII


NIGHT fell on Redmoat.  I glanced from the window at the nocturne in
silver and green which lay beneath me.  To the west of the shrubbery,
with its broken canopy of elms and beyond the copper beech which marked
the center of its mazes, a gap offered a glimpse of the Waverney where
it swept into a broad.  Faint bird-calls floated over the water.
These, with the whisper of leaves, alone claimed the ear.

Ideal rural peace, and the music of an English summer evening; but to
my eyes, every shadow holding fantastic terrors; to my ears, every
sound a signal of dread.  For the deathful hand of Fu-Manchu was
stretched over Redmoat, at any hour to loose strange, Oriental horrors
upon its inmates.

"Well," said Nayland Smith, joining me at the window, "we had dared to
hope him dead, but we know now that he lives!"

The Rev. J. D. Eltham coughed nervously, and I turned, leaning my elbow
upon the table, and studied the play of expression upon the refined,
sensitive face of the clergyman.

"You think I acted rightly in sending for you, Mr. Smith?"

Nayland Smith smoked furiously.

"Mr. Eltham," he replied, "you see in me a man groping in the dark.  I
am to-day no nearer to the conclusion of my mission than upon the day
when I left Mandalay.  You offer me a clew; I am here.  Your affair, I
believe, stands thus: A series of attempted burglaries, or something of
the kind, has alarmed your household.  Yesterday, returning from London
with your daughter, you were both drugged in some way and, occupying a
compartment to yourselves, you both slept.  Your daughter awoke, and
saw someone else in the carriage--a yellow-faced man who held a case of
instruments in his hands."

"Yes; I was, of course, unable to enter into particulars over the
telephone.  The man was standing by one of the windows.  Directly he
observed that my daughter was awake, he stepped towards her."

"What did he do with the case in his hands?"

"She did not notice--or did not mention having noticed.  In fact, as
was natural, she was so frightened that she recalls nothing more,
beyond the fact that she strove to arouse me, without succeeding, felt
hands grasp her shoulders--and swooned."

"But someone used the emergency cord, and stopped the train."

"Greba has no recollection of having done so."

"Hm!  Of course, no yellow-faced man was on the train.  When did you
awake?"

"I was aroused by the guard, but only when he had repeatedly shaken me."

"Upon reaching Great Yarmouth you immediately called up Scotland Yard?
You acted very wisely, sir.  How long were you in China?"

Mr. Eltham's start of surprise was almost comical.

"It is perhaps not strange that you should be aware of my residence in
China, Mr. Smith," he said; "but my not having mentioned it may seem
so.  The fact is"--his sensitive face flushed in palpable
embarrassment--"I left China under what I may term an episcopal cloud.
I have lived in retirement ever since.  Unwittingly--I solemnly declare
to you, Mr. Smith, unwittingly--I stirred up certain deep-seated
prejudices in my endeavors to do my duty--my duty.  I think you asked
me how long I was in China?  I was there from 1896 until 1900--four
years."

"I recall the circumstances, Mr. Eltham," said Smith, with an odd note
in his voice.  "I have been endeavoring to think where I had come
across the name, and a moment ago I remembered.  I am happy to have met
you, sir."

The clergyman blushed again like a girl, and slightly inclined his
head, with its scanty fair hair.

"Has Redmoat, as its name implies, a moat round it?  I was unable to
see in the dusk."

"It remains.  Redmoat--a corruption of Round Moat--was formerly a
priory, disestablished by the eighth Henry in 1536." His pedantic
manner was quaint at times. "But the moat is no longer flooded. In
fact, we grow cabbages in part of it. If you refer to the strategic
strength of the place"--he smiled, but his manner was embarrassed
again--"it is considerable. I have barbed wire fencing, and--other
arrangements. You see, it is a lonely spot," he added apologetically.
"And now, if you will excuse me, we will resume these gruesome
inquiries after the more pleasant affairs of dinner."

He left us.

"Who is our host?" I asked, as the door closed.

Smith smiled.

"You are wondering what caused the 'episcopal cloud?'" he suggested.
"Well, the deep-seated prejudices which our reverend friend stirred up
culminated in the Boxer Risings."

"Good heavens, Smith!" I said; for I could not reconcile the diffident
personality of the clergyman with the memories which those words
awakened.

"He evidently should be on our danger list," my friend continued
quickly; "but he has so completely effaced himself of recent years that
I think it probable that someone else has only just recalled his
existence to mind.  The Rev. J. D. Eltham, my dear Petrie, though he
may be a poor hand at saving souls, at any rate, has saved a score of
Christian women from death--and worse."

"J. D. Eltham--" I began.

"Is 'Parson Dan'!" rapped Smith, "the 'Fighting Missionary,' the man
who with a garrison of a dozen cripples and a German doctor held the
hospital at Nan-Yang against two hundred Boxers.  That's who the Rev.
J. D. Eltham is!  But what is he up to, now, I have yet to find out.
He is keeping something back--something which has made him an object of
interest to Young China!"

During dinner the matters responsible for our presence there did not
hold priority in the conversation.  In fact, this, for the most part,
consisted in light talk of books and theaters.

Greba Eltham, the clergyman's daughter, was a charming young hostess,
and she, with Vernon Denby, Mr. Eltham's nephew, completed the party.
No doubt the girl's presence, in part, at any rate, led us to refrain
from the subject uppermost in our minds.

These little pools of calm dotted along the torrential course of the
circumstances which were bearing my friend and me onward to unknown
issues form pleasant, sunny spots in my dark recollections.

So I shall always remember, with pleasure, that dinner-party at
Redmoat, in the old-world dining-room; it was so very peaceful, so
almost grotesquely calm.  For I, within my very bones, felt it to be
the calm before the storm.  When, later, we men passed to the library,
we seemed to leave that atmosphere behind us.

"Redmoat," said the Rev. J. D. Eltham, "has latterly become the theater
of strange doings."

He stood on the hearth-rug. A shaded lamp upon the big table and
candles in ancient sconces upon the mantelpiece afforded dim
illumination.  Mr. Eltham's nephew, Vernon Denby, lolled smoking on the
window-seat, and I sat near to him.  Nayland Smith paced restlessly up
and down the room.

"Some months ago, almost a year," continued the clergyman, "a
burglarious attempt was made upon the house.  There was an arrest, and
the man confessed that he had been tempted by my collection." He waved
his hand vaguely towards the several cabinets about the shadowed room.

"It was shortly afterwards that I allowed my hobby for--playing at
forts to run away with me."  He smiled an apology.  "I virtually
fortified Redmoat--against trespassers of any kind, I mean.  You have
seen that the house stands upon a kind of large mound.  This is
artificial, being the buried ruins of a Roman outwork; a portion of the
ancient castrum." Again he waved indicatively, this time toward the
window.

"When it was a priory it was completely isolated and defended by its
environing moat.  Today it is completely surrounded by barbed-wire
fencing.  Below this fence, on the east, is a narrow stream, a
tributary of the Waverney; on the north and west, the high road, but
nearly twenty feet below, the banks being perpendicular.  On the south
is the remaining part of the moat--now my kitchen garden; but from
there up to the level of the house is nearly twenty feet again, and the
barbed wire must also be counted with.

"The entrance, as you know, is by the way of a kind of cutting.  There
is a gate at the foot of the steps (they are some of the original steps
of the priory, Dr. Petrie), and another gate at the head."

He paused, and smiled around upon us boyishly.

"My secret defenses remain to be mentioned," he resumed; and, opening a
cupboard, he pointed to a row of batteries, with a number of electric
bells upon the wall behind.  "The more vulnerable spots are connected
at night with these bells," he said triumphantly.  "Any attempt to
scale the barbed wire or to force either gate would set two or more of
these ringing.  A stray cow raised one false alarm," he added, "and a
careless rook threw us into a perfect panic on another occasion."

He was so boyish--so nervously brisk and acutely sensitive--that it was
difficult to see in him the hero of the Nan-Yang hospital.  I could
only suppose that he had treated the Boxers' raid in the same spirit
wherein he met would-be trespassers within the precincts of Redmoat.
It had been an escapade, of which he was afterwards ashamed, as,
faintly, he was ashamed of his "fortifications."  "But," rapped Smith,
"it was not the visit of the burglar which prompted these elaborate
precautions."

Mr. Eltham coughed nervously.

"I am aware," he said, "that having invoked official aid, I must be
perfectly frank with you, Mr. Smith.  It was the burglar who was
responsible for my continuing the wire fence all round the grounds, but
the electrical contrivance followed, later, as a result of several
disturbed nights.  My servants grew uneasy about someone who came, they
said, after dusk.  No one could describe this nocturnal visitor, but
certainly we found traces.  I must admit that.

"Then--I received what I may term a warning.  My position is a peculiar
one--a peculiar one.  My daughter, too, saw this prowling person, over
by the Roman castrum, and described him as a yellow man.  It was the
incident in the train following closely upon this other, which led me
to speak to the police, little as I desired to--er--court publicity."

Nayland Smith walked to a window, and looked out across the sloping
lawn to where the shadows of the shrubbery lay.  A dog was howling
dismally somewhere.

"Your defenses are not impregnable, after all, then?" he jerked.  "On
our way up this evening Mr. Denby was telling us about the death of his
collie a few nights ago."

The clergyman's face clouded.

"That, certainly, was alarming," he confessed.

"I had been in London for a few days, and during my absence Vernon came
down, bringing the dog with him.  On the night of his arrival it ran,
barking, into the shrubbery yonder, and did not come out.  He went to
look for it with a lantern, and found it lying among the bushes, quite
dead.  The poor creature had been dreadfully beaten about the head."

"The gates were locked," Denby interrupted, "and no one could have got
out of the grounds without a ladder and someone to assist him.  But
there was no sign of a living thing about.  Edwards and I searched
every corner."

"How long has that other dog taken to howling?" inquired Smith.

"Only since Rex's death," said Denby quickly.

"It is my mastiff," explained the clergyman, "and he is confined in the
yard.  He is never allowed on this side of the house."

Nayland Smith wandered aimlessly about the library.

"I am sorry to have to press you, Mr. Eltham," he said, "but what was
the nature of the warning to which you referred, and from whom did it
come?"

Mr. Eltham hesitated for a long time.

"I have been so unfortunate," he said at last, "in my previous efforts,
that I feel assured of your hostile criticism when I tell you that I am
contemplating an immediate return to Ho-Nan!"

Smith jumped round upon him as though moved by a spring.

"Then you are going back to Nan-Yang?" he cried.  "Now I understand!
Why have you not told me before?  That is the key for which I have
vainly been seeking.  Your troubles date from the time of your decision
to return?"

"Yes, I must admit it," confessed the clergyman diffidently.

"And your warning came from China?"

"It did."

"From a Chinaman?"

"From the Mandarin, Yen-Sun-Yat."

"Yen-Sun-Yat!  My good sir!  He warned you to abandon your visit?  And
you reject his advice?  Listen to me."  Smith was intensely excited
now, his eyes bright, his lean figure curiously strung up, alert.  "The
Mandarin Yen-Sun-Yat is one of the seven!"

"I do not follow you, Mr. Smith."

"No, sir.  China to-day is not the China of '98.  It is a huge secret
machine, and Ho-Nan one of its most important wheels!  But if, as I
understand, this official is a friend of yours, believe me, he has
saved your life!  You would be a dead man now if it were not for your
friend in China!  My dear sir, you must accept his counsel."

Then, for the first time since I had made his acquaintance, "Parson
Dan" showed through the surface of the Rev. J. D. Eltham.

"No, sir!" replied the clergyman--and the change in his voice was
startling.  "I am called to Nan-Yang. Only One may deter my going."

The admixture of deep spiritual reverence with intense truculence in
his voice was dissimilar from anything I ever had heard.

"Then only One can protect you," cried Smith, "for, by Heaven, no MAN
will be able to do so!  Your presence in Ho-Nan can do no possible good
at present.  It must do harm.  Your experience in 1900 should be fresh
in your memory."

"Hard words, Mr. Smith."

"The class of missionary work which you favor, sir, is injurious to
international peace.  At the present moment, Ho-Nan is a barrel of
gunpowder; you would be the lighted match.  I do not willingly stand
between any man and what he chooses to consider his duty, but I insist
that you abandon your visit to the interior of China!"

"You insist, Mr. Smith?"

"As your guest, I regret the necessity for reminding you that I hold
authority to enforce it."

Denby fidgeted uneasily.  The tone of the conversation was growing
harsh and the atmosphere of the library portentous with brewing storms.

There was a short, silent interval.

"This is what I had feared and expected," said the clergyman.  "This
was my reason for not seeking official protection."

"The phantom Yellow Peril," said Nayland Smith, "to-day materializes
under the very eyes of the Western world."

"The 'Yellow Peril'!"

"You scoff, sir, and so do others.  We take the proffered right hand of
friendship nor inquire if the hidden left holds a knife!  The peace of
the world is at stake, Mr. Eltham.  Unknowingly, you tamper with
tremendous issues."

Mr. Eltham drew a deep breath, thrusting both hands in his pockets.

"You are painfully frank, Mr. Smith," he said; "but I like you for it.
I will reconsider my position and talk this matter over again with you
to-morrow."

Thus, then, the storm blew over.  Yet I had never experienced such an
overwhelming sense of imminent peril--of a sinister presence--as
oppressed me at that moment.  The very atmosphere of Redmoat was
impregnated with Eastern devilry; it loaded the air like some evil
perfume.  And then, through the silence, cut a throbbing scream--the
scream of a woman in direst fear.

"My God, it's Greba!" whispered Mr. Eltham.



CHAPTER VIII


IN what order we dashed down to the drawing-room I cannot recall.  But
none was before me when I leaped over the threshold and saw Miss Eltham
prone by the French windows.

These were closed and bolted, and she lay with hands outstretched in
the alcove which they formed.  I bent over her.  Nayland Smith was at
my elbow.

"Get my bag" I said.  "She has swooned.  It is nothing serious."

Her father, pale and wide-eyed, hovered about me, muttering
incoherently; but I managed to reassure him; and his gratitude when, I
having administered a simple restorative, the girl sighed shudderingly
and opened her eyes, was quite pathetic.

I would permit no questioning at that time, and on her father's arm she
retired to her own rooms.

It was some fifteen minutes later that her message was brought to me.
I followed the maid to a quaint little octagonal apartment, and Greba
Eltham stood before me, the candlelight caressing the soft curves of
her face and gleaming in the meshes of her rich brown hair.

When she had answered my first question she hesitated in pretty
confusion.

"We are anxious to know what alarmed you, Miss Eltham."

She bit her lip and glanced with apprehension towards the window.

"I am almost afraid to tell father," she began rapidly.  "He will think
me imaginative, but you have been so kind.  It was two green eyes!  Oh!
Dr. Petrie, they looked up at me from the steps leading to the lawn.
And they shone like the eyes of a cat."

The words thrilled me strangely.

"Are you sure it was not a cat, Miss Eltham?"

"The eyes were too large, Dr. Petrie.  There was something dreadful,
most dreadful, in their appearance.  I feel foolish and silly for
having fainted, twice in two days!  But the suspense is telling upon
me, I suppose.  Father thinks"--she was becoming charmingly
confidential, as a woman often will with a tactful physician--"that
shut up here we are safe from--whatever threatens us." I noted, with
concern, a repetition of the nervous shudder.  "But since our return
someone else has been in Redmoat!"

"Whatever do you mean, Miss Eltham?"

"Oh!  I don't quite know what I do mean, Dr. Petrie.  What does it ALL
mean?  Vernon has been explaining to me that some awful Chinaman is
seeking the life of Mr. Nayland Smith.  But if the same man wants to
kill my father, why has he not done so?"

"I am afraid you puzzle me."

"Of course, I must do so.  But--the man in the train.  He could have
killed us both quite easily!  And--last night someone was in father's
room."

"In his room!"

"I could not sleep, and I heard something moving.  My room is the next
one.  I knocked on the wall and woke father.  There was nothing; so I
said it was the howling of the dog that had frightened me."

"How could anyone get into his room?"

"I cannot imagine.  But I am not sure it was a man."

"Miss Eltham, you alarm me.  What do you suspect?"

"You must think me hysterical and silly, but whilst father and I have
been away from Redmoat perhaps the usual precautions have been
neglected.  Is there any creature, any large creature, which could
climb up the wall to the window?  Do you know of anything with a long,
thin body?"

For a moment I offered no reply, studying the girl's pretty face, her
eager, blue-gray eyes widely opened and fixed upon mine.  She was not
of the neurotic type, with her clear complexion and sun-kissed neck;
her arms, healthily toned by exposure to the country airs, were rounded
and firm, and she had the agile shape of a young Diana with none of the
anaemic languor which breeds morbid dreams.  She was frightened; yes,
who would not have been?  But the mere idea of this thing which she
believed to be in Redmoat, without the apparition of the green eyes,
must have prostrated a victim of "nerves."

"Have you seen such a creature, Miss Eltham?"

She hesitated again, glancing down and pressing her finger-tips
together.

"As father awoke and called out to know why I knocked, I glanced from
my window.  The moonlight threw half the lawn into shadow, and just
disappearing in this shadow was something--something of a brown color,
marked with sections!"

"What size and shape?"

"It moved so quickly I could form no idea of its shape; but I saw quite
six feet of it flash across the grass!"

"Did you hear anything?"

"A swishing sound in the shrubbery, then nothing more."

She met my eyes expectantly.  Her confidence in my powers of
understanding and sympathy was gratifying, though I knew that I but
occupied the position of a father-confessor.

"Have you any idea," I said, "how it came about that you awoke in the
train yesterday whilst your father did not?"

"We had coffee at a refreshment-room; it must have been drugged in some
way.  I scarcely tasted mine, the flavor was so awful; but father is an
old traveler and drank the whole of his cupful!"

Mr. Eltham's voice called from below.

"Dr. Petrie," said the girl quickly, "what do you think they want to do
to him?"

"Ah!" I replied, "I wish I knew that."

"Will you think over what I have told you?  For I do assure you there
is something here in Redmoat--something that comes and goes in spite of
father's 'fortifications'?  Caesar knows there is.  Listen to him.  He
drags at his chain so that I wonder he does not break it."

As we passed downstairs the howling of the mastiff sounded eerily
through the house, as did the clank-clank of the tightening chain as he
threw the weight of his big body upon it.

I sat in Smith's room that night for some time, he pacing the floor
smoking and talking.

"Eltham has influential Chinese friends," he said; "but they dare not
have him in Nan-Yang at present.  He knows the country as he knows
Norfolk; he would see things!

"His precautions here have baffled the enemy, I think.  The attempt in
the train points to an anxiety to waste no opportunity.  But whilst
Eltham was absent (he was getting his outfit in London, by the way)
they have been fixing some second string to their fiddle here.  In case
no opportunity offered before he returned, they provided for getting at
him here!"

"But how, Smith?"

"That's the mystery.  But the dead dog in the shrubbery is significant."

"Do you think some emissary of Fu-Manchu is actually inside the moat?"

"It's impossible, Petrie.  You are thinking of secret passages, and so
forth.  There are none.  Eltham has measured up every foot of the
place.  There isn't a rathole left unaccounted for; and as for a tunnel
under the moat, the house stands on a solid mass of Roman masonry, a
former camp of Hadrian's time.  I have seen a very old plan of the
Round Moat Priory as it was called.  There is no entrance and no exit
save by the steps.  So how was the dog killed?"

I knocked out my pipe on a bar of the grate.

"We are in the thick of it here," I said.

"We are always in the thick of it," replied Smith.  "Our danger is no
greater in Norfolk than in London.  But what do they want to do?  That
man in the train with the case of instruments--WHAT instruments?  Then
the apparition of the green eyes to-night. Can they have been the eyes
of Fu-Manchu?  Is some peculiarly unique outrage contemplated--something
calling for the presence of the master?"

"He may have to prevent Eltham's leaving England without killing him."

"Quite so.  He probably has instructions to be merciful.  But God help
the victim of Chinese mercy!"

I went to my own room then.  But I did not even undress, refilling my
pipe and seating myself at the open window.  Having looked upon the
awful Chinese doctor, the memory of his face, with its filmed green
eyes, could never leave me.  The idea that he might be near at that
moment was a poor narcotic.

The howling and baying of the mastiff was almost continuous.

When all else in Redmoat was still the dog's mournful note yet rose on
the night with something menacing in it.  I sat looking out across the
sloping turf to where the shrubbery showed as a black island in a green
sea.  The moon swam in a cloudless sky, and the air was warm and
fragrant with country scents.

It was in the shrubbery that Denby's collie had met his mysterious
death--that the thing seen by Miss Eltham had disappeared.  What
uncanny secret did it hold?

Caesar became silent.

As the stopping of a clock will sometimes awaken a sleeper, the abrupt
cessation of that distant howling, to which I had grown accustomed, now
recalled me from a world of gloomy imaginings.

I glanced at my watch in the moonlight.  It was twelve minutes past
midnight.

As I replaced it the dog suddenly burst out afresh, but now in a tone
of sheer anger.  He was alternately howling and snarling in a way that
sounded new to me.  The crashes, as he leapt to the end of his chain,
shook the building in which he was confined.  It was as I stood up to
lean from the window and commanded a view of the corner of the house
that he broke loose.

With a hoarse bay he took that decisive leap, and I heard his heavy
body fall against the wooden wall.  There followed a strange, guttural
cry . . . and the growling of the dog died away at the rear of the house.
He was out!  But that guttural note had not come from the throat of a
dog.  Of what was he in pursuit?

At which point his mysterious quarry entered the shrubbery I do not
know.  I only know that I saw absolutely nothing, until Caesar's lithe
shape was streaked across the lawn, and the great creature went
crashing into the undergrowth.

Then a faint sound above and to my right told me that I was not the
only spectator of the scene.  I leaned farther from the window.

"Is that you, Miss Eltham?" I asked.

"Oh, Dr. Petrie!" she said.  "I am so glad you are awake.  Can we do
nothing to help?  Caesar will be killed."

"Did you see what he went after?"

"No," she called back, and drew her breath sharply.

For a strange figure went racing across the grass.  It was that of a
man in a blue dressing-gown, who held a lantern high before him, and a
revolver in his right hand.  Coincident with my recognition of Mr.
Eltham he leaped, plunging into the shrubbery in the wake of the dog.

But the night held yet another surprise; for Nayland Smith's voice came:

"Come back!  Come back, Eltham!"

I ran out into the passage and downstairs.  The front door was open.  A
terrible conflict waged in the shrubbery, between the mastiff and
something else.  Passing round to the lawn, I met Smith fully dressed.
He just had dropped from a first-floor window.

"The man is mad!" he snapped.  "Heaven knows what lurks there!  He
should not have gone alone!"

Together we ran towards the dancing light of Eltham's lantern.  The
sounds of conflict ceased suddenly.  Stumbling over stumps and lashed
by low-sweeping branches, we struggled forward to where the clergyman
knelt amongst the bushes.  He glanced up with tears in his eyes, as was
revealed by the dim light.

"Look!" he cried.

The body of the dog lay at his feet.

It was pitiable to think that the fearless brute should have met his
death in such a fashion, and when I bent and examined him I was glad to
find traces of life.

"Drag him out.  He is not dead," I said.

"And hurry," rapped Smith, peering about him right and left.

So we three hurried from that haunted place, dragging the dog with us.
We were not molested.  No sound disturbed the now perfect stillness.

By the lawn edge we came upon Denby, half dressed; and almost
immediately Edwards the gardener also appeared.  The white faces of the
house servants showed at one window, and Miss Eltham called to me from
her room:

"Is he dead?"

"No," I replied; "only stunned."

We carried the dog round to the yard, and I examined his head.  It had
been struck by some heavy blunt instrument, but the skull was not
broken.  It is hard to kill a mastiff.

"Will you attend to him, Doctor?" asked Eltham.  "We must see that the
villain does not escape."

His face was grim and set.  This was a different man from the diffident
clergyman we knew:  this was "Parson Dan" again.

I accepted the care of the canine patient, and Eltham with the others
went off for more lights to search the shrubbery.  As I was washing a
bad wound between the mastiff's ears, Miss Eltham joined me.  It was
the sound of her voice, I think, rather than my more scientific
ministration, which recalled Caesar to life.  For, as she entered, his
tail wagged feebly, and a moment later he struggled to his feet--one of
which was injured.

Having provided for his immediate needs, I left him in charge of his
young mistress and joined the search party.  They had entered the
shrubbery from four points and drawn blank.

"There is absolutely nothing there, and no one can possibly have left
the grounds," said Eltham amazedly.

We stood on the lawn looking at one another, Nayland Smith, angry but
thoughtful, tugging at the lobe of his left ear, as was his habit in
moments of perplexity.



CHAPTER IX


WITH the first coming of light, Eltham, Smith and I tested the
electrical contrivances from every point.  They were in perfect order.
It became more and more incomprehensible how anyone could have entered
and quitted Redmoat during the night.  The barbed-wire fencing was
intact, and bore no signs of having been tampered with.

Smith and I undertook an exhaustive examination of the shrubbery.

At the spot where we had found the dog, some five paces to the west of
the copper beech, the grass and weeds were trampled and the surrounding
laurels and rhododendrons bore evidence of a struggle, but no human
footprint could be found.

"The ground is dry," said Smith.  "We cannot expect much."

"In my opinion," I said, "someone tried to get at Caesar; his presence
is dangerous.  And in his rage he broke loose."

"I think so, too," agreed Smith.  "But why did this person make for
here?  And how, having mastered the dog, get out of Redmoat?  I am open
to admit the possibility of someone's getting in during the day whilst
the gates are open, and hiding until dusk.  But how in the name of all
that's wonderful does he GET OUT?  He must possess the attributes of a
bird."

I thought of Greba Eltham's statements, reminding my friend of her
description of the thing which she had seen passing into this strangely
haunted shrubbery.

"That line of speculation soon takes us out of our depth, Petrie," he
said.  "Let us stick to what we can understand, and that may help us to
a clearer idea of what, at present, is incomprehensible.  My view of
the case to date stands thus:

"(1) Eltham, having rashly decided to return to the interior of China,
is warned by an official whose friendship he has won in some way to
stay in England.

"(2) I know this official for one of the Yellow group represented in
England by Dr. Fu-Manchu.

"(3) Several attempts, of which we know but little, to get at Eltham
are frustrated, presumably by his curious 'defenses.' An attempt in a
train fails owing to Miss Eltham's distaste for refreshment-room
coffee.  An attempt here fails owing to her insomnia.

"(4) During Eltham's absence from Redmoat certain preparations are made
for his return.  These lead to:

"(a) The death of Denby's collie;

"(b) The things heard and seen by Miss Eltham;

"(c) The things heard and seen by us all last night.

"So that the clearing up of my fourth point--id est, the discovery of
the nature of these preparations--becomes our immediate concern.  The
prime object of these preparations, Petrie, was to enable someone to
gain access to Eltham's room.  The other events are incidental.  The
dogs HAD to be got rid of, for instance; and there is no doubt that
Miss Eltham's wakefulness saved her father a second time."

"But from what?  For Heaven's sake, from what?"

Smith glanced about into the light-patched shadows.

"From a visit by someone--perhaps by Fu-Manchu himself," he said in a
hushed voice.  "The object of that visit I hope we may never learn; for
that would mean that it had been achieved."

"Smith," I said, "I do not altogether understand you; but do you think
he has some incredible creature hidden here somewhere?  It would be
like him."

"I begin to suspect the most formidable creature in the known world to
be hidden here.  I believe Fu-Manchu is somewhere inside Redmoat!"

Our conversation was interrupted at this point by Denby, who came to
report that he had examined the moat, the roadside, and the bank of the
stream, but found no footprints or clew of any kind.

"No one left the grounds of Redmoat last night, I think," he said.  And
his voice had awe in it.

That day dragged slowly on.  A party of us scoured the neighborhood for
traces of strangers, examining every foot of the Roman ruin hard by;
but vainly.

"May not your presence here induce Fu-Manchu to abandon his plans?" I
asked Smith.

"I think not," he replied.  "You see, unless we can prevail upon him,
Eltham sails in a fortnight.  So the Doctor has no time to waste.
Furthermore, I have an idea that his arrangements are of such a
character that they MUST go forward.  He might turn aside, of course,
to assassinate me, if opportunity arose!  But we know, from experience,
that he permits nothing to interfere with his schemes."

There are few states, I suppose, which exact so severe a toll from
one's nervous system as the ANTICIPATION of calamity.

All anticipation is keener, be it of joy or pain, than the reality
whereof it is a mental forecast; but that inactive waiting at Redmoat,
for the blow which we knew full well to be pending exceeded in its
nerve taxation, anything I hitherto had experienced.

I felt as one bound upon an Aztec altar, with the priest's obsidian
knife raised above my breast!

Secret and malign forces throbbed about us; forces against which we had
no armor.  Dreadful as it was, I count it a mercy that the climax was
reached so quickly.  And it came suddenly enough; for there in that
quiet Norfolk home we found ourselves at hand grips with one of the
mysterious horrors which characterized the operations of Dr. Fu-Manchu.
It was upon us before we realized it.  There is no incidental music to
the dramas of real life.

As we sat on the little terrace in the creeping twilight, I remember
thinking how the peace of the scene gave the lie to my fears that we
bordered upon tragic things.  Then Caesar, who had been a docile
patient all day, began howling again; and I saw Greba Eltham shudder.

I caught Smith's eye, and was about to propose our retirement indoors,
when the party was broken up in more turbulent fashion.  I suppose it
was the presence of the girl which prompted Denby to the rash act, a
desire personally to distinguish himself.  But, as I recalled
afterwards, his gaze had rarely left the shrubbery since dusk, save to
seek her face, and now he leaped wildly to his feet, overturning his
chair, and dashed across the grass to the trees.

"Did you see it?" he yelled.  "Did you see it?"

He evidently carried a revolver.  For from the edge of the shrubbery a
shot sounded, and in the flash we saw Denby with the weapon raised.

"Greba, go in and fasten the windows," cried Eltham.  "Mr. Smith, will
you enter the bushes from the west.  Dr. Petrie, east.  Edwards,
Edwards--" And he was off across the lawn with the nervous activity of
a cat.

As I made off in an opposite direction I heard the gardener's voice
from the lower gate, and I saw Eltham's plan.  It was to surround the
shrubbery.

Two more shots and two flashes from the dense heart of greenwood.  Then
a loud cry--I thought, from Denby--and a second, muffled one.

Following--silence, only broken by the howling of the mastiff.

I sprinted through the rose garden, leaped heedlessly over a bed of
geranium and heliotrope, and plunged in among the bushes and under the
elms.  Away on the left I heard Edwards shouting, and Eltham's
answering voice.

"Denby!" I cried, and yet louder:  "Denby!"

But the silence fell again.

Dusk was upon Redmoat now, but from sitting in the twilight my eyes had
grown accustomed to gloom, and I could see fairly well what lay before
me.  Not daring to think what might lurk above, below, around me, I
pressed on into the midst of the thicket.

"Vernon!" came Eltham's voice from one side.

"Bear more to the right, Edwards," I heard Nayland Smith cry directly
ahead of me.

With an eerie and indescribable sensation of impending disaster upon
me, I thrust my way through to a gray patch which marked a break in the
elmen roof.  At the foot of the copper beech I almost fell over Eltham.
Then Smith plunged into view.  Lastly, Edwards the gardener rounded a
big rhododendron and completed the party.

We stood quite still for a moment.

A faint breeze whispered through the beech leaves.

"Where is he?"

I cannot remember who put it into words; I was too dazed with amazement
to notice.  Then Eltham began shouting:

"Vernon!  Vernon!  VERNON!"

His voice pitched higher upon each repetition.  There was something
horrible about that vain calling, under the whispering beech, with
shrubs banked about us cloaking God alone could know what.

From the back of the house came Caesar's faint reply.

"Quick!  Lights!" rapped Smith.  "Every lamp you have!"

Off we went, dodging laurels and privets, and poured out on to the
lawn, a disordered company.  Eltham's face was deathly pale, and his
jaw set hard.  He met my eye.

"God forgive me!" he said.  "I could do murder to-night!"

He was a man composed of strange perplexities.

It seemed an age before the lights were found.  But at last we returned
to the bushes, really after a very brief delay; and ten minutes
sufficed us to explore the entire shrubbery, for it was not extensive.
We found his revolver, but there was no one there--nothing.

When we all stood again on the lawn, I thought that I had never seen
Smith so haggard.

"What in Heaven's name can we do?" he muttered.  "What does it mean?"

He expected no answer; for there was none to offer one.

"Search!  Everywhere," said Eltham hoarsely.

He ran off into the rose garden, and began beating about among the
flowers like a madman, muttering:  "Vernon!  Vernon!"  For close upon
an hour we all searched.  We searched every square yard, I think,
within the wire fencing, and found no trace.  Miss Eltham slipped out
in the confusion, and joined with the rest of us in that frantic hunt.
Some of the servants assisted too.

It was a group terrified and awestricken which came together again on
the terrace.  One and then another would give up, until only Eltham and
Smith were missing.  Then they came back together from examining the
steps to the lower gate.

Eltham dropped on to a rustic seat, and sank his head in his hands.

Nayland Smith paced up and down like a newly caged animal, snapping his
teeth together and tugging at his ear.

Possessed by some sudden idea, or pressed to action by his tumultuous
thoughts, he snatched up a lantern and strode silently off across the
grass and to the shrubbery once more.  I followed him.  I think his
idea was that he might surprise anyone who lurked there.  He surprised
himself, and all of us.

For right at the margin he tripped and fell flat.  I ran to him.

He had fallen over the body of Denby, which lay there!

Denby had not been there a few moments before, and how he came to be
there now we dared not conjecture.  Mr. Eltham joined us, uttered one
short, dry sob, and dropped upon his knees.  Then we were carrying
Denby back to the house, with the mastiff howling a marche funebre.

We laid him on the grass where it sloped down from the terrace.
Nayland Smith's haggard face was terrible.  But the stark horror of the
thing inspired him to that, which conceived earlier, had saved Denby.
Twisting suddenly to Eltham, he roared in a voice audible beyond the
river:

"Heavens!  we are fools!  LOOSE THE DOG!"

"But the dog--" I began.

Smith clapped his hand over my mouth.

"I know he's crippled," he whispered.  "But if anything human lurks
there, the dog will lead us to it.  If a MAN is there, he will fly!
Why did we not think of it before.  Fools, fools!"  He raised his voice
again.  "Keep him on leash, Edwards.  He will lead us."

The scheme succeeded.

Edwards barely had started on his errand when bells began ringing
inside the house.

"Wait!" snapped Eltham, and rushed indoors.

A moment later he was out again, his eyes gleaming madly.  "Above the
moat," he panted.  And we were off en masse round the edge of the trees.

It was dark above the moat; but not so dark as to prevent our seeing a
narrow ladder of thin bamboo joints and silken cord hanging by two
hooks from the top of the twelve-foot wire fence.  There was no sound.

"He's out!" screamed Eltham.  "Down the steps!"

We all ran our best and swiftest.  But Eltham outran us.  Like a fury
he tore at bolts and bars, and like a fury sprang out into the road.
Straight and white it showed to the acclivity by the Roman ruin.  But
no living thing moved upon it.  The distant baying of the dog was borne
to our ears.

"Curse it!  he's crippled," hissed Smith.  "Without him, as well pursue
a shadow!"


A few hours later the shrubbery yielded up its secret, a simple one
enough: A big cask sunk in a pit, with a laurel shrub cunningly affixed
to its movable lid, which was further disguised with tufts of grass.  A
slender bamboo-jointed rod lay near the fence.  It had a hook on the
top, and was evidently used for attaching the ladder.

"It was the end of this ladder which Miss Eltham saw," said Smith, "as
he trailed it behind him into the shrubbery when she interrupted him in
her fathers room.  He and whomever he had with him doubtless slipped in
during the daytime--whilst Eltham was absent in London--bringing the
prepared cask and all necessary implements with them.  They concealed
themselves somewhere--probably in the shrubbery--and during the night
made the cache.  The excavated earth would be disposed of on the
flower-beds; the dummy bush they probably had ready.  You see, the
problem of getting IN was never a big one.  But owing to the 'defenses'
it was impossible (whilst Eltham was in residence at any rate) to get
OUT after dark.  For Fu-Manchu's purposes, then, a working-base INSIDE
Redmoat was essential.  His servant--for he needed assistance--must
have been in hiding somewhere outside; Heaven knows where!  During the
day they could come or go by the gates, as we have already noted."

"You think it was the Doctor himself?"

"It seems possible.  Who else has eyes like the eyes Miss Eltham saw
from the window last night?"

Then remains to tell the nature of the outrage whereby Fu-Manchu had
planned to prevent Eltham's leaving England for China.  This we learned
from Denby.  For Denby was not dead.

It was easy to divine that he had stumbled upon the fiendish visitor at
the very entrance to his burrow; had been stunned (judging from the
evidence, with a sand-bag), and dragged down into the cache--to which
he must have lain in such dangerous proximity as to render detection of
the dummy bush possible in removing him.  The quickest expedient, then,
had been to draw him beneath.  When the search of the shrubbery was
concluded, his body had been borne to the edge of the bushes and laid
where we found it.

Why his life had been spared, I cannot conjecture, but provision had
been made against his recovering consciousness and revealing the secret
of the shrubbery.  The ruse of releasing the mastiff alone had
terminated the visit of the unbidden guest within Redmoat.

Denby made a very slow recovery; and, even when convalescent,
consciously added not one fact to those we already had collated; his
memory had completely deserted him!

This, in my opinion, as in those of the several specialists consulted,
was due, not to the blow on the head, but to the presence, slightly
below and to the right of the first cervical curve of the spine, of a
minute puncture--undoubtedly caused by a hypodermic syringe.  Then,
unconsciously, poor Denby furnished the last link in the chain; for
undoubtedly, by means of this operation, Fu-Manchu had designed to
efface from Eltham's mind his plans of return to Ho-Nan.

The nature of the fluid which could produce such mental symptoms was a
mystery--a mystery which defied Western science: one of the many
strange secrets of Dr. Fu-Manchu.



CHAPTER X


SINCE Nayland Smith's return from Burma I had rarely taken up a paper
without coming upon evidences of that seething which had cast up Dr.
Fu-Manchu. Whether, hitherto, such items had escaped my attention or
had seemed to demand no particular notice, or whether they now became
increasingly numerous, I was unable to determine.

One evening, some little time after our sojourn in Norfolk, in glancing
through a number of papers which I had brought in with me, I chanced
upon no fewer than four items of news bearing more or less directly
upon the grim business which engaged my friend and I.

No white man, I honestly believe, appreciates the unemotional cruelty
of the Chinese.  Throughout the time that Dr. Fu-Manchu remained in
England, the press preserved a uniform silence upon the subject of his
existence.  This was due to Nayland Smith.  But, as a result, I feel
assured that my account of the Chinaman's deeds will, in many quarters,
meet with an incredulous reception.

I had been at work, earlier in the evening, upon the opening chapters
of this chronicle, and I had realized how difficult it would be for my
reader, amid secure and cozy surroundings, to credit any human being
with a callous villainy great enough to conceive and to put into
execution such a death pest as that directed against Sir Crichton Davey.

One would expect God's worst man to shrink from employing--against
however vile an enemy--such an instrument as the Zayat Kiss.  So
thinking, my eye was caught by the following:--


EXPRESS CORRESPONDENT

NEW YORK.

"Secret service men of the United States Government are searching the
South Sea Islands for a certain Hawaiian from the island of Maui, who,
it is believed, has been selling poisonous scorpions to Chinese in
Honolulu anxious to get rid of their children.

"Infanticide, by scorpion and otherwise, among the Chinese, has
increased so terribly that the authorities have started a searching
inquiry, which has led to the hunt for the scorpion dealer of Maui.

"Practically all the babies that die mysteriously are unwanted girls,
and in nearly every case the parents promptly ascribe the death to the
bite of a scorpion, and are ready to produce some more or less
poisonous insect in support of the statement.

"The authorities have no doubt that infanticide by scorpion bite is a
growing practice, and orders have been given to hunt down the scorpion
dealer at any cost."


Is it any matter for wonder that such a people had produced a
Fu-Manchu?  I pasted the cutting into a scrap-book, determined that, if
I lived to publish my account of those days, I would quote it therein
as casting a sidelight upon Chinese character.

A Reuter message to The Globe and a paragraph in The Star also
furnished work for my scissors.  Here were evidences of the deep-seated
unrest, the secret turmoil, which manifested itself so far from its
center as peaceful England in the person of the sinister Doctor.


"HONG KONG, Friday.

"Li Hon Hung, the Chinaman who fired at the Governor yesterday, was
charged before the magistrate with shooting at him with intent to kill,
which is equivalent to attempted murder.  The prisoner, who was not
defended, pleaded guilty.  The Assistant Crown Solicitor, who
prosecuted, asked for a remand until Monday, which was granted.

"Snapshots taken by the spectators of the outrage yesterday disclosed
the presence of an accomplice, also armed with a revolver.  It is
reported that this man, who was arrested last night, was in possession
of incriminating documentary evidence."


Later.

"Examination of the documents found on Li Hon Hung's accomplice has
disclosed the fact that both men were well financed by the Canton Triad
Society, the directors of which had enjoined the assassination of Sir
F. M. or Mr. C. S., the Colonial Secretary.  In a report prepared by
the accomplice for dispatch to Canton, also found on his person, he
expressed regret that the attempt had failed."--Reuter.

"It is officially reported in St. Petersburg that a force of Chinese
soldiers and villagers surrounded the house of a Russian subject named
Said Effendi, near Khotan, in Chinese Turkestan.

"They fired at the house and set it in flames.  There were in the house
about 100 Russians, many of whom were killed.

"The Russian Government has instructed its Minister at Peking to make
the most vigorous representations on the subject."--Reuter.


Finally, in a Personal Column, I found the following:--

"HO-NAN. Have abandoned visit.--ELTHAM."


I had just pasted it into my book when Nayland Smith came in and threw
himself into an arm-chair, facing me across the table.  I showed him
the cutting.

"I am glad, for Eltham's sake--and for the girl's," was his comment.
"But it marks another victory for Fu-Manchu!  Just Heaven!  Why is
retribution delayed!"

Smith's darkly tanned face had grown leaner than ever since he had
begun his fight with the most uncanny opponent, I suppose, against whom
a man ever had pitted himself. He stood up and began restlessly to pace
the room, furiously stuffing tobacco into his briar.

"I have seen Sir Lionel Barton," he said abruptly; "and, to put the
whole thing in a nutshell, he has laughed at me!  During the months
that I have been wondering where he had gone to he has been somewhere
in Egypt.  He certainly bears a charmed life, for on the evidence of
his letter to The Times he has seen things in Tibet which Fu-Manchu
would have the West blind to; in fact, I think he has found a new
keyhole to the gate of the Indian Empire!"

Long ago we had placed the name of Sir Lionel Barton upon the list of
those whose lives stood between Fu-Manchu and the attainment of his
end.  Orientalist and explorer, the fearless traveler who first had
penetrated to Lhassa, who thrice, as a pilgrim, had entered forbidden
Mecca, he now had turned his attention again to Tibet--thereby signing
his own death-warrant.

"That he has reached England alive is a hopeful sign?" I suggested.

Smith shook his head, and lighted the blackened briar.

"England at present is the web," he replied.  "The spider will be
waiting.  Petrie, I sometimes despair.  Sir Lionel is an impossible man
to shepherd.  You ought to see his house at Finchley.  A low, squat
place completely hemmed in by trees.  Damp as a swamp; smells like a
jungle.  Everything topsy-turvy. He only arrived to-day, and he is
working and eating (and sleeping I expect), in a study that looks like
an earthquake at Sotheby's auction-rooms. The rest of the house is half
a menagerie and half a circus.  He has a Bedouin groom, a Chinese
body-servant, and Heaven only knows what other strange people!"

"Chinese!"

"Yes, I saw him; a squinting Cantonese he calls Kwee.  I don't like
him.  Also, there is a secretary known as Strozza, who has an
unpleasant face.  He is a fine linguist, I understand, and is engaged
upon the Spanish notes for Barton's forthcoming book on the Mayapan
temples.  By the way, all Sir Lionel's baggage disappeared from the
landing-stage--including his Tibetan notes."

"Significant!"

"Of course.  But he argues that he has crossed Tibet from the Kuen-Lun
to the Himalayas without being assassinated, and therefore that it is
unlikely he will meet with that fate in London.  I left him dictating
the book from memory, at the rate of about two hundred words a minute."

"He is wasting no time."

"Wasting time!  In addition to the Yucatan book and the work on Tibet,
he has to read a paper at the Institute next week about some tomb he
has unearthed in Egypt.  As I came away, a van drove up from the docks
and a couple of fellows delivered a sarcophagus as big as a boat.  It
is unique, according to Sir Lionel, and will go to the British Museum
after he has examined it.  The man crams six months' work into six
weeks; then he is off again."

"What do you propose to do?"

"What CAN I do?  I know that Fu-Manchu will make an attempt upon him.
I cannot doubt it.  Ugh!  that house gave me the shudders.  No
sunlight, I'll swear, Petrie, can ever penetrate to the rooms, and when
I arrived this afternoon clouds of gnats floated like motes wherever a
stray beam filtered through the trees of the avenue.  There's a steamy
smell about the place that is almost malarious, and the whole of the
west front is covered with a sort of monkey-creeper, which he has
imported at some time or other.  It has a close, exotic perfume that is
quite in the picture.  I tell you, the place was made for murder."

"Have you taken any precautions?"

"I called at Scotland Yard and sent a man down to watch the house,
but--"

He shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

"What is Sir Lionel like?"

"A madman, Petrie.  A tall, massive man, wearing a dirty dressing-gown
of neutral color; a man with untidy gray hair and a bristling mustache,
keen blue eyes, and a brown skin; who wears a short beard or rarely
shaves--I don't know which.  I left him striding about among the
thousand and one curiosities of that incredible room, picking his way
through his antique furniture, works of reference, manuscripts,
mummies, spears, pottery and what not--sometimes kicking a book from
his course, or stumbling over a stuffed crocodile or a Mexican
mask--alternately dictating and conversing.  Phew!"

For some time we were silent.

"Smith" I said, "we are making no headway in this business.  With all
the forces arrayed against him, Fu-Manchu still eludes us, still
pursues his devilish, inscrutable way."

Nayland Smith nodded.

"And we don't know all," he said.  "We mark such and such a man as one
alive to the Yellow Peril, and we warn him--if we have time.  Perhaps
he escapes; perhaps he does not.  But what do we know, Petrie, of those
others who may die every week by his murderous agency?  We cannot know
EVERYONE who has read the riddle of China.  I never see a report of
someone found drowned, of an apparent suicide, of a sudden, though
seemingly natural death, without wondering.  I tell you, Fu-Manchu is
omnipresent; his tentacles embrace everything.  I said that Sir Lionel
must bear a charmed life.  The fact that WE are alive is a miracle."

He glanced at his watch.

"Nearly eleven," he said.  "But sleep seems a waste of time--apart from
its dangers."

We heard a bell ring.  A few moments later followed a knock at the room
door.

"Come in!" I cried.

A girl entered with a telegram addressed to Smith.  His jaw looked very
square in the lamplight, and his eyes shone like steel as he took it
from her and opened the envelope.  He glanced at the form, stood up and
passed it to me, reaching for his hat, which lay upon my writing-table.

"God help us, Petrie!" he said.

This was the message:


"Sir Lionel Barton murdered.  Meet me at his house at once.--WEYMOUTH,
INSPECTOR."



CHAPTER XI


ALTHOUGH we avoided all unnecessary delay, it was close upon midnight
when our cab swung round into a darkly shadowed avenue, at the farther
end of which, as seen through a tunnel, the moonlight glittered upon
the windows of Rowan House, Sir Lionel Barton's home.

Stepping out before the porch of the long, squat building, I saw that
it was banked in, as Smith had said, by trees and shrubs.  The facade
showed mantled in the strange exotic creeper which he had mentioned,
and the air was pungent with an odor of decaying vegetation, with which
mingled the heavy perfume of the little nocturnal red flowers which
bloomed luxuriantly upon the creeper.

The place looked a veritable wilderness, and when we were admitted to
the hall by Inspector Weymouth I saw that the interior was in keeping
with the exterior, for the hall was constructed from the model of some
apartment in an Assyrian temple, and the squat columns, the low seats,
the hangings, all were eloquent of neglect, being thickly dust-coated.
The musty smell, too, was almost as pronounced here as outside, beneath
the trees.

To a library, whose contents overflowed in many literary torrents upon
the floor, the detective conducted us.

"Good heavens!" I cried, "what's that?"

Something leaped from the top of the bookcase, ambled silently across
the littered carpet, and passed from the library like a golden streak.
I stood looking after it with startled eyes.  Inspector Weymouth
laughed dryly.

"It's a young puma, or a civet-cat, or something, Doctor," he said.
"This house is full of surprises--and mysteries."

His voice was not quite steady, I thought, and he carefully closed the
door ere proceeding further.

"Where is he?" asked Nayland Smith harshly.  "How was it done?"

Weymouth sat down and lighted a cigar which I offered him.

"I thought you would like to hear what led up to it--so far as we
know--before seeing him?"

Smith nodded.

"Well," continued the Inspector, "the man you arranged to send down
from the Yard got here all right and took up a post in the road
outside, where he could command a good view of the gates.  He saw and
heard nothing, until going on for half-past ten, when a young lady
turned up and went in."

"A young lady?"

"Miss Edmonds, Sir Lionel's shorthand typist.  She had found, after
getting home, that her bag, with her purse in, was missing, and she
came back to see if she had left it here.  She gave the alarm.  My man
heard the row from the road and came in.  Then he ran out and rang us
up.  I immediately wired for you."

"He heard the row, you say.  What row?"

"Miss Edmonds went into violent hysterics!"

Smith was pacing the room now in tense excitement.

"Describe what he saw when he came in."

"He saw a negro footman--there isn't an Englishman in the house--trying
to pacify the girl out in the hall yonder, and a Malay and another
colored man beating their foreheads and howling.  There was no sense to
be got out of any of them, so he started to investigate for himself.
He had taken the bearings of the place earlier in the evening, and from
the light in a window on the ground floor had located the study; so he
set out to look for the door.  When he found it, it was locked from the
inside."

"Well?"

"He went out and round to the window.  There's no blind, and from the
shrubbery you can see into the lumber-room known as the study.  He
looked in, as apparently Miss Edmonds had done before him.  What he saw
accounted for her hysterics."

Both Smith and I were hanging upon his words.

"All amongst the rubbish on the floor a big Egyptian mummy case was
lying on its side, and face downwards, with his arms thrown across it,
lay Sir Lionel Barton."

"My God!  Yes.  Go on."

"There was only a shaded reading-lamp alight, and it stood on a chair,
shining right down on him; it made a patch of light on the floor, you
understand."  The Inspector indicated its extent with his hands.
"Well, as the man smashed the glass and got the window open, and was
just climbing in, he saw something else, so he says."

He paused.

"What did he see?" demanded Smith shortly.

"A sort of GREEN MIST, sir.  He says it seemed to be alive.  It moved
over the floor, about a foot from the ground, going away from him and
towards a curtain at the other end of the study."

Nayland Smith fixed his eyes upon the speaker.

"Where did he first see this green mist?"

"He says, Mr. Smith, that he thinks it came from the mummy case."

"Yes; go on."

"It is to his credit that he climbed into the room after seeing a thing
like that.  He did.  He turned the body over, and Sir Lionel looked
horrible.  He was quite dead.  Then Croxted--that's the man's
name--went over to this curtain.  There was a glass door--shut.  He
opened it, and it gave on a conservatory--a place stacked from the
tiled floor to the glass roof with more rubbish.  It was dark inside,
but enough light came from the study--it's really a drawing-room, by
the way--as he'd turned all the lamps on, to give him another glimpse
of this green, crawling mist.  There are three steps to go down.  On
the steps lay a dead Chinaman."

"A dead Chinaman!"

"A dead CHINAMAN."

"Doctor seen them?" rapped Smith.

"Yes; a local man.  He was out of his depth, I could see.  Contradicted
himself three times.  But there's no need for another opinion--until we
get the coroner's."

"And Croxted?"

"Croxted was taken ill, Mr. Smith, and had to be sent home in a cab."

"What ails him?"

Detective-Inspector Weymouth raised his eyebrows and carefully knocked
the ash from his cigar.

"He held out until I came, gave me the story, and then fainted right
away.  He said that something in the conservatory seemed to get him by
the throat."

"Did he mean that literally?"

"I couldn't say.  We had to send the girl home, too, of course."

Nayland Smith was pulling thoughtfully at the lobe of his left ear.

"Got any theory?" he jerked.

Weymouth shrugged his shoulders.

"Not one that includes the green mist," he said.  "Shall we go in now?"

We crossed the Assyrian hall, where the members of that strange
household were gathered in a panic-stricken group.  They numbered four.
Two of them were negroes, and two Easterns of some kind.  I missed the
Chinaman, Kwee, of whom Smith had spoken, and the Italian secretary;
and from the way in which my friend peered about the shadows of the
hall I divined that he, too, wondered at their absence.  We entered Sir
Lionel's study--an apartment which I despair of describing.

Nayland Smith's words, "an earthquake at Sotheby's auction-rooms,"
leaped to my mind at once; for the place was simply stacked with
curious litter--loot of Africa, Mexico and Persia.  In a clearing by
the hearth a gas stove stood upon a packing-case, and about it lay a
number of utensils for camp cookery.  The odor of rotting vegetation,
mingled with the insistent perfume of the strange night-blooming
flowers, was borne in through the open window.

In the center of the floor, beside an overturned sarcophagus, lay a
figure in a neutral-colored dressing-gown, face downwards, and arms
thrust forward and over the side of the ancient Egyptian mummy case.

My friend advanced and knelt beside the dead man.

"Good God!"

Smith sprang upright and turned with an extraordinary expression to
Inspector Weymouth.

"You do not know Sir Lionel Barton by sight?" he rapped.

"No," began Weymouth, "but--"

"This is not Sir Lionel.  This is Strozza, the secretary."

"What!" shouted Weymouth.

"Where is the other--the Chinaman--quick!" cried Smith.

"I have had him left where he was found--on the conservatory steps,"
said the Inspector.

Smith ran across the room to where, beyond the open door, a glimpse
might be obtained of stacked-up curiosities.  Holding back the curtain
to allow more light to penetrate, he bent forward over a crumpled-up
figure which lay upon the steps below.

"It is!" he cried aloud.  "It is Sir Lionel's servant, Kwee."

Weymouth and I looked at one another across the body of the Italian;
then our eyes turned together to where my friend, grim-faced, stood
over the dead Chinaman.  A breeze whispered through the leaves; a great
wave of exotic perfume swept from the open window towards the curtained
doorway.

It was a breath of the East--that stretched out a yellow hand to the
West.  It was symbolic of the subtle, intangible power manifested in
Dr. Fu-Manchu, as Nayland Smith--lean, agile, bronzed with the suns of
Burma, was symbolic of the clean British efficiency which sought to
combat the insidious enemy.

"One thing is evident," said Smith:  "no one in the house, Strozza
excepted, knew that Sir Lionel was absent."

"How do you arrive at that?" asked Weymouth.

"The servants, in the hall, are bewailing him as dead.  If they had
seen him go out they would know that it must be someone else who lies
here."

"What about the Chinaman?"

"Since there is no other means of entrance to the conservatory save
through the study, Kwee must have hidden himself there at some time
when his master was absent from the room."

"Croxted found the communicating door closed.  What killed the
Chinaman?"

"Both Miss Edmonds and Croxted found the study door locked from the
inside.  What killed Strozza?" retorted Smith.

"You will have noted," continued the Inspector, "that the secretary is
wearing Sir Lionel's dressing-gown. It was seeing him in that, as she
looked in at the window, which led Miss Edmonds to mistake him for her
employer--and consequently to put us on the wrong scent."

"He wore it in order that anybody looking in at the window would be
sure to make that mistake," rapped Smith.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because he came here for a felonious purpose.  See."  Smith stooped
and took up several tools from the litter on the floor.  "There lies
the lid.  He came to open the sarcophagus.  It contained the mummy of
some notable person who flourished under Meneptah II; and Sir Lionel
told me that a number of valuable ornaments and jewels probably were
secreted amongst the wrappings.  He proposed to open the thing and to
submit the entire contents to examination to-night. He evidently
changed his mind--fortunately for himself."

I ran my fingers through my hair in perplexity.

"Then what has become of the mummy?"

Nayland Smith laughed dryly.

"It has vanished in the form of a green vapor apparently," he said.
"Look at Strozza's face."

He turned the body over, and, used as I was to such spectacles, the
contorted features of the Italian filled me with horror, so--suggestive
were they of a death more than ordinarily violent.  I pulled aside the
dressing-gown and searched the body for marks, but failed to find any.
Nayland Smith crossed the room, and, assisted by the detective, carried
Kwee, the Chinaman, into the study and laid him fully in the light.
His puckered yellow face presented a sight even more awful than the
other, and his blue lips were drawn back, exposing both upper and lower
teeth.  There were no marks of violence, but his limbs, like Strozza's,
had been tortured during his mortal struggles into unnatural postures.

The breeze was growing higher, and pungent odor-waves from the damp
shrubbery, bearing, too, the oppressive sweetness of the creeping
plant, swept constantly through the open window.  Inspector Weymouth
carefully relighted his cigar.

"I'm with you this far, Mr. Smith," he said.  "Strozza, knowing Sir
Lionel to be absent, locked himself in here to rifle the mummy case,
for Croxted, entering by way of the window, found the key on the
inside.  Strozza didn't know that the Chinaman was hidden in the
conservatory--"

"And Kwee did not dare to show himself, because he too was there for
some mysterious reason of his own," interrupted Smith.

"Having got the lid off, something,--somebody--"

"Suppose we say the mummy?"

Weymouth laughed uneasily.

"Well, sir, something that vanished from a locked room without opening
the door or the window killed Strozza."

"And something which, having killed Strozza, next killed the Chinaman,
apparently without troubling to open the door behind which he lay
concealed," Smith continued.  "For once in a way, Inspector, Dr.
Fu-Manchu has employed an ally which even his giant will was incapable
entirely to subjugate.  What blind force--what terrific agent of
death--had he confined in that sarcophagus!"

"You think this is the work of Fu-Manchu?" I said.  "If you are
correct, his power indeed is more than human."

Something in my voice, I suppose, brought Smith right about.  He
surveyed me curiously.

"Can you doubt it?  The presence of a concealed Chinaman surely is
sufficient.  Kwee, I feel assured, was one of the murder group, though
probably he had only recently entered that mysterious service.  He is
unarmed, or I should feel disposed to think that his part was to
assassinate Sir Lionel whilst, unsuspecting the presence of a hidden
enemy, he was at work here.  Strozza's opening the sarcophagus clearly
spoiled the scheme."

"And led to the death--"

"Of a servant of Fu-Manchu. Yes.  I am at a loss to account for that."

"Do you think that the sarcophagus entered into the scheme, Smith?"

My friend looked at me in evident perplexity.

"You mean that its arrival at the time when a creature of the
Doctor--Kwee--was concealed here, may have been a coincidence?"

I nodded; and Smith bent over the sarcophagus, curiously examining the
garish paintings with which it was decorated inside and out.  It lay
sideways upon the floor, and seizing it by its edge, he turned it over.

"Heavy," he muttered; "but Strozza must have capsized it as he fell.
He would not have laid it on its side to remove the lid.  Hallo!"

He bent farther forward, catching at a piece of twine, and out of the
mummy case pulled a rubber stopper or "cork."

"This was stuck in a hole level with the floor of the thing," he said.
"Ugh!  it has a disgusting smell."

I took it from his hands, and was about to examine it, when a loud
voice sounded outside in the hall.  The door was thrown open, and a big
man, who, despite the warmth of the weather, wore a fur-lined overcoat,
rushed impetuously into the room.

"Sir Lionel!" cried Smith eagerly.  "I warned you!  And see, you have
had a very narrow escape."

Sir Lionel Barton glanced at what lay upon the floor, then from Smith
to myself, and from me to Inspector Weymouth.  He dropped into one of
the few chairs unstacked with books.

"Mr. Smith," he said, with emotion, "what does this mean?  Tell
me--quickly."

In brief terms Smith detailed the happenings of the night--or so much
as he knew of them.  Sir Lionel Barton listened, sitting quite still
the while--an unusual repose in a man of such evidently tremendous
nervous activity.

"He came for the jewels," he said slowly, when Smith was finished; and
his eyes turned to the body of the dead Italian.  "I was wrong to
submit him to the temptation.  God knows what Kwee was doing in hiding.
Perhaps he had come to murder me, as you surmise, Mr. Smith, though I
find it hard to believe.  But--I don't think this is the handiwork of
your Chinese doctor." He fixed his gaze upon the sarcophagus.

Smith stared at him in surprise.  "What do you mean, Sir Lionel?"

The famous traveler continued to look towards the sarcophagus with
something in his blue eyes that might have been dread.

"I received a wire from Professor Rembold to-night," he continued.
"You were correct in supposing that no one but Strozza knew of my
absence.  I dressed hurriedly and met the professor at the Traveler's.
He knew that I was to read a paper next week upon"--again he looked
toward the mummy case--"the tomb of Mekara; and he knew that the
sarcophagus had been brought, untouched, to England.  He begged me not
to open it."

Nayland Smith was studying the speaker's face.

"What reason did he give for so extraordinary a request?" he asked.

Sir Lionel Barton hesitated.

"One," he replied at last, "which amused me--at the time.  I must
inform you that Mekara--whose tomb my agent had discovered during my
absence in Tibet, and to enter which I broke my return journey to
Alexandria--was a high priest and first prophet of Amen--under the
Pharaoh of the Exodus; in short, one of the magicians who contested in
magic arts with Moses.  I thought the discovery unique, until Professor
Rembold furnished me with some curious particulars respecting the death
of M. Page le Roi, the French Egyptologist--particulars new to me."

We listened in growing surprise, scarcely knowing to what this tended.

"M. le Roi," continued Barton, "discovered, but kept secret, the tomb
of Amenti--another of this particular brotherhood.  It appears that he
opened the mummy case on the spot--these priests were of royal line,
and are buried in the valley of Biban-le-Moluk. His Fellah and Arab
servants deserted him for some reason--on seeing the mummy case--and he
was found dead, apparently strangled, beside it.  The matter was hushed
up by the Egyptian Government.  Rembold could not explain why.  But he
begged of me not to open the sarcophagus of Mekara."

A silence fell.

The strange facts regarding the sudden death of Page le Roi, which I
now heard for the first time, had impressed me unpleasantly, coming
from a man of Sir Lionel Barton's experience and reputation.

"How long had it lain in the docks?" jerked Smith.

"For two days, I believe.  I am not a superstitious man, Mr. Smith, but
neither is Professor Rembold, and now that I know the facts respecting
Page le Roi, I can find it in my heart to thank God that I did not
see . . . whatever came out of that sarcophagus."

Nayland Smith stared him hard in the face.  "I am glad you did not, Sir
Lionel," he said; "for whatever the priest Mekara has to do with the
matter, by means of his sarcophagus, Dr. Fu-Manchu has made his first
attempt upon your life.  He has failed, but I hope you will accompany
me from here to a hotel.  He will not fail twice."



CHAPTER XII


IT was the night following that of the double tragedy at Rowan House.
Nayland Smith, with Inspector Weymouth, was engaged in some mysterious
inquiry at the docks, and I had remained at home to resume my strange
chronicle.  And--why should I not confess it?--my memories had
frightened me.

I was arranging my notes respecting the case of Sir Lionel Barton.
They were hopelessly incomplete.  For instance, I had jotted down the
following queries:--(1) Did any true parallel exist between the death
of M. Page le Roi and the death of Kwee, the Chinaman, and of Strozza?
(2) What had become of the mummy of Mekara?  (3) How had the murderer
escaped from a locked room?  (4) What was the purpose of the rubber
stopper?  (5) Why was Kwee hiding in the conservatory?  (6) Was the
green mist a mere subjective hallucination--a figment of Croxted's
imagination--or had he actually seen it?

Until these questions were satisfactorily answered, further progress
was impossible.  Nayland Smith frankly admitted that he was out of his
depth.  "It looks, on the face of it, more like a case for the
Psychical Research people than for a plain Civil Servant, lately of
Mandalay," he had said only that morning.

"Sir Lionel Barton really believes that supernatural agencies were
brought into operation by the opening of the high priest's coffin.  For
my part, even if I believed the same, I should still maintain that Dr.
Fu-Manchu controlled those manifestations.  But reason it out for
yourself and see if we arrive at any common center.  Don't work so much
upon the datum of the green mist, but keep to the FACTS which are
established."

I commenced to knock out my pipe in the ash-tray; then paused, pipe in
hand.  The house was quite still, for my landlady and all the small
household were out.

Above the noise of the passing tramcar I thought I had heard the hall
door open.  In the ensuing silence I sat and listened.

Not a sound.  Stay!  I slipped my hand into the table drawer, took out
my revolver, and stood up.

There WAS a sound.  Someone or something was creeping upstairs in the
dark!

Familiar with the ghastly media employed by the Chinaman, I was seized
with an impulse to leap to the door, shut and lock it.  But the
rustling sound proceeded, now, from immediately outside my partially
opened door.  I had not the time to close it; knowing somewhat of the
horrors at the command of Fu-Manchu, I had not the courage to open it.
My heart leaping wildly, and my eyes upon that bar of darkness with its
gruesome potentialities, I waited--waited for whatever was to come.
Perhaps twelve seconds passed in silence.

"Who's there?" I cried.  "Answer, or I fire!"

"Ah!  no," came a soft voice, thrillingly musical.  "Put it down--that
pistol.  Quick!  I must speak to you."

The door was pushed open, and there entered a slim figure wrapped in a
hooded cloak.  My hand fell, and I stood, stricken to silence, looking
into the beautiful dark eyes of Dr. Fu-Manchu's messenger--if her own
statement could be credited, slave.  On two occasions this girl, whose
association with the Doctor was one of the most profound mysteries of
the case, had risked--I cannot say what; unnameable punishment,
perhaps--to save me from death; in both cases from a terrible death.
For what was she come now?

Her lips slightly parted, she stood, holding her cloak about her, and
watching me with great passionate eyes.

"How--" I began.

But she shook her head impatiently.

"HE has a duplicate key of the house door," was her amazing statement.
"I have never betrayed a secret of my master before, but you must
arrange to replace the lock."

She came forward and rested her slim hands confidingly upon my
shoulders.  "I have come again to ask you to take me away from him,"
she said simply.

And she lifted her face to me.

Her words struck a chord in my heart which sang with strange music,
with music so barbaric that, frankly, I blushed to find it harmony.
Have I said that she was beautiful?  It can convey no faint conception
of her.  With her pure, fair skin, eyes like the velvet darkness of the
East, and red lips so tremulously near to mine, she was the most
seductively lovely creature I ever had looked upon.  In that electric
moment my heart went out in sympathy to every man who had bartered
honor, country, all for a woman's kiss.

"I will see that you are placed under proper protection," I said
firmly, but my voice was not quite my own.  "It is quite absurd to talk
of slavery here in England.  You are a free agent, or you could not be
here now.  Dr. Fu-Manchu cannot control your actions."

"Ah!" she cried, casting back her head scornfully, and releasing a
cloud of hair, through whose softness gleamed a jeweled head-dress.
"No?  He cannot?  Do you know what it means to have been a slave?
Here, in your free England, do you know what it means--the razzia, the
desert journey, the whips of the drivers, the house of the dealer, the
shame.  Bah!"

How beautiful she was in her indignation!

"Slavery is put down, you imagine, perhaps?  You do not believe that
to-day--TO-DAY--twenty-five English sovereigns will buy a Galla girl,
who is brown, and"--whisper--"two hundred and fifty a Circassian, who
is white.  No, there is no slavery!  So!  Then what am I?"

She threw open her cloak, and it is a literal fact that I rubbed my
eyes, half believing that I dreamed.  For beneath, she was arrayed in
gossamer silk which more than indicated the perfect lines of her slim
shape; wore a jeweled girdle and barbaric ornaments; was a figure fit
for the walled gardens of Stamboul--a figure amazing, incomprehensible,
in the prosaic setting of my rooms.

"To-night I had no time to make myself an English miss," she said,
wrapping her cloak quickly about her.  "You see me as I am."  Her
garments exhaled a faint perfume, and it reminded me of another meeting
I had had with her.  I looked into the challenging eyes.

"Your request is but a pretense," I said.  "Why do you keep the secrets
of that man, when they mean death to so many?"

"Death!  I have seen my own sister die of fever in the desert--seen her
thrown like carrion into a hole in the sand.  I have seen men flogged
until they prayed for death as a boon.  I have known the lash myself.
Death!  What does it matter?"

She shocked me inexpressibly.  Enveloped in her cloak again, and with
only her slight accent to betray her, it was dreadful to hear such
words from a girl who, save for her singular type of beauty, might have
been a cultured European.

"Prove, then, that you really wish to leave this man's service.  Tell
me what killed Strozza and the Chinaman," I said.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"I do not know that.  But if you will carry me off"--she clutched me
nervously--"so that I am helpless, lock me up so that I cannot escape,
beat me, if you like, I will tell you all I do know.  While he is my
master I will never betray him.  Tear me from him--by force, do you
understand, BY FORCE, and my lips will be sealed no longer.  Ah!  but
you do not understand, with your 'proper authorities'--your police.
Police!  Ah, I have said enough."

A clock across the common began to strike.  The girl started and laid
her hands upon my shoulders again.  There were tears glittering among
the curved black lashes.

"You do not understand," she whispered.  "Oh, will you never understand
and release me from him!  I must go.  Already I have remained too long.
Listen.  Go out without delay.  Remain out--at a hotel, where you will,
but do not stay here."

"And Nayland Smith?"

"What is he to me, this Nayland Smith?  Ah, why will you not unseal my
lips?  You are in danger--you hear me, in danger!  Go away from here
to-night."

She dropped her hands and ran from the room.  In the open doorway she
turned, stamping her foot passionately.

"You have hands and arms," she cried, "and yet you let me go.  Be
warned, then; fly from here--" She broke off with something that
sounded like a sob.

I made no move to stay her--this beautiful accomplice of the
arch-murderer, Fu-Manchu. I heard her light footsteps pattering down
the stairs, I heard her open and close the door--the door of which Dr.
Fu-Manchu held the key.  Still I stood where she had parted from me,
and was so standing when a key grated in the lock and Nayland Smith
came running up.

"Did you see her?" I began.

But his face showed that he had not done so, and rapidly I told him of
my strange visitor, of her words, of her warning.

"How can she have passed through London in that costume?" I cried in
bewilderment.  "Where can she have come from?"

Smith shrugged his shoulders and began to stuff broad-cut mixture into
the familiar cracked briar.

"She might have traveled in a car or in a cab," he said; "and
undoubtedly she came direct from the house of Dr. Fu-Manchu.  You
should have detained her, Petrie.  It is the third time we have had
that woman in our power, the third time we have let her go free."

"Smith," I replied, "I couldn't. She came of her own free will to give
me a warning.  She disarms me."

"Because you can see she is in love with you?" he suggested, and burst
into one of his rare laughs when the angry flush rose to my cheek.
"She is, Petrie why pretend to be blind to it?  You don't know the
Oriental mind as I do; but I quite understand the girl's position.  She
fears the English authorities, but would submit to capture by you!  If
you would only seize her by the hair, drag her to some cellar, hurl her
down and stand over her with a whip, she would tell you everything she
knows, and salve her strange Eastern conscience with the reflection
that speech was forced from her.  I am not joking; it is so, I assure
you.  And she would adore you for your savagery, deeming you forceful
and strong!"

"Smith," I said, "be serious.  You know what her warning meant before."

"I can guess what it means now," he rapped.  "Hallo!"

Someone was furiously ringing the bell.

"No one at home?" said my friend.  "I will go.  I think I know what it
is."

A few minutes later he returned, carrying a large square package.

"From Weymouth," he explained, "by district messenger.  I left him
behind at the docks, and he arranged to forward any evidence which
subsequently he found.  This will be fragments of the mummy."

"What!  You think the mummy was abstracted?"

"Yes, at the docks.  I am sure of it; and somebody else was in the
sarcophagus when it reached Rowan House.  A sarcophagus, I find, is
practically airtight, so that the use of the rubber stopper becomes
evident--ventilation.  How this person killed Strozza I have yet to
learn."

"Also, how he escaped from a locked room.  And what about the green
mist?"

Nayland Smith spread his hands in a characteristic gesture.

"The green mist, Petrie, can be explained in several ways.  Remember,
we have only one man's word that it existed.  It is at best a confusing
datum to which we must not attach a factitious importance."

He threw the wrappings on the floor and tugged at a twine loop in the
lid of the square box, which now stood upon the table.  Suddenly the
lid came away, bringing with it a lead lining, such as is usual in
tea-chests. This lining was partially attached to one side of the box,
so that the action of removing the lid at once raised and tilted it.

Then happened a singular thing.

Out over the table billowed a sort of yellowish-green cloud--an oily
vapor--and an inspiration, it was nothing less, born of a memory and of
some words of my beautiful visitor, came to me.

"RUN, SMITH!" I screamed.  "The door! the door, for your life!
Fu-Manchu sent that box!"  I threw my arms round him.  As he bent
forward the moving vapor rose almost to his nostrils.  I dragged him
back and all but pitched him out on to the landing.  We entered my
bedroom, and there, as I turned on the light, I saw that Smith's tanned
face was unusually drawn, and touched with pallor.

"It is a poisonous gas!" I said hoarsely; "in many respects identical
with chlorine, but having unique properties which prove it to be
something else--God and Fu-Manchu, alone know what!  It is the fumes of
chlorine that kill the men in the bleaching powder works.  We have been
blind--I particularly.  Don't you see?  There was no one in the
sarcophagus, Smith, but there was enough of that fearful stuff to have
suffocated a regiment!"

Smith clenched his fists convulsively.

"My God!" he said, "how can I hope to deal with the author of such a
scheme?  I see the whole plan.  He did not reckon on the mummy case
being overturned, and Kwee's part was to remove the plug with the aid
of the string--after Sir Lionel had been suffocated.  The gas, I take
it, is heavier than air."

"Chlorine gas has a specific gravity of 2.470," I said; "two and a half
times heavier than air.  You can pour it from jar to jar like a
liquid--if you are wearing a chemist's mask.  In these respects this
stuff appears to be similar; the points of difference would not
interest you.  The sarcophagus would have emptied through the vent, and
the gas have dispersed, with no clew remaining--except the smell."

"I did smell it, Petrie, on the stopper, but, of course, was unfamiliar
with it.  You may remember that you were prevented from doing so by the
arrival of Sir Lionel?  The scent of those infernal flowers must
partially have drowned it, too.  Poor, misguided Strozza inhaled the
stuff, capsized the case in his fall, and all the gas--"

"Went pouring under the conservatory door, and down the steps, where
Kwee was crouching.  Croxted's breaking the window created sufficient
draught to disperse what little remained.  It will have settled on the
floor now.  I will go and open both windows."

Nayland raised his haggard face.

"He evidently made more than was necessary to dispatch Sir Lionel
Barton," he said; "and contemptuously--you note the attitude,
Petrie?--contemptuously devoted the surplus to me.  His contempt is
justified.  I am a child striving to cope with a mental giant.  It is
by no wit of mine that Dr. Fu-Manchu scores a double failure."



CHAPTER XIII


I WILL tell you, now of a strange dream which I dreamed, and of the
stranger things to which I awakened.  Since, out of a blank--a
void--this vision burst in upon my mind, I cannot do better than relate
it, without preamble.  It was thus:

I dreamed that I lay writhing on the floor in agony indescribable.  My
veins were filled with liquid fire, and but that stygian darkness was
about me, I told myself that I must have seen the smoke arising from my
burning body.

This, I thought, was death.

Then, a cooling shower descended upon me, soaked through skin and
tissue to the tortured arteries and quenched the fire within.  Panting,
but free from pain, I lay--exhausted.

Strength gradually returning to me, I tried to rise; but the carpet
felt so singularly soft that it offered me no foothold.  I waded and
plunged like a swimmer treading water; and all about me rose
impenetrable walls of darkness, darkness all but palpable.  I wondered
why I could not see the windows.  The horrible idea flashed to my mind
that I was become blind!

Somehow I got upon my feet, and stood swaying dizzily.  I became aware
of a heavy perfume, and knew it for some kind of incense.

Then--a dim light was born, at an immeasurable distance away.  It grew
steadily in brilliance.  It spread like a bluish-red stain--like a
liquid.  It lapped up the darkness and spread throughout the room.

But this was not my room!  Nor was it any room known to me.

It was an apartment of such size that its dimensions filled me with a
kind of awe such as I never had known:  the awe of walled vastness.
Its immense extent produced a sensation of sound.  Its hugeness had a
distinct NOTE.

Tapestries covered the four walls.  There was no door visible.  These
tapestries were magnificently figured with golden dragons; and as the
serpentine bodies gleamed and shimmered in the increasing radiance,
each dragon, I thought, intertwined its glittering coils more closely
with those of another.  The carpet was of such richness that I stood
knee-deep in its pile.  And this, too, was fashioned all over with
golden dragons; and they seemed to glide about amid the shadows of the
design--stealthily.

At the farther end of the hall--for hall it was--a huge table with
dragons' legs stood solitary amid the luxuriance of the carpet.  It
bore scintillating globes, and tubes that held living organisms, and
books of a size and in such bindings as I never had imagined, with
instruments of a type unknown to Western science--a heterogeneous
litter quite indescribable, which overflowed on to the floor, forming
an amazing oasis in a dragon-haunted desert of carpet.  A lamp hung
above this table, suspended by golden chains from the ceiling--which
was so lofty that, following the chains upward, my gaze lost itself in
the purple shadows above.

In a chair piled high with dragon-covered cushions a man sat behind
this table.  The light from the swinging lamp fell fully upon one side
of his face, as he leaned forward amid the jumble of weird objects, and
left the other side in purplish shadow.  From a plain brass bowl upon
the corner of the huge table smoke writhed aloft and at times partially
obscured that dreadful face.

From the instant that my eyes were drawn to the table and to the man
who sat there, neither the incredible extent of the room, nor the
nightmare fashion of its mural decorations, could reclaim my attention.
I had eyes only for him.

For it was Dr. Fu-Manchu!

Something of the delirium which had seemed to fill my veins with fire,
to people the walls with dragons, and to plunge me knee-deep in the
carpet, left me.  Those dreadful, filmed green eyes acted somewhat like
a cold douche.  I knew, without removing my gaze from the still face,
that the walls no longer lived, but were merely draped in exquisite
Chinese dragon tapestry.  The rich carpet beneath my feet ceased to be
as a jungle and became a normal carpet--extraordinarily rich, but
merely a carpet.  But the sense of vastness nevertheless remained, with
the uncomfortable knowledge that the things upon the table and
overflowing about it were all, or nearly all, of a fashion strange to
me.

Then, and almost instantaneously, the comparative sanity which I had
temporarily experienced began to slip from me again; for the smoke
faintly penciled through the air--from the burning perfume on the
table--grew in volume, thickened, and wafted towards me in a cloud of
gray horror.  It enveloped me, clammily.  Dimly, through its oily
wreaths, I saw the immobile yellow face of Fu-Manchu. And my stupefied
brain acclaimed him a sorcerer, against whom unwittingly we had pitted
our poor human wits.  The green eyes showed filmy through the fog.  An
intense pain shot through my lower limbs, and, catching my breath, I
looked down.  As I did so, the points of the red slippers which I
dreamed that I wore increased in length, curled sinuously upward,
twined about my throat and choked the breath from my body!

Came an interval, and then a dawning like consciousness; but it was a
false consciousness, since it brought with it the idea that my head lay
softly pillowed and that a woman's hand caressed my throbbing forehead.
Confusedly, as though in the remote past, I recalled a kiss--and the
recollection thrilled me strangely.  Dreamily content I lay, and a
voice stole to my ears:

"They are killing him!  they are killing him!  Oh!  do you not
understand?" In my dazed condition, I thought that it was I who had
died, and that this musical girl-voice was communicating to me the fact
of my own dissolution.

But I was conscious of no interest in the matter.

For hours and hours, I thought, that soothing hand caressed me.  I
never once raised my heavy lids, until there came a resounding crash
that seemed to set my very bones vibrating--a metallic, jangling crash,
as the fall of heavy chains.  I thought that, then, I half opened my
eyes, and that in the dimness I had a fleeting glimpse of a figure clad
in gossamer silk, with arms covered with barbaric bangles and slim
ankles surrounded by gold bands.  The girl was gone, even as I told
myself that she was an houri, and that I, though a Christian, had been
consigned by some error to the paradise of Mohammed.

Then--a complete blank.


My head throbbed madly; my brain seemed to be clogged--inert; and
though my first, feeble movement was followed by the rattle of a chain,
some moments more elapsed ere I realized that the chain was fastened to
a steel collar--that the steel collar was clasped about my neck.

I moaned weakly.

"Smith!" I muttered, "Where are you?  Smith!"

On to my knees I struggled, and the pain on the top of my skull grew
all but insupportable.  It was coming back to me now; how Nayland Smith
and I had started for the hotel to warn Graham Guthrie; how, as we
passed up the steps from the Embankment and into Essex Street, we saw
the big motor standing before the door of one of the offices.  I could
recall coming up level with the car--a modern limousine; but my mind
retained no impression of our having passed it--only a vague memory of
a rush of footsteps--a blow.  Then, my vision of the hall of dragons,
and now this real awakening to a worse reality.

Groping in the darkness, my hands touched a body that lay close beside
me.  My fingers sought and found the throat, sought and found the steel
collar about it.

"Smith," I groaned; and I shook the still form.  "Smith, old man--speak
to me!  Smith!"

Could he be dead?  Was this the end of his gallant fight with Dr.
Fu-Manchu and the murder group?  If so, what did the future hold for
me--what had I to face?

He stirred beneath my trembling hands.

"Thank God!"  I muttered, and I cannot deny that my joy was tainted
with selfishness.  For, waking in that impenetrable darkness, and yet
obsessed with the dream I had dreamed, I had known what fear meant, at
the realization that alone, chained, I must face the dreadful Chinese
doctor in the flesh.  Smith began incoherent mutterings.

"Sand-bagged! . . . Look out, Petrie! . . . He has us at last! . . .
Oh, Heavens!" . . . He struggled on to his knees, clutching at my hand.

"All right, old man," I said.  "We are both alive!  So let's be
thankful."

A moment's silence, a groan, then:

"Petrie, I have dragged you into this.  God forgive me--"

"Dry up, Smith," I said slowly.  "I'm not a child.  There is no
question of being dragged into the matter.  I'm here; and if I can be
of any use, I'm glad I am here!"

He grasped my hand.

"There were two Chinese, in European clothes--lord, how my head
throbs!--in that office door.  They sand-bagged us, Petrie--think of
it!--in broad daylight, within hail of the Strand!  We were rushed into
the car--and it was all over, before--" His voice grew faint.  "God!
they gave me an awful knock!"

"Why have we been spared, Smith?  Do you think he is saving us for--"

"Don't, Petrie!  If you had been in China, if you had seen what I have
seen--"

Footsteps sounded on the flagged passage.  A blade of light crept
across the floor towards us.  My brain was growing clearer.  The place
had a damp, earthen smell.  It was slimy--some noisome cellar.  A door
was thrown open and a man entered, carrying a lantern.  Its light
showed my surmise to be accurate, showed the slime-coated walls of a
dungeon some fifteen feet square--shone upon the long yellow robe of
the man who stood watching us, upon the malignant, intellectual
countenance.

It was Dr. Fu-Manchu.

At last they were face to face--the head of the great Yellow Movement,
and the man who fought on behalf of the entire white race.  How can I
paint the individual who now stood before us--perhaps the greatest
genius of modern times?

Of him it had been fitly said that he had a brow like Shakespeare and a
face like Satan.  Something serpentine, hypnotic, was in his very
presence.  Smith drew one sharp breath, and was silent.  Together,
chained to the wall, two mediaeval captives, living mockeries of our
boasted modern security, we crouched before Dr. Fu-Manchu.

He came forward with an indescribable gait, cat-like yet awkward,
carrying his high shoulders almost hunched.  He placed the lantern in a
niche in the wall, never turning away the reptilian gaze of those eyes
which must haunt my dreams forever.  They possessed a viridescence
which hitherto I had supposed possible only in the eye of the cat--and
the film intermittently clouded their brightness--but I can speak of
them no more.

I had never supposed, prior to meeting Dr. Fu-Manchu, that so intense a
force of malignancy could radiate--from any human being.  He spoke.
His English was perfect, though at times his words were oddly chosen;
his delivery alternately was guttural and sibilant.

"Mr. Smith and Dr. Petrie, your interference with my plans has gone too
far.  I have seriously turned my attention to you."

He displayed his teeth, small and evenly separated, but discolored in a
way that was familiar to me.  I studied his eyes with a new
professional interest, which even the extremity of our danger could not
wholly banish.  Their greenness seemed to be of the iris; the pupil was
oddly contracted--a pin-point.

Smith leaned his back against the wall with assumed indifference.

"You have presumed," continued Fu-Manchu, "to meddle with a
world-change. Poor spiders--caught in the wheels of the inevitable!
You have linked my name with the futility of the Young China
Movement--the name of Fu-Manchu!  Mr. Smith, you are an incompetent
meddler--I despise you!  Dr. Petrie, you are a fool--I am sorry for
you!"

He rested one bony hand on his hip, narrowing the long eyes as he
looked down on us.  The purposeful cruelty of the man was inherent; it
was entirely untheatrical.  Still Smith remained silent.

"So I am determined to remove you from the scene of your blunders!"
added Fu-Manchu.

"Opium will very shortly do the same for you!" I rapped at him savagely.

Without emotion he turned the narrowed eyes upon me.

"That is a matter of opinion, Doctor," he said.  "You may have lacked
the opportunities which have been mine for studying that subject--and
in any event I shall not be privileged to enjoy your advice in the
future."

"You will not long outlive me," I replied.  "And our deaths will not
profit you, incidentally; because--" Smith's foot touched mine.

"Because?" inquired Fu-Manchu softly.

"Ah!  Mr. Smith is so prudent!  He is thinking that I have FILES!" He
pronounced the word in a way that made me shudder.  "Mr. Smith has seen
a WIRE JACKET!  Have you ever seen a wire jacket?  As a surgeon its
functions would interest you!"

I stifled a cry that rose to my lips; for, with a shrill whistling
sound, a small shape came bounding into the dimly lit vault, then shot
upward.  A marmoset landed on the shoulder of Dr. Fu-Manchu and peered
grotesquely into the dreadful yellow face.  The Doctor raised his bony
hand and fondled the little creature, crooning to it.

"One of my pets, Mr. Smith," he said, suddenly opening his eyes fully
so that they blazed like green lamps.  "I have others, equally useful.
My scorpions--have you met my scorpions?  No?  My pythons and
hamadryads?  Then there are my fungi and my tiny allies, the bacilli.
I have a collection in my laboratory quite unique.  Have you ever
visited Molokai, the leper island, Doctor?  No?  But Mr. Nayland Smith
will be familiar with the asylum at Rangoon!  And we must not forget my
black spiders, with their diamond eyes--my spiders, that sit in the
dark and watch--then leap!"

He raised his lean hands, so that the sleeve of the robe fell back to
the elbow, and the ape dropped, chattering, to the floor and ran from
the cellar.

"O God of Cathay!" he cried, "by what death shall these die--these
miserable ones who would bind thine Empire, which is boundless!"

Like some priest of Tezcat he stood, his eyes upraised to the roof, his
lean body quivering--a sight to shock the most unimpressionable mind.

"He is mad!" I whispered to Smith.  "God help us, the man is a
dangerous homicidal maniac!"

Nayland Smith's tanned face was very drawn, but he shook his head
grimly.

"Dangerous, yes, I agree," he muttered; "his existence is a danger to
the entire white race which, now, we are powerless to avert."

Dr. Fu-Manchu recovered himself, took up the lantern and, turning
abruptly, walked to the door, with his awkward, yet feline gait.  At
the threshold be looked back.

"You would have warned Mr. Graham Guthrie?" he said, in a soft voice.
"To-night, at half-past twelve, Mr. Graham Guthrie dies!"

Smith sat silent and motionless, his eyes fixed upon the speaker.

"You were in Rangoon in 1908?" continued Dr. Fu-Manchu--"you remember
the Call?"

From somewhere above us--I could not determine the exact
direction--came a low, wailing cry, an uncanny thing of falling
cadences, which, in that dismal vault, with the sinister yellow-robed
figure at the door, seemed to pour ice into my veins.  Its effect upon
Smith was truly extraordinary.  His face showed grayly in the faint
light, and I heard him draw a hissing breath through clenched teeth.

"It calls for you!" said Fu-Manchu. "At half-past twelve it calls for
Graham Guthrie!"

The door closed and darkness mantled us again.

"Smith," I said, "what was that?"  The horrors about us were playing
havoc with my nerves.

"It was the Call of Siva!" replied Smith hoarsely.

"What is it?  Who uttered it?  What does it mean?"

"I don't know what it is, Petrie, nor who utters it.  But it means
death!"



CHAPTER XIV


THERE may be some who could have lain, chained to that noisome cell,
and felt no fear--no dread of what the blackness might hold.  I confess
that I am not one of these.  I knew that Nayland Smith and I stood in
the path of the most stupendous genius who in the world's history had
devoted his intellect to crime.  I knew that the enormous wealth of the
political group backing Dr. Fu-Manchu rendered him a menace to Europe
and to America greater than that of the plague.  He was a scientist
trained at a great university--an explorer of nature's secrets, who had
gone farther into the unknown, I suppose, than any living man.  His
mission was to remove all obstacles--human obstacles--from the path of
that secret movement which was progressing in the Far East.  Smith and
I were two such obstacles; and of all the horrible devices at his
command, I wondered, and my tortured brain refused to leave the
subject, by which of them were we doomed to be dispatched?

Even at that very moment some venomous centipede might be wriggling
towards me over the slime of the stones, some poisonous spider be
preparing to drop from the roof!  Fu-Manchu might have released a
serpent in the cellar, or the air be alive with microbes of a loathsome
disease!

"Smith," I said, scarcely recognizing my own voice, "I can't bear this
suspense.  He intends to kill us, that is certain, but--"

"Don't worry," came the reply; "he intends to learn our plans first."

"You mean--?"

"You heard him speak of his files and of his wire jacket?"

"Oh, my God!" I groaned; "can this be England?"

Smith laughed dryly, and I heard him fumbling with the steel collar
about his neck.

"I have one great hope," he said, "since you share my captivity, but we
must neglect no minor chance.  Try with your pocket-knife if you can
force the lock.  I am trying to break this one."

Truth to tell, the idea had not entered my half-dazed mind, but I
immediately acted upon my friend's suggestion, setting to work with the
small blade of my knife.  I was so engaged, and, having snapped one
blade, was about to open another, when a sound arrested me.  It came
from beneath my feet.

"Smith," I whispered, "listen!"

The scraping and clicking which told of Smith's efforts ceased.
Motionless, we sat in that humid darkness and listened.

Something was moving beneath the stones of the cellar.  I held my
breath; every nerve in my body was strung up.

A line of light showed a few feet from where we lay.  It
widened--became an oblong.  A trap was lifted, and within a yard of me,
there rose a dimly seen head.  Horror I had expected--and death, or
worse.  Instead, I saw a lovely face, crowned with a disordered mass of
curling hair; I saw a white arm upholding the stone slab, a shapely arm
clasped about the elbow by a broad gold bangle.

The girl climbed into the cellar and placed the lantern on the stone
floor.  In the dim light she was unreal--a figure from an opium vision,
with her clinging silk draperies and garish jewelry, with her feet
encased in little red slippers.  In short, this was the houri of my
vision, materialized.  It was difficult to believe that we were in
modern, up-to-date England; easy to dream that we were the captives of
a caliph, in a dungeon in old Bagdad.

"My prayers are answered," said Smith softly.  "She has come to save
YOU."

"S-sh!" warned the girl, and her wonderful eyes opened widely,
fearfully.  "A sound and he will kill us all."

She bent over me; a key jarred in the lock which had broken my
penknife--and the collar was off.  As I rose to my feet the girl turned
and released Smith.  She raised the lantern above the trap, and signed
to us to descend the wooden steps which its light revealed.

"Your knife," she whispered to me.  "Leave it on the floor.  He will
think you forced the locks.  Down!  Quickly!"

Nayland Smith, stepping gingerly, disappeared into the darkness.  I
rapidly followed.  Last of all came our mysterious friend, a gold band
about one of her ankles gleaming in the rays of the lantern which she
carried.  We stood in a low-arched passage.

"Tie your handkerchiefs over your eyes and do exactly as I tell you,"
she ordered.

Neither of us hesitated to obey her.  Blind-folded, I allowed her to
lead me, and Smith rested his hand upon my shoulder.  In that order we
proceeded, and came to stone steps, which we ascended.

"Keep to the wall on the left," came a whisper.  "There is danger on
the right."

With my free hand I felt for and found the wall, and we pressed
forward.  The atmosphere of the place through which we were passing was
steamy, and loaded with an odor like that of exotic plant life.  But a
faint animal scent crept to my nostrils, too, and there was a subdued
stir about me, infinitely suggestive--mysterious.

Now my feet sank in a soft carpet, and a curtain brushed my shoulder.
A gong sounded.  We stopped.

The din of distant drumming came to my ears.

"Where in Heaven's name are we?" hissed Smith in my ear; "that is a
tom-tom!"

"S-sh!  S-sh!"

The little hand grasping mine quivered nervously.  We were near a door
or a window, for a breath of perfume was wafted through the air; and it
reminded me of my other meetings with the beautiful woman who was now
leading us from the house of Fu-Manchu; who, with her own lips, had
told me that she was his slave.  Through the horrible phantasmagoria
she flitted--a seductive vision, her piquant loveliness standing out
richly in its black setting of murder and devilry.  Not once, but a
thousand times, I had tried to reason out the nature of the tie which
bound her to the sinister Doctor.

Silence fell.

"Quick!  This way!"

Down a thickly carpeted stair we went.  Our guide opened a door, and
led us along a passage.  Another door was opened; and we were in the
open air.  But the girl never tarried, pulling me along a graveled
path, with a fresh breeze blowing in my face, and along until,
unmistakably, I stood upon the river bank.  Now, planking creaked to
our tread; and looking downward beneath the handkerchief, I saw the
gleam of water beneath my feet.

"Be careful!"  I was warned, and found myself stepping into a narrow
boat--a punt.

Nayland Smith followed, and the girl pushed the punt off and poled out
into the stream.

"Don't speak!" she directed.

My brain was fevered; I scarce knew if I dreamed and was waking, or if
the reality ended with my imprisonment in the clammy cellar and this
silent escape, blindfolded, upon the river with a girl for our guide
who might have stepped out of the pages of "The Arabian Nights" were
fantasy--the mockery of sleep.

Indeed, I began seriously to doubt if this stream whereon we floated,
whose waters plashed and tinkled about us, were the Thames, the Tigris,
or the Styx.

The punt touched a bank.

"You will hear a clock strike in a few minutes," said the girl, with
her soft, charming accent, "but I rely upon your honor not to remove
the handkerchiefs until then.  You owe me this."

"We do!" said Smith fervently.

I heard him scrambling to the bank, and a moment later a soft hand was
placed in mine, and I, too, was guided on to terra firma.  Arrived on
the bank, I still held the girl's hand, drawing her towards me.

"You must not go back," I whispered.  "We will take care of you.  You
must not return to that place."

"Let me go!" she said.  "When, once, I asked you to take me from him,
you spoke of police protection; that was your answer, police
protection!  You would let them lock me up--imprison me--and make me
betray him!  For what?  For what?"  She wrenched herself free.  "How
little you understand me.  Never mind.  Perhaps one day you will know!
Until the clock strikes!"

She was gone.  I heard the creak of the punt, the drip of the water
from the pole.  Fainter it grew, and fainter.

"What is her secret?" muttered Smith, beside me.  "Why does she cling
to that monster?"

The distant sound died away entirely.  A clock began to strike; it
struck the half-hour. In an instant my handkerchief was off, and so was
Smith's. We stood upon a towing-path. Away to the left the moon shone
upon the towers and battlements of an ancient fortress.

It was Windsor Castle.

"Half-past ten," cried Smith.  "Two hours to save Graham Guthrie!"

We had exactly fourteen minutes in which to catch the last train to
Waterloo; and we caught it.  But I sank into a corner of the
compartment in a state bordering upon collapse.  Neither of us, I
think, could have managed another twenty yards.  With a lesser stake
than a human life at issue, I doubt if we should have attempted that
dash to Windsor station.

"Due at Waterloo at eleven-fifty-one," panted Smith.  "That gives us
thirty-nine minutes to get to the other side of the river and reach his
hotel."

"Where in Heaven's name is that house situated?  Did we come up or down
stream?"

"I couldn't determine.  But at any rate, it stands close to the
riverside.  It should be merely a question of time to identify it.  I
shall set Scotland Yard to work immediately; but I am hoping for
nothing.  Our escape will warn him."

I said no more for a time, sitting wiping the perspiration from my
forehead and watching my friend load his cracked briar with the
broadcut Latakia mixture.

"Smith," I said at last, "what was that horrible wailing we heard, and
what did Fu-Manchu mean when he referred to Rangoon?  I noticed how it
affected you."

My friend nodded and lighted his pipe.

"There was a ghastly business there in 1908 or early in 1909," he
replied:  "an utterly mysterious epidemic.  And this beastly wailing
was associated with it."

"In what way?  And what do you mean by an epidemic?"

"It began, I believe, at the Palace Mansions Hotel, in the cantonments.
A young American, whose name I cannot recall, was staying there on
business connected with some new iron buildings.  One night he went to
his room, locked the door, and jumped out of the window into the
courtyard.  Broke his neck, of course."

"Suicide?"

"Apparently.  But there were singular features in the case.  For
instance, his revolver lay beside him, fully loaded!"

"In the courtyard?"

"In the courtyard!"

"Was it murder by any chance?"

Smith shrugged his shoulders.

"His door was found locked from the inside; had to be broken in."

"But the wailing business?"

"That began later, or was only noticed later.  A French doctor, named
Lafitte, died in exactly the same way."

"At the same place?"

"At the same hotel; but he occupied a different room.  Here is the
extraordinary part of the affair:  a friend shared the room with him,
and actually saw him go!"

"Saw him leap from the window?"

"Yes.  The friend--an Englishman--was aroused by the uncanny wailing.
I was in Rangoon at the time, so that I know more of the case of
Lafitte than of that of the American.  I spoke to the man about it
personally.  He was an electrical engineer, Edward Martin, and he told
me that the cry seemed to come from above him."

"It seemed to come from above when we heard it at Fu-Manchu's house."

"Martin sat up in bed, it was a clear moonlight night--the sort of
moonlight you get in Burma.  Lafitte, for some reason, had just gone to
the window.  His friend saw him look out.  The next moment with a
dreadful scream, he threw himself forward--and crashed down into the
courtyard!"

"What then?"

"Martin ran to the window and looked down.  Lafitte's scream had
aroused the place, of course.  But there was absolutely nothing to
account for the occurrence.  There was no balcony, no ledge, by means
of which anyone could reach the window."

"But how did you come to recognize the cry?"

"I stopped at the Palace Mansions for some time; and one night this
uncanny howling aroused me.  I heard it quite distinctly, and am never
likely to forget it.  It was followed by a hoarse yell.  The man in the
next room, an orchid hunter, had gone the same way as the others!"

"Did you change your quarters?"

"No. Fortunately for the reputation of the hotel--a first-class
establishment--several similar cases occurred elsewhere, both in
Rangoon, in Prome and in Moulmein.  A story got about the native
quarter, and was fostered by some mad fakir, that the god Siva was
reborn and that the cry was his call for victims; a ghastly story,
which led to an outbreak of dacoity and gave the District
Superintendent no end of trouble."

"Was there anything unusual about the bodies?"

"They all developed marks after death, as though they had been
strangled!  The marks were said all to possess a peculiar form, though
it was not appreciable to my eye; and this, again, was declared to be
the five heads of Siva."

"Were the deaths confined to Europeans?"

"Oh, no.  Several Burmans and others died in the same way.  At first
there was a theory that the victims had contracted leprosy and
committed suicide as a result; but the medical evidence disproved that.
The Call of Siva became a perfect nightmare throughout Burma."

"Did you ever hear it again, before this evening?"

"Yes.  I heard it on the Upper Irrawaddy one clear, moonlight night,
and a Colassie--a deck-hand--leaped from the top deck of the steamer
aboard which I was traveling!  My God!  to think that the fiend
Fu-Manchu has brought That to England!"

"But brought what, Smith?" I cried, in perplexity.  "What has he
brought?  An evil spirit?  A mental disease?  What is it?  What CAN it
be?"

"A new agent of death, Petrie!  Something born in a plague-spot of
Burma--the home of much that is unclean and much that is inexplicable.
Heaven grant that we be in time, and are able to save Guthrie."



CHAPTER XV


THE train was late, and as our cab turned out of Waterloo Station and
began to ascend to the bridge, from a hundred steeples rang out the
gongs of midnight, the bell of St. Paul's raised above them all to vie
with the deep voice of Big Ben.

I looked out from the cab window across the river to where, towering
above the Embankment, that place of a thousand tragedies, the light of
some of London's greatest caravanserais formed a sort of minor
constellation.  From the subdued blaze that showed the public
supper-rooms I looked up to the hundreds of starry points marking the
private apartments of those giant inns.

I thought how each twinkling window denoted the presence of some bird
of passage, some wanderer temporarily abiding in our midst.  There,
floor piled upon floor above the chattering throngs, were these less
gregarious units, each something of a mystery to his fellow-guests,
each in his separate cell; and each as remote from real human
companionship as if that cell were fashioned, not in the bricks of
London, but in the rocks of Hindustan!

In one of those rooms Graham Guthrie might at that moment be sleeping,
all unaware that he would awake to the Call of Siva, to the summons of
death.  As we neared the Strand, Smith stopped the cab, discharging the
man outside Sotheby's auction-rooms.

"One of the doctor's watch-dogs may be in the foyer," he said
thoughtfully, "and it might spoil everything if we were seen to go to
Guthrie's rooms.  There must be a back entrance to the kitchens, and so
on?"

"There is," I replied quickly.  "I have seen the vans delivering there.
But have we time?"

"Yes.  Lead on."

We walked up the Strand and hurried westward.  Into that narrow court,
with its iron posts and descending steps, upon which opens a well-known
wine-cellar, we turned.  Then, going parallel with the Strand, but on
the Embankment level, we ran round the back of the great hotel, and
came to double doors which were open.  An arc lamp illuminated the
interior and a number of men were at work among the casks, crates and
packages stacked about the place.  We entered.

"Hallo!" cried a man in a white overall, "where d'you think you're
going?"

Smith grasped him by the arm.

"I want to get to the public part of the hotel without being seen from
the entrance hall," he said.  "Will you please lead the way?"

"Here--" began the other, staring.

"Don't waste time!" snapped my friend, in that tone of authority which
he knew so well how to assume.  "It's a matter of life and death.  Lead
the way, I say!"

"Police, sir?" asked the man civilly.

"Yes," said Smith; "hurry!"

Off went our guide without further demur.  Skirting sculleries,
kitchens, laundries and engine-rooms, he led us through those
mysterious labyrinths which have no existence for the guest above, but
which contain the machinery that renders these modern khans the
Aladdin's palaces they are.  On a second-floor landing we met a man in
a tweed suit, to whom our cicerone presented us.

"Glad I met you, sir.  Two gentlemen from the police."

The man regarded us haughtily with a suspicious smile.

"Who are you?" he asked.  "You're not from Scotland Yard, at any rate!"

Smith pulled out a card and thrust it into the speaker's hand.

"If you are the hotel detective," he said, "take us without delay to
Mr. Graham Guthrie."

A marked change took place in the other's demeanor on glancing at the
card in his hand.

"Excuse me, sir," he said deferentially, "but, of course, I didn't know
who I was speaking to.  We all have instructions to give you every
assistance."

"Is Mr. Guthrie in his room?"

"He's been in his room for some time, sir.  You will want to get there
without being seen?  This way.  We can join the lift on the third
floor."

Off we went again, with our new guide.  In the lift:

"Have you noticed anything suspicious about the place to-night?" asked
Smith.

"I have!" was the startling reply.  "That accounts for your finding me
where you did.  My usual post is in the lobby.  But about eleven
o'clock, when the theater people began to come in I had a hazy sort of
impression that someone or something slipped past in the
crowd--something that had no business in the hotel."

We got out of the lift.

"I don't quite follow you," said Smith.  "If you thought you saw
something entering, you must have formed a more or less definite
impression regarding it."

"That's the funny part of the business," answered the man doggedly.  "I
didn't!  But as I stood at the top of the stairs I could have sworn
that there was something crawling up behind a party--two ladies and two
gentlemen."

"A dog, for instance?"

"It didn't strike me as being a dog, sir.  Anyway, when the party
passed me, there was nothing there.  Mind you, whatever it was, it
hadn't come in by the front.  I have made inquiries everywhere, but
without result." He stopped abruptly.  "No. 189--Mr. Guthrie's door,
sir."

Smith knocked.

"Hallo!" came a muffled voice; "what do you want?"

"Open the door!  Don't delay; it is important."

He turned to the hotel detective.

"Stay right there where you can watch the stairs and the lift," he
instructed; "and note everyone and everything that passes this door.
But whatever you see or hear, do nothing without my orders."

The man moved off, and the door was opened.  Smith whispered in my ear:

"Some creature of Dr. Fu-Manchu is in the hotel!"

Mr. Graham Guthrie, British resident in North Bhutan, was a big,
thick-set man--gray-haired and florid, with widely opened eyes of the
true fighting blue, a bristling mustache and prominent shaggy brows.
Nayland Smith introduced himself tersely, proffering his card and an
open letter.

"Those are my credentials, Mr. Guthrie," he said; "so no doubt you will
realize that the business which brings me and my friend, Dr. Petrie,
here at such an hour is of the first importance."

He switched off the light.

"There is no time for ceremony," he explained.  "It is now twenty-five
minutes past twelve.  At half-past an attempt will be made upon your
life!"

"Mr. Smith," said the other, who, arrayed in his pajamas, was seated on
the edge of the bed, "you alarm me very greatly.  I may mention that I
was advised of your presence in England this morning."

"Do you know anything respecting the person called Fu-Manchu--Dr.
Fu-Manchu?"

"Only what I was told to-day--that he is the agent of an advanced
political group."

"It is opposed to his interests that you should return to Bhutan.  A
more gullible agent would be preferable.  Therefore, unless you
implicitly obey my instructions, you will never leave England!"

Graham Guthrie breathed quickly.  I was growing more used to the gloom,
and I could dimly discern him, his face turned towards Nayland Smith,
whilst with his hand he clutched the bed-rail. Such a visit as ours, I
think, must have shaken the nerve of any man.

"But, Mr. Smith," he said, "surely I am safe enough here!  The place is
full of American visitors at present, and I have had to be content with
a room right at the top; so that the only danger I apprehend is that of
fire."

"There is another danger," replied Smith.  "The fact that you are at
the top of the building enhances that danger.  Do you recall anything
of the mysterious epidemic which broke out in Rangoon in 1908--the
deaths due to the Call of Siva?"

"I read of it in the Indian papers," said Guthrie uneasily.  "Suicides,
were they not?"

"No!" snapped Smith.  "Murders!"

There was a brief silence.

"From what I recall of the cases," said Guthrie, "that seems
impossible.  In several instances the victims threw themselves from the
windows of locked rooms--and the windows were quite inaccessible."

"Exactly," replied Smith; and in the dim light his revolver gleamed
dully, as he placed it on the small table beside the bed.  "Except that
your door is unlocked, the conditions to-night are identical.  Silence,
please, I hear a clock striking."

It was Big Ben.  It struck the half-hour, leaving the stillness
complete.  In that room, high above the activity which yet prevailed
below, high above the supping crowds in the hotel, high above the
starving crowds on the Embankment, a curious chill of isolation swept
about me.  Again I realized how, in the very heart of the great
metropolis, a man may be as far from aid as in the heart of a desert.
I was glad that I was not alone in that room--marked with the
death-mark of Fu-Manchu; and I am certain that Graham Guthrie welcomed
his unexpected company.

I may have mentioned the fact before, but on this occasion it became so
peculiarly evident to me that I am constrained to record it here--I
refer to the sense of impending danger which invariably preceded a
visit from Fu-Manchu. Even had I not known that an attempt was to be
made that night, I should have realized it, as, strung to high tension,
I waited in the darkness.  Some invisible herald went ahead of the
dreadful Chinaman, proclaiming his coming to every nerve in one's body.
It was like a breath of astral incense, announcing the presence of the
priests of death.

A wail, low but singularly penetrating, falling in minor cadences to a
new silence, came from somewhere close at hand.

"My God!" hissed Guthrie, "what was that?"

"The Call of Siva," whispered Smith.

"Don't stir, for your life!"

Guthrie was breathing hard.

I knew that we were three; that the hotel detective was within hail;
that there was a telephone in the room; that the traffic of the
Embankment moved almost beneath us; but I knew, and am not ashamed to
confess, that King Fear had icy fingers about my heart.  It was
awful--that tense waiting--for--what?

Three taps sounded--very distinctly upon the window.

Graham Guthrie started so as to shake the bed.

"It's supernatural!" he muttered--all that was Celtic in his blood
recoiling from the omen.  "Nothing human can reach that window!"
"S-sh!" from Smith.  "Don't stir."

The tapping was repeated.

Smith softly crossed the room.  My heart was beating painfully.  He
threw open the window.  Further inaction was impossible.  I joined him;
and we looked out into the empty air.

"Don't come too near, Petrie!" he warned over his shoulder.

One on either side of the open window, we stood and looked down at the
moving Embankment lights, at the glitter of the Thames, at the
silhouetted buildings on the farther bank, with the Shot Tower starting
above them all.

Three taps sounded on the panes above us.

In all my dealings with Dr. Fu-Manchu I had had to face nothing so
uncanny as this.  What Burmese ghoul had he loosed?  Was it outside, in
the air?  Was it actually in the room?

"Don't let me go, Petrie!" whispered Smith suddenly.  "Get a tight hold
on me!"

That was the last straw; for I thought that some dreadful fascination
was impelling my friend to hurl himself out!  Wildly I threw my arms
about him, and Guthrie leaped forward to help.

Smith leaned from the window and looked up.

One choking cry he gave--smothered, inarticulate--and I found him
slipping from my grip--being drawn out of the window--drawn to his
death!

"Hold him, Guthrie!" I gasped hoarsely.  "My God, he's going!  Hold
him!"

My friend writhed in our grasp, and I saw him stretch his arm upward.
The crack of his revolver came, and he collapsed on to the floor,
carrying me with him.

But as I fell I heard a scream above.  Smith's revolver went hurtling
through the air, and, hard upon it, went a black shape--flashing past
the open window into the gulf of the night.

"The light!  The light!"  I cried.

Guthrie ran and turned on the light.  Nayland Smith, his eyes starting
from his head, his face swollen, lay plucking at a silken cord which
showed tight about his throat.

"It was a Thug!" screamed Guthrie.  "Get the rope off!  He's choking!"

My hands a-twitch, I seized the strangling-cord.

"A knife!  Quick!"  I cried.  "I have lost mine!"

Guthrie ran to the dressing-table and passed me an open penknife.  I
somehow forced the blade between the rope and Smith's swollen neck, and
severed the deadly silken thing.

Smith made a choking noise, and fell back, swooning in my arms.


When, later, we stood looking down upon the mutilated thing which had
been brought in from where it fell, Smith showed me a mark on the
brow--close beside the wound where his bullet had entered.

"The mark of Kali," he said.  "The man was a phansigar--a religious
strangler.  Since Fu-Manchu has dacoits in his service I might have
expected that he would have Thugs.  A group of these fiends would seem
to have fled into Burma; so that the mysterious epidemic in Rangoon was
really an outbreak of thuggee--on slightly improved lines!  I had
suspected something of the kind but, naturally, I had not looked for
Thugs near Rangoon.  My unexpected resistance led the strangler to
bungle the rope.  You have seen how it was fastened about my throat?
That was unscientific.  The true method, as practiced by the group
operating in Burma, was to throw the line about the victim's neck and
jerk him from the window.  A man leaning from an open window is very
nicely poised: it requires only a slight jerk to pitch him forward.  No
loop was used, but a running line, which, as the victim fell, remained
in the hand of the murderer.  No clew!  Therefore we see at once what
commended the system to Fu-Manchu."

Graham Guthrie, very pale, stood looking down at the dead strangler.

"I owe you my life, Mr. Smith," he said.  "If you had come five minutes
later--"

He grasped Smith's hand.

"You see," Guthrie continued, "no one thought of looking for a Thug in
Burma!  And no one thought of the ROOF!  These fellows are as active as
monkeys, and where an ordinary man would infallibly break his neck,
they are entirely at home.  I might have chosen my room especially for
the business!"

"He slipped in late this evening," said Smith.  "The hotel detective
saw him, but these stranglers are as elusive as shadows, otherwise,
despite their having changed the scene of their operations, not one
could have survived."

"Didn't you mention a case of this kind on the Irrawaddy?" I asked.

"Yes," was the reply; "and I know of what you are thinking.  The
steamers of the Irrawaddy flotilla have a corrugated-iron roof over the
top deck.  The Thug must have been lying up there as the Colassie
passed on the deck below."

"But, Smith, what is the motive of the Call?" I continued.

"Partly religious," he explained, "and partly to wake the victims!  You
are perhaps going to ask me how Dr. Fu-Manchu has obtained power over
such people as phansigars?  I can only reply that Dr. Fu-Manchu has
secret knowledge of which, so far, we know absolutely nothing; but,
despite all, at last I begin to score."

"You do," I agreed; "but your victory took you near to death."

"I owe my life to you, Petrie," he said.  "Once to your strength of
arm, and once to--"

"Don't speak of her, Smith," I interrupted.  "Dr. Fu-Manchu may have
discovered the part she played!  In which event--"

"God help her!"



CHAPTER XVI


UPON the following day we were afoot again, and shortly at handgrips
with the enemy.  In retrospect, that restless time offers a chaotic
prospect, with no peaceful spot amid its turmoils.

All that was reposeful in nature seemed to have become an irony and a
mockery to us--who knew how an evil demigod had his sacrificial altars
amid our sweetest groves.  This idea ruled strongly in my mind upon
that soft autumnal day.

"The net is closing in," said Nayland Smith.

"Let us hope upon a big catch," I replied, with a laugh.

Beyond where the Thames tided slumberously seaward showed the roofs of
Royal Windsor, the castle towers showing through the autumn haze.  The
peace of beautiful Thames-side was about us.

This was one of the few tangible clews upon which thus far we had
chanced; but at last it seemed indeed that we were narrowing the
resources of that enemy of the white race who was writing his name over
England in characters of blood.  To capture Dr. Fu-Manchu we did not
hope; but at least there was every promise of destroying one of the
enemy's strongholds.

We had circled upon the map a tract of country cut by the Thames, with
Windsor for its center.  Within that circle was the house from which
miraculously we had escaped--a house used by the most highly organized
group in the history of criminology.  So much we knew.  Even if we
found the house, and this was likely enough, to find it vacated by
Fu-Manchu and his mysterious servants we were prepared.  But it would
be a base destroyed.

We were working upon a methodical plan, and although our cooperators
were invisible, these numbered no fewer than twelve--all of them
experienced men.  Thus far we had drawn blank, but the place for which
Smith and I were making now came clearly into view:  an old mansion
situated in extensive walled grounds.  Leaving the river behind us, we
turned sharply to the right along a lane flanked by a high wall.  On an
open patch of ground, as we passed, I noted a gypsy caravan.  An old
woman was seated on the steps, her wrinkled face bent, her chin resting
in the palm of her hand.

I scarcely glanced at her, but pressed on, nor did I notice that my
friend no longer was beside me.  I was all anxiety to come to some
point from whence I might obtain a view of the house; all anxiety to
know if this was the abode of our mysterious enemy--the place where he
worked amid his weird company, where he bred his deadly scorpions and
his bacilli, reared his poisonous fungi, from whence he dispatched his
murder ministers.  Above all, perhaps, I wondered if this would prove
to be the hiding-place of the beautiful slave girl who was such a
potent factor in the Doctor's plans, but a two-edged sword which yet we
hoped to turn upon Fu-Manchu. Even in the hands of a master, a woman's
beauty is a dangerous weapon.

A cry rang out behind me.  I turned quickly.  And a singular sight met
my gaze.

Nayland Smith was engaged in a furious struggle with the old gypsy
woman!  His long arms clasped about her, he was roughly dragging her
out into the roadway, she fighting like a wild thing--silently,
fiercely.

Smith often surprised me, but at that sight, frankly, I thought that he
was become bereft of reason.  I ran back; and I had almost reached the
scene of this incredible contest, and Smith now was evidently hard put
to it to hold his own when a man, swarthy, with big rings in his ears,
leaped from the caravan.

One quick glance he threw in our direction, and made off towards the
river.

Smith twisted round upon me, never releasing his hold of the woman.

"After him, Petrie!" he cried.  "After him.  Don't let him escape.
It's a dacoit!"

My brain in a confused whirl; my mind yet disposed to a belief that my
friend had lost his senses, the word "dacoit" was sufficient.

I started down the road after the fleetly running man.  Never once did
he glance behind him, so that he evidently had occasion to fear
pursuit.  The dusty road rang beneath my flying footsteps.  That sense
of fantasy, which claimed me often enough in those days of our struggle
with the titanic genius whose victory meant the victory of the yellow
races over the white, now had me fast in its grip again.  I was an
actor in one of those dream-scenes of the grim Fu-Manchu drama.

Out over the grass and down to the river's brink ran the gypsy who was
no gypsy, but one of that far more sinister brotherhood, the dacoits.
I was close upon his heels.  But I was not prepared for him to leap in
among the rushes at the margin of the stream; and seeing him do this I
pulled up quickly.  Straight into the water he plunged; and I saw that
he held some object in his hand.  He waded out; he dived; and as I
gained the bank and looked to right and left he had vanished
completely.  Only ever-widening rings showed where he had been. I had
him.

For directly he rose to the surface he would be visible from either
bank, and with the police whistle which I carried I could, if
necessary, summon one of the men in hiding across the stream.  I
waited.  A wild-fowl floated serenely past, untroubled by this strange
invasion of his precincts.  A full minute I waited.  From the lane
behind me came Smith's voice:

"Don't let him escape, Petrie!"

Never lifting my eyes from the water, I waved my hand reassuringly.
But still the dacoit did not rise.  I searched the surface in all
directions as far as my eyes could reach; but no swimmer showed above
it.  Then it was that I concluded he had dived too deeply, become
entangled in the weeds and was drowned.  With a final glance to right
and left and some feeling of awe at this sudden tragedy--this grim
going out of a life at glorious noonday--I turned away.  Smith had the
woman securely; but I had not taken five steps towards him when a faint
splash behind warned me.  Instinctively I ducked.  From whence that
saving instinct arose I cannot surmise, but to it I owed my life.  For
as I rapidly lowered my head, something hummed past me, something that
flew out over the grass bank, and fell with a jangle upon the dusty
roadside.  A knife!

I turned and bounded back to the river's brink.  I heard a faint cry
behind me, which could only have come from the gypsy woman.  Nothing
disturbed the calm surface of the water.  The reach was lonely of
rowers.  Out by the farther bank a girl was poling a punt along, and
her white-clad figure was the only living thing that moved upon the
river within the range of the most expert knife-thrower.

To say that I was nonplused is to say less than the truth; I was
amazed.  That it was the dacoit who had shown me this murderous
attention I could not doubt.  But where in Heaven's name WAS he?  He
could not humanly have remained below water for so long; yet he
certainly was not above, was not upon the surface, concealed amongst
the reeds, nor hidden upon the bank.

There, in the bright sunshine, a consciousness of the eerie possessed
me.  It was with an uncomfortable feeling that my phantom foe might be
aiming a second knife at my back that I turned away and hastened
towards Smith.  My fearful expectations were not realized, and I picked
up the little weapon which had so narrowly missed me, and with it in my
hand rejoined my friend.

He was standing with one arm closely clasped about the apparently
exhausted woman, and her dark eyes were fixed upon him with an
extraordinary expression.

"What does it mean, Smith?" I began.

But he interrupted me.

"Where is the dacoit?" he demanded rapidly.

"Since he seemingly possesses the attributes of a fish," I replied, "I
cannot pretend to say."

The gypsy woman lifted her eyes to mine and laughed.  Her laughter was
musical, not that of such an old hag as Smith held captive; it was
familiar, too.

I started and looked closely into the wizened face.

"He's tricked you," said Smith, an angry note in his voice.  "What is
that you have in your hand?"

I showed him the knife, and told him how it had come into my possession.

"I know," he rapped.  "I saw it.  He was in the water not three yards
from where you stood.  You must have seen him.  Was there nothing
visible?"

"Nothing."

The woman laughed again, and again I wondered.

"A wild-fowl," I added; "nothing else."

"A wild-fowl," snapped Smith.  "If you will consult your recollections
of the habits of wild-fowl you will see that this particular specimen
was a RARA AVIS. It's an old trick, Petrie, but a good one, for it is
used in decoying.  A dacoit's head was concealed in that wild-fowl!
It's useless.  He has certainly made good his escape by now."

"Smith," I said, somewhat crestfallen, "why are you detaining this
gypsy woman?"

"Gypsy woman!" he laughed, hugging her tightly as she made an impatient
movement.  "Use your eyes, old man."

He jerked the frowsy wig from her head, and beneath was a cloud of
disordered hair that shimmered in the sunlight.

"A wet sponge will do the rest," he said.

Into my eyes, widely opened in wonder, looked the dark eyes of the
captive; and beneath the disguise I picked out the charming features of
the slave girl.  There were tears on the whitened lashes, and she was
submissive now.

"This time," said my friend hardly, "we have fairly captured her--and
we will hold her."

From somewhere up-stream came a faint call.

"The dacoit!"

Nayland Smith's lean body straightened; he stood alert, strung up.

Another call answered, and a third responded.  Then followed the flatly
shrill note of a police whistle, and I noted a column of black vapor
rising beyond the wall, mounting straight to heaven as the smoke of a
welcome offering.

The surrounded mansion was in flames!

"Curse it!" rapped Smith.  "So this time we were right.  But, of
course, he has had ample opportunity to remove his effects.  I knew
that.  The man's daring is incredible.  He has given himself till the
very last moment--and we blundered upon two of the outposts."

"I lost one."

"No matter.  We have the other.  I expect no further arrests, and the
house will have been so well fired by the Doctor's servants that
nothing can save it.  I fear its ashes will afford us no clew, Petrie;
but we have secured a lever which should serve to disturb Fu-Manchu's
world."

He glanced at the queer figure which hung submissively in his arms.
She looked up proudly.

"You need not hold me so tight," she said, in her soft voice.  "I will
come with you."

That I moved amid singular happenings, you, who have borne with me thus
far, have learned, and that I witnessed many curious scenes; but of the
many such scenes in that race-drama wherein Nayland Smith and Dr.
Fu-Manchu played the leading parts, I remember none more bizarre than
the one at my rooms that afternoon.

Without delay, and without taking the Scotland Yard men into our
confidence, we had hurried our prisoner back to London, for my friend's
authority was supreme.  A strange trio we were, and one which excited
no little comment; but the journey came to an end at last.  Now we were
in my unpretentious sitting-room--the room wherein Smith first had
unfolded to me the story of Dr. Fu-Manchu and of the great secret
society which sought to upset the balance of the world--to place Europe
and America beneath the scepter of Cathay.

I sat with my elbows upon the writing-table, my chin in my hands; Smith
restlessly paced the floor, relighting his blackened briar a dozen
times in as many minutes.  In the big arm-chair the pseudogypsy was
curled up.  A brief toilet had converted the wizened old woman's face
into that of a fascinatingly pretty girl.  Wildly picturesque she
looked in her ragged Romany garb.  She held a cigarette in her fingers
and watched us through lowered lashes.

Seemingly, with true Oriental fatalism, she was quite reconciled to her
fate, and ever and anon she would bestow upon me a glance from her
beautiful eyes which few men, I say with confidence, could have
sustained unmoved.  Though I could not be blind to the emotions of that
passionate Eastern soul, yet I strove not to think of them.  Accomplice
of an arch-murderer she might be; but she was dangerously lovely.

"That man who was with you," said Smith, suddenly turning upon her,
"was in Burma up till quite recently.  He murdered a fisherman thirty
miles above Prome only a month before I left.  The D.S.P. had placed a
thousand rupees on his head.  Am I right?"

The girl shrugged her shoulders.

"Suppose--What then?" she asked.

"Suppose I handed you over to the police?" suggested Smith.  But he
spoke without conviction, for in the recent past we both had owed our
lives to this girl.

"As you please," she replied.  "The police would learn nothing."

"You do not belong to the Far East," my friend said abruptly.  "You may
have Eastern blood in your veins, but you are no kin of Fu-Manchu."

"That is true," she admitted, and knocked the ash from her cigarette.

"Will you tell me where to find Fu-Manchu?"

She shrugged her shoulders again, glancing eloquently in my direction.

Smith walked to the door.

"I must make out my report, Petrie," he said.  "Look after the
prisoner."

And as the door closed softly behind him I knew what was expected of
me; but, honestly, I shirked my responsibility.  What attitude should I
adopt?  How should I go about my delicate task?  In a quandary, I stood
watching the girl whom singular circumstances saw captive in my rooms.

"You do not think we would harm you?" I began awkwardly.  "No harm
shall come to you.  Why will you not trust us?"

She raised her brilliant eyes.

"Of what avail has your protection been to some of those others," she
said; "those others whom HE has sought for?"

Alas!  it had been of none, and I knew it well.  I thought I grasped
the drift of her words.

"You mean that if you speak, Fu-Manchu will find a way of killing you?"

"Of killing ME!" she flashed scornfully.  "Do I seem one to fear for
myself?"

"Then what do you fear?" I asked, in surprise.

She looked at me oddly.

"When I was seized and sold for a slave," she answered slowly, "my
sister was taken, too, and my brother--a child." She spoke the word
with a tender intonation, and her slight accent rendered it the more
soft.  "My sister died in the desert.  My brother lived.  Better, far
better, that he had died, too."

Her words impressed me intensely.

"Of what are you speaking?" I questioned.  "You speak of slave-raids,
of the desert.  Where did these things take place?  Of what country are
you?"

"Does it matter?" she questioned in turn.  "Of what country am I?  A
slave has no country, no name."

"No name!" I cried.

"You may call me Karamaneh," she said.  "As Karamaneh I was sold to Dr.
Fu-Manchu, and my brother also he purchased.  We were cheap at the
price he paid."  She laughed shortly, wildly.

"But he has spent a lot of money to educate me.  My brother is all that
is left to me in the world to love, and he is in the power of Dr.
Fu-Manchu. You understand?  It is upon him the blow will fall.  You ask
me to fight against Fu-Manchu. You talk of protection.  Did your
protection save Sir Crichton Davey?"

I shook my head sadly.

"You understand now why I cannot disobey my master's orders--why, if I
would, I dare not betray him."

I walked to the window and looked out.  How could I answer her
arguments?  What could I say?  I heard the rustle of her ragged skirts,
and she who called herself Karamaneh stood beside me.  She laid her
hand upon my arm.

"Let me go," she pleaded.  "He will kill him!  He will kill him!"

Her voice shook with emotion.

"He cannot revenge himself upon your brother when you are in no way to
blame," I said angrily.  "We arrested you; you are not here of your own
free will."

She drew her breath sharply, clutching at my arm, and in her eyes I
could read that she was forcing her mind to some arduous decision.

"Listen."  She was speaking rapidly, nervously.  "If I help you to take
Dr. Fu-Manchu--tell you where he is to be found ALONE--will you promise
me, solemnly promise me, that you will immediately go to the place
where I shall guide you and release my brother; that you will let us
both go free?"

"I will," I said, without hesitation.  "You may rest assured of it."

"But there is a condition," she added.

"What is it?"

"When I have told you where to capture him you must release me."

I hesitated.  Smith often had accused me of weakness where this girl
was concerned.  What now was my plain duty?  That she would utterly
decline to speak under any circumstances unless it suited her to do so
I felt assured.  If she spoke the truth, in her proposed bargain there
was no personal element; her conduct I now viewed in a new light.
Humanity, I thought, dictated that I accept her proposal; policy also.

"I agree," I said, and looked into her eyes, which were aflame now with
emotion, an excitement perhaps of anticipation, perhaps of fear.

She laid her hands upon my shoulders.

"You will be careful?" she said pleadingly.

"For your sake," I replied, "I shall."

"Not for my sake."

"Then for your brother's."

"No." Her voice had sunk to a whisper.  "For your own."



CHAPTER XVII


A COOL breeze met us, blowing from the lower reaches of the Thames.
Far behind us twinkled the dim lights of Low's Cottages, the last
regular habitations abutting upon the marshes.  Between us and the
cottages stretched half-a-mile of lush land through which at this
season there were, however, numerous dry paths.  Before us the flats
again, a dull, monotonous expanse beneath the moon, with the promise of
the cool breeze that the river flowed round the bend ahead.  It was
very quiet.  Only the sound of our footsteps, as Nayland Smith and I
tramped steadily towards our goal, broke the stillness of that lonely
place.

Not once but many times, within the last twenty minutes, I had thought
that we were ill-advised to adventure alone upon the capture of the
formidable Chinese doctor; but we were following out our compact with
Karamaneh; and one of her stipulations had been that the police must
not be acquainted with her share in the matter.

A light came into view far ahead of us.

"That's the light, Petrie," said Smith.  "If we keep that straight
before us, according to our information we shall strike the hulk."

I grasped the revolver in my pocket, and the presence of the little
weapon was curiously reassuring.  I have endeavored, perhaps in
extenuation of my own fears, to explain how about Dr. Fu-Manchu there
rested an atmosphere of horror, peculiar, unique.  He was not as other
men.  The dread that he inspired in all with whom he came in contact,
the terrors which he controlled and hurled at whomsoever cumbered his
path, rendered him an object supremely sinister.  I despair of
conveying to those who may read this account any but the coldest
conception of the man's evil power.

Smith stopped suddenly and grasped my arm.  We stood listening.
"What?" I asked.

"You heard nothing?"

I shook my head.

Smith was peering back over the marshes in his oddly alert way.  He
turned to me, and his tanned face wore a peculiar expression.

"You don't think it's a trap?" he jerked.  "We are trusting her
blindly."

Strange it may seem, but something within me rose in arms against the
innuendo.

"I don't," I said shortly.

He nodded.  We pressed on.

Ten minutes' steady tramping brought us within sight of the Thames.
Smith and I both had noticed how Fu-Manchu's activities centered always
about the London river.  Undoubtedly it was his highway, his line of
communication, along which he moved his mysterious forces.  The opium
den off Shadwell Highway, the mansion upstream, at that hour a
smoldering shell; now the hulk lying off the marshes.  Always he made
his headquarters upon the river.  It was significant; and even if
to-night's expedition should fail, this was a clew for our future
guidance.

"Bear to the right," directed Smith.  "We must reconnoiter before
making our attack."

We took a path that led directly to the river bank.  Before us lay the
gray expanse of water, and out upon it moved the busy shipping of the
great mercantile city.  But this life of the river seemed widely
removed from us.  The lonely spot where we stood had no kinship with
human activity.  Its dreariness illuminated by the brilliant moon, it
looked indeed a fit setting for an act in such a drama as that wherein
we played our parts.  When I had lain in the East End opium den, when
upon such another night as this I had looked out upon a peaceful
Norfolk countryside, the same knowledge of aloofness, of utter
detachment from the world of living men, had come to me.

Silently Smith stared out at the distant moving lights.

"Karamaneh merely means a slave," he said irrelevantly.

I made no comment.

"There's the hulk," he added.

The bank upon which we stood dipped in mud slopes to the level of the
running tide.  Seaward it rose higher, and by a narrow inlet--for we
perceived that we were upon a kind of promontory--a rough pier showed.
Beneath it was a shadowy shape in the patch of gloom which the moon
threw far out upon the softly eddying water.  Only one dim light was
visible amid this darkness.

"That will be the cabin," said Smith.

Acting upon our prearranged plan, we turned and walked up on to the
staging above the hulk.  A wooden ladder led out and down to the deck
below, and was loosely lashed to a ring on the pier.  With every motion
of the tidal waters the ladder rose and fell, its rings creaking
harshly, against the crazy railing.

"How are we going to get down without being detected?" whispered Smith.

"We've got to risk it," I said grimly.

Without further words my friend climbed around on to the ladder and
commenced to descend.  I waited until his head disappeared below the
level, and, clumsily enough, prepared to follow him.

The hulk at that moment giving an unusually heavy heave, I stumbled,
and for one breathless moment looked down upon the glittering surface
streaking the darkness beneath me.  My foot had slipped, and but that I
had a firm grip upon the top rung, that instant, most probably, had
marked the end of my share in the fight with Fu-Manchu. As it was I had
a narrow escape.  I felt something slip from my hip pocket, but the
weird creaking of the ladder, the groans of the laboring hulk, and the
lapping of the waves about the staging drowned the sound of the splash
as my revolver dropped into the river.

Rather white-faced, I think, I joined Smith on the deck.  He had
witnessed my accident, but--

"We must risk it," he whispered in my ear.  "We dare not turn back now."

He plunged into the semi-darkness, making for the cabin, I perforce
following.

At the bottom of the ladder we came fully into the light streaming out
from the singular apartments at the entrance to which we found
ourselves.  It was fitted up as a laboratory.  A glimpse I had of
shelves loaded with jars and bottles, of a table strewn with scientific
paraphernalia, with retorts, with tubes of extraordinary shapes,
holding living organisms, and with instruments--some of them of a form
unknown to my experience.  I saw too that books, papers and rolls of
parchment littered the bare wooden floor.  Then Smith's voice rose
above the confused sounds about me, incisive, commanding:

"I have you covered, Dr. Fu-Manchu!"

For Fu-Manchu sat at the table.

The picture that he presented at that moment is one which persistently
clings in my memory.  In his long, yellow robe, his masklike,
intellectual face bent forward amongst the riot of singular objects
upon the table, his great, high brow gleaming in the light of the
shaded lamp above him, and with the abnormal eyes, filmed and green,
raised to us, he seemed a figure from the realms of delirium.  But,
most amazing circumstance of all, he and his surroundings tallied,
almost identically, with the dream-picture which had come to me as I
lay chained in the cell!

Some of the large jars about the place held anatomy specimens.  A faint
smell of opium hung in the air, and playing with the tassel of one of
the cushions upon which, as upon a divan, Fu-Manchu was seated, leaped
and chattered a little marmoset.

That was an electric moment.  I was prepared for anything--for anything
except for what really happened.

The doctor's wonderful, evil face betrayed no hint of emotion.  The
lids flickered over the filmed eyes, and their greenness grew
momentarily brighter, and filmed over again.

"Put up your hands!" rapped Smith, "and attempt no tricks." His voice
quivered with excitement.  "The game's up, Fu-Manchu. Find something to
tie him up with, Petrie."

I moved forward to Smith's side, and was about to pass him in the
narrow doorway.  The hulk moved beneath our feet like a living thing
groaning, creaking--and the water lapped about the rotten woodwork with
a sound infinitely dreary.

"Put up your hands!" ordered Smith imperatively.

Fu-Manchu slowly raised his hands, and a smile dawned upon the
impassive features--a smile that had no mirth in it, only menace,
revealing as it did his even, discolored teeth, but leaving the filmed
eyes inanimate, dull, inhuman.

He spoke softly, sibilantly.

"I would advise Dr. Petrie to glance behind him before he moves."

Smith's keen gray eyes never for a moment quitted the speaker.  The
gleaming barrel moved not a hair's-breadth. But I glanced quickly over
my shoulder--and stifled a cry of pure horror.

A wicked, pock-marked face, with wolfish fangs bared, and jaundiced
eyes squinting obliquely into mine, was within two inches of me.  A
lean, brown hand and arm, the great thews standing up like cords, held
a crescent-shaped knife a fraction of an inch above my jugular vein.  A
slight movement must have dispatched me; a sweep of the fearful weapon,
I doubt not, would have severed my head from my body.

"Smith!" I whispered hoarsely, "don't look around.  For God's sake keep
him covered.  But a dacoit has his knife at my throat!"

Then, for the first time, Smith's hand trembled.  But his glance never
wavered from the malignant, emotionless countenance of Dr. Fu-Manchu.
He clenched his teeth hard, so that the muscles stood out prominently
upon his jaw.

I suppose that silence which followed my awful discovery prevailed but
a few seconds.  To me those seconds were each a lingering death.

There, below, in that groaning hulk, I knew more of icy terror than any
of our meetings with the murder-group had brought to me before; and
through my brain throbbed a thought: the girl had betrayed us!

"You supposed that I was alone?" suggested Fu-Manchu. "So I was."

Yet no trace of fear had broken through the impassive yellow mask when
we had entered.

"But my faithful servant followed you," he added.  "I thank him.  The
honors, Mr. Smith, are mine, I think?"

Smith made no reply.  I divined that he was thinking furiously.
Fu-Manchu moved his hand to caress the marmoset, which had leaped
playfully upon his shoulder, and crouched there gibing at us in a
whistling voice.

"Don't stir!" said Smith savagely.  "I warn you!"

Fu-Manchu kept his hand raised.

"May I ask you how you discovered my retreat?" he asked.

"This hulk has been watched since dawn," lied Smith brazenly.

"So?"  The Doctor's filmed eyes cleared for a moment.  "And to-day you
compelled me to burn a house, and you have captured one of my people,
too.  I congratulate you.  She would not betray me though lashed with
scorpions."

The great gleaming knife was so near to my neck that a sheet of
notepaper could scarcely have been slipped between blade and vein, I
think; but my heart throbbed even more wildly when I heard those words.

"An impasse," said Fu-Manchu. "I have a proposal to make.  I assume
that you would not accept my word for anything?"

"I would not," replied Smith promptly.

"Therefore," pursued the Chinaman, and the occasional guttural alone
marred his perfect English, "I must accept yours.  Of your resources
outside this cabin I know nothing.  You, I take it, know as little of
mine.  My Burmese friend and Doctor Petrie will lead the way, then; you
and I will follow.  We will strike out across the marsh for, say, three
hundred yards.  You will then place your pistol on the ground, pledging
me your word to leave it there.  I shall further require your assurance
that you will make no attempt upon me until I have retraced my steps.
I and my good servant will withdraw, leaving you, at the expiration of
the specified period, to act as you see fit.  Is it agreed?"

Smith hesitated.  Then:

"The dacoit must leave his knife also," he stipulated.  Fu-Manchu
smiled his evil smile again.

"Agreed.  Shall I lead the way?"

"No!" rapped Smith.  "Petrie and the dacoit first; then you; I last."

A guttural word of command from Fu-Manchu, and we left the cabin, with
its evil odors, its mortuary specimens, and its strange instruments,
and in the order arranged mounted to the deck.

"It will be awkward on the ladder," said Fu-Manchu. "Dr. Petrie, I will
accept your word to adhere to the terms."

"I promise," I said, the words almost choking me.

We mounted the rising and dipping ladder, all reached the pier, and
strode out across the flats, the Chinaman always under close cover of
Smith's revolver.  Round about our feet, now leaping ahead, now
gamboling back, came and went the marmoset.  The dacoit, dressed solely
in a dark loin-cloth, walked beside me, carrying his huge knife, and
sometimes glancing at me with his blood-lustful eyes.  Never before, I
venture to say, had an autumn moon lighted such a scene in that place.

"Here we part," said Fu-Manchu, and spoke another word to his follower.

The man threw his knife upon the ground.

"Search him, Petrie," directed Smith.  "He may have a second concealed."

The Doctor consented; and I passed my hands over the man's scanty
garments.

"Now search Fu-Manchu."

This also I did.  And never have I experienced a similar sense of
revulsion from any human being.  I shuddered, as though I had touched a
venomous reptile.

Smith threw down his revolver.

"I curse myself for an honorable fool," he said.  "No one could dispute
my right to shoot you dead where you stand."

Knowing him as I did, I could tell from the suppressed passion in
Smith's voice that only by his unhesitating acceptance of my friend's
word, and implicit faith in his keeping it, had Dr. Fu-Manchu escaped
just retribution at that moment.  Fiend though he was, I admired his
courage; for all this he, too, must have known.

The Doctor turned, and with the dacoit walked back.  Nayland Smith's
next move filled me with surprise.  For just as, silently, I was
thanking God for my escape, my friend began shedding his coat, collar,
and waistcoat.

"Pocket your valuables, and do the same," he muttered hoarsely.  "We
have a poor chance but we are both fairly fit.  To-night, Petrie, we
literally have to run for our lives."

We live in a peaceful age, wherein it falls to the lot of few men to
owe their survival to their fleetness of foot.  At Smith's words I
realized in a flash that such was to be our fate to-night.

I have said that the hulk lay off a sort of promontory.  East and west,
then, we had nothing to hope for.  To the south was Fu-Manchu; and even
as, stripped of our heavier garments, we started to run northward, the
weird signal of a dacoit rose on the night and was answered--was
answered again.

"Three, at least," hissed Smith; "three armed dacoits.  Hopeless."

"Take the revolver," I cried.  "Smith, it's--"

"No," he rapped, through clenched teeth.  "A servant of the Crown in
the East makes his motto:  'Keep your word, though it break your neck!'
I don't think we need fear it being used against us.  Fu-Manchu avoids
noisy methods."

So back we ran, over the course by which, earlier, we had come.  It
was, roughly, a mile to the first building--a deserted cottage--and
another quarter of a mile to any that was occupied.

Our chance of meeting a living soul, other than Fu-Manchu's dacoits,
was practically nil.

At first we ran easily, for it was the second half-mile that would
decide our fate.  The professional murderers who pursued us ran like
panthers, I knew; and I dare not allow my mind to dwell upon those
yellow figures with the curved, gleaming knives.  For a long time
neither of us looked back.

On we ran, and on--silently, doggedly.

Then a hissing breath from Smith warned me what to expect.

Should I, too, look back?  Yes.  It was impossible to resist the horrid
fascination.

I threw a quick glance over my shoulder.

And never while I live shall I forget what I saw.  Two of the pursuing
dacoits had outdistanced their fellow (or fellows), and were actually
within three hundred yards of us.

More like dreadful animals they looked than human beings, running bent
forward, with their faces curiously uptilted.  The brilliant moonlight
gleamed upon bared teeth, as I could see, even at that distance, even
in that quick, agonized glance, and it gleamed upon the crescent-shaped
knives.

"As hard as you can go now," panted Smith.  "We must make an attempt to
break into the empty cottage.  Only chance."

I had never in my younger days been a notable runner; for Smith I
cannot speak.  But I am confident that the next half-mile was done in
time that would not have disgraced a crack man.  Not once again did
either of us look back.  Yard upon yard we raced forward together.  My
heart seemed to be bursting.  My leg muscles throbbed with pain.  At
last, with the empty cottage in sight, it came to that pass with me
when another three yards looks as unattainable as three miles.  Once I
stumbled.

"My God!" came from Smith weakly.

But I recovered myself.  Bare feet pattered close upon our heels, and
panting breaths told how even Fu-Manchu's bloodhounds were hard put to
it by the killing pace we had made.

"Smith," I whispered, "look in front.  Someone!"

As through a red mist I had seen a dark shape detach itself from the
shadows of the cottage, and merge into them again.  It could only be
another dacoit; but Smith, not heeding, or not hearing, my faintly
whispered words, crashed open the gate and hurled himself blindly at
the door.

It burst open before him with a resounding boom, and he pitched forward
into the interior darkness.  Flat upon the floor he lay, for as, with a
last effort, I gained the threshold and dragged myself within, I almost
fell over his recumbent body.

Madly I snatched at the door.  His foot held it open.  I kicked the
foot away, and banged the door to.  As I turned, the leading dacoit,
his eyes starting from their sockets, his face the face of a demon
leaped wildly through the gateway.

That Smith had burst the latch I felt assured, but by some divine
accident my weak hands found the bolt.  With the last ounce of strength
spared to me I thrust it home in the rusty socket--as a full six inches
of shining steel split the middle panel and protruded above my head.

I dropped, sprawling, beside my friend.

A terrific blow shattered every pane of glass in the solitary window,
and one of the grinning animal faces looked in.

"Sorry, old man," whispered Smith, and his voice was barely audible.
Weakly he grasped my hand.  "My fault.  I shouldn't have let you come."

From the corner of the room where the black shadows lay flicked a long
tongue of flame.  Muffled, staccato, came the report.  And the yellow
face at the window was blotted out.

One wild cry, ending in a rattling gasp, told of a dacoit gone to his
account.

A gray figure glided past me and was silhouetted against the broken
window.

Again the pistol sent its message into the night, and again came the
reply to tell how well and truly that message had been delivered.  In
the stillness, intense by sharp contrast, the sound of bare soles
pattering upon the path outside stole to me.  Two runners, I thought
there were, so that four dacoits must have been upon our trail.  The
room was full of pungent smoke.  I staggered to my feet as the gray
figure with the revolver turned towards me.  Something familiar there
was in that long, gray garment, and now I perceived why I had thought
so.

It was my gray rain-coat.

"Karamaneh," I whispered.

And Smith, with difficulty, supporting himself upright, and holding
fast to the ledge beside the door, muttered something hoarsely, which
sounded like "God bless her!"

The girl, trembling now, placed her hands upon my shoulders with that
quaint, pathetic gesture peculiarly her own.

"I followed you," she said.  "Did you not know I should follow you?
But I had to hide because of another who was following also.  I had but
just reached this place when I saw you running towards me."

She broke off and turned to Smith.

"This is your pistol," she said naively.  "I found it in your bag.
Will you please take it!"

He took it without a word.  Perhaps he could not trust himself to speak.

"Now go.  Hurry!" she said.  "You are not safe yet."

"But you?" I asked.

"You have failed," she replied.  "I must go back to him.  There is no
other way."

Strangely sick at heart for a man who has just had a miraculous escape
from death, I opened the door.  Coatless, disheveled figures, my friend
and I stepped out into the moonlight.

Hideous under the pale rays lay the two dead men, their glazed eyes
upcast to the peace of the blue heavens.  Karamaneh had shot to kill,
for both had bullets in their brains.  If God ever planned a more
complex nature than hers--a nature more tumultuous with conflicting
passions, I cannot conceive of it.  Yet her beauty was of the sweetest;
and in some respects she had the heart of a child--this girl who could
shoot so straight.

"We must send the police to-night," said Smith.  "Or the papers--"

"Hurry," came the girl's voice commandingly from the darkness of the
cottage.

It was a singular situation.  My very soul rebelled against it.  But
what could we do?

"Tell us where we can communicate," began Smith.

"Hurry.  I shall be suspected.  Do you want him to kill me!"

We moved away.  All was very still now, and the lights glimmered
faintly ahead.  Not a wisp of cloud brushed the moon's disk.

"Good-night, Karamaneh," I whispered softly.



CHAPTER XVIII


TO pursue further the adventure on the marshes would be a task at once
useless and thankless.  In its actual and in its dramatic significance
it concluded with our parting from Karamaneh.  And in that parting I
learned what Shakespeare meant by "Sweet Sorrow."

There was a world, I learned, upon the confines of which I stood, a
world whose very existence hitherto had been unsuspected.  Not the
least of the mysteries which peeped from the darkness was the mystery
of the heart of Karamaneh.  I sought to forget her.  I sought to
remember her.  Indeed, in the latter task I found one more congenial,
yet, in the direction and extent of the ideas which it engendered, one
that led me to a precipice.

East and West may not intermingle.  As a student of world-policies, as
a physician, I admitted, could not deny, that truth.  Again, if
Karamaneh were to be credited, she had come to Fu-Manchu a slave; had
fallen into the hands of the raiders; had crossed the desert with the
slave-drivers; had known the house of the slave-dealer. Could it be?
With the fading of the crescent of Islam I had thought such things to
have passed.

But if it were so?

At the mere thought of a girl so deliciously beautiful in the brutal
power of slavers, I found myself grinding my teeth--closing my eyes in
a futile attempt to blot out the pictures called up.

Then, at such times, I would find myself discrediting her story.
Again, I would find myself wondering, vaguely, why such problems
persistently haunted my mind.  But, always, my heart had an answer.
And I was a medical man, who sought to build up a family
practice!--who, in short, a very little time ago, had thought himself
past the hot follies of youth and entered upon that staid phase of life
wherein the daily problems of the medical profession hold absolute sway
and such seductive follies as dark eyes and red lips find--no
place--are excluded!

But it is foreign from the purpose of this plain record to enlist
sympathy for the recorder.  The topic upon which, here, I have ventured
to touch was one fascinating enough to me; I cannot hope that it holds
equal charm for any other.  Let us return to that which it is my duty
to narrate and let us forget my brief digression.

It is a fact, singular, but true, that few Londoners know London.
Under the guidance of my friend, Nayland Smith, I had learned, since
his return from Burma, how there are haunts in the very heart of the
metropolis whose existence is unsuspected by all but the few; places
unknown even to the ubiquitous copy-hunting pressman.

Into a quiet thoroughfare not two minutes' walk from the pulsing life
of Leicester Square, Smith led the way.  Before a door sandwiched in
between two dingy shop-fronts he paused and turned to me.

"Whatever you see or hear," he cautioned, "express no surprise."

A cab had dropped us at the corner.  We both wore dark suits and fez
caps with black silk tassels.  My complexion had been artificially
reduced to a shade resembling the deep tan of my friend's. He rang the
bell beside the door.

Almost immediately it was opened by a negro woman--gross, hideously
ugly.

Smith uttered something in voluble Arabic.  As a linguist his
attainments were a constant source of surprise.  The jargons of the
East, Far and Near, he spoke as his mother tongue.  The woman
immediately displayed the utmost servility, ushering us into an
ill-lighted passage, with every evidence of profound respect.
Following this passage, and passing an inner door, from beyond whence
proceeded bursts of discordant music, we entered a little room bare of
furniture, with coarse matting for mural decorations, and a patternless
red carpet on the floor.  In a niche burned a common metal lamp.

The negress left us, and close upon her departure entered a very aged
man with a long patriarchal beard, who greeted my friend with dignified
courtesy.  Following a brief conversation, the aged Arab--for such he
appeared to be--drew aside a strip of matting, revealing a dark recess.
Placing his finger upon his lips, he silently invited us to enter.

We did so, and the mat was dropped behind us.  The sounds of crude
music were now much plainer, and as Smith slipped a little shutter
aside I gave a start of surprise.

Beyond lay a fairly large apartment, having divans or low seats around
three of its walls.  These divans were occupied by a motley company of
Turks, Egyptians, Greeks, and others; and I noted two Chinese.  Most of
them smoked cigarettes, and some were drinking.  A girl was performing
a sinuous dance upon the square carpet occupying the center of the
floor, accompanied by a young negro woman upon a guitar and by several
members of the assembly who clapped their hands to the music or hummed
a low, monotonous melody.

Shortly after our entrance into the passage the dance terminated, and
the dancer fled through a curtained door at the farther end of the
room.  A buzz of conversation arose.

"It is a sort of combined Wekaleh and place of entertainment for a
certain class of Oriental residents in, or visiting, London," Smith
whispered.  "The old gentleman who has just left us is the proprietor
or host.  I have been here before on several occasions, but have always
drawn blank."

He was peering out eagerly into the strange clubroom.

"Whom do you expect to find here?" I asked.

"It is a recognized meeting-place," said Smith in my ear.  "It is
almost a certainty that some of the Fu-Manchu group use it at times."

Curiously I surveyed all these faces which were visible from the
spy-hole.  My eyes rested particularly upon the two Chinamen.

"Do you recognize anyone?" I whispered.

"S-sh!"

Smith was craning his neck so as to command a sight of the doorway.  He
obstructed my view, and only by his tense attitude and some subtle wave
of excitement which he communicated to me did I know that a new arrival
was entering.  The hum of conversation died away, and in the ensuing
silence I heard the rustle of draperies.  The newcomer was a woman,
then.  Fearful of making any noise I yet managed to get my eyes to the
level of the shutter.

A woman in an elegant, flame-colored opera cloak was crossing the floor
and coming in the direction of the spot where we were concealed.  She
wore a soft silk scarf about her head, a fold partly draped across her
face.  A momentary view I had of her--and wildly incongruous she looked
in that place--and she had disappeared from sight, having approached
someone invisible who sat upon the divan immediately beneath our point
of vantage.

From the way in which the company gazed towards her, I divined that she
was no habitue of the place, but that her presence there was as greatly
surprising to those in the room as it was to me.

Whom could she be, this elegant lady who visited such a haunt--who, it
would seem, was so anxious to disguise her identity, but who was
dressed for a society function rather than for a midnight expedition of
so unusual a character?

I began a whispered question, but Smith tugged at my arm to silence me.
His excitement was intense.  Had his keener powers enabled him to
recognize the unknown?

A faint but most peculiar perfume stole to my nostrils, a perfume which
seemed to contain the very soul of Eastern mystery.  Only one woman
known to me used that perfume--Karamaneh.

Then it was she!

At last my friend's vigilance had been rewarded.  Eagerly I bent
forward.  Smith literally quivered in anticipation of a discovery.
Again the strange perfume was wafted to our hiding-place; and, glancing
neither to right nor left, I saw Karamaneh--for that it was she I no
longer doubted--recross the room and disappear.

"The man she spoke to," hissed Smith.  "We must see him!  We must have
him!"

He pulled the mat aside and stepped out into the anteroom.  It was
empty.  Down the passage he led, and we were almost come to the door of
the big room when it was thrown open and a man came rapidly out, opened
the street door before Smith could reach him, and was gone, slamming it
fast.

I can swear that we were not four seconds behind him, but when we
gained the street it was empty.  Our quarry had disappeared as if by
magic.  A big car was just turning the corner towards Leicester Square.

"That is the girl," rapped Smith; "but where in Heaven's name is the
man to whom she brought the message?  I would give a hundred pounds to
know what business is afoot.  To think that we have had such an
opportunity and have thrown it away!"

Angry and nonplused he stood at the corner, looking in the direction of
the crowded thoroughfare into which the car had been driven, tugging at
the lobe of his ear, as was his habit in such moments of perplexity,
and sharply clicking his teeth together.  I, too, was very thoughtful.
Clews were few enough in those days of our war with that giant
antagonist.  The mere thought that our trifling error of judgment
tonight in tarrying a moment too long might mean the victory of
Fu-Manchu, might mean the turning of the balance which a wise
providence had adjusted between the white and yellow races, was
appalling.

To Smith and me, who knew something of the secret influences at work to
overthrow the Indian Empire, to place, it might be, the whole of Europe
and America beneath an Eastern rule, it seemed that a great yellow hand
was stretched out over London.  Doctor Fu-Manchu was a menace to the
civilized world.  Yet his very existence remained unsuspected by the
millions whose fate he sought to command.

"Into what dark scheme have we had a glimpse?" said Smith.  "What State
secret is to be filched?  What faithful servant of the British Raj to
be spirited away?  Upon whom now has Fu-Manchu set his death seal?"

"Karamaneh on this occasion may not have been acting as an emissary of
the Doctor's."

"I feel assured that she was, Petrie.  Of the many whom this yellow
cloud may at any moment envelop, to which one did her message refer?
The man's instructions were urgent.  Witness his hasty departure.
Curse it!"  He dashed his right clenched fist into the palm of his left
hand.  "I never had a glimpse of his face, first to last.  To think of
the hours I have spent in that place, in anticipation of just such a
meeting--only to bungle the opportunity when it arose!" Scarce heeding
what course we followed, we had come now to Piccadilly Circus, and had
walked out into the heart of the night's traffic.  I just dragged Smith
aside in time to save him from the off-front wheel of a big Mercedes.
Then the traffic was blocked, and we found ourselves dangerously penned
in amidst the press of vehicles.

Somehow we extricated ourselves, jeered at by taxi-drivers, who
naturally took us for two simple Oriental visitors, and just before
that impassable barrier the arm of a London policeman was lowered and
the stream moved on a faint breath of perfume became perceptible to me.

The cabs and cars about us were actually beginning to move again, and
there was nothing for it but a hasty retreat to the curb.  I could not
pause to glance behind, but instinctively I knew that someone--someone
who used that rare, fragrant essence--was leaning from the window of
the car.

"ANDAMAN--SECOND!" floated a soft whisper.

We gained the pavement as the pent-up traffic roared upon its way.

Smith had not noticed the perfume worn by the unseen occupant of the
car, had not detected the whispered words.  But I had no reason to
doubt my senses, and I knew beyond question that Fu-Manchu's lovely
slave, Karamaneh, had been within a yard of us, had recognized us, and
had uttered those words for our guidance.

On regaining my rooms, we devoted a whole hour to considering what
"ANDAMAN--SECOND" could possibly mean.

"Hang it all!" cried Smith, "it might mean anything--the result of a
race, for instance."

He burst into one of his rare laughs, and began to stuff broadcut
mixture into his briar.  I could see that he had no intention of
turning in.

"I can think of no one--no one of note--in London at present upon whom
it is likely that Fu-Manchu would make an attempt," he said, "except
ourselves."

We began methodically to go through the long list of names which we had
compiled and to review our elaborate notes.  When, at last, I turned
in, the night had given place to a new day.  But sleep evaded me, and
"ANDAMAN--SECOND" danced like a mocking phantom through my brain.

Then I heard the telephone bell.  I heard Smith speaking.

A minute afterwards he was in my room, his face very grim.

"I knew as well as if I'd seen it with my own eyes that some black
business was afoot last night," he said.  "And it was.  Within
pistol-shot of us!  Someone has got at Frank Norris West.  Inspector
Weymouth has just been on the 'phone."

"Norris West!" I cried, "the American aviator--and inventor--"

"Of the West aero-torpedo--yes.  He's been offering it to the English
War Office, and they have delayed too long."

I got out of bed.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that the potentialities have attracted the attention of Dr.
Fu-Manchu!"

Those words operated electrically.  I do not know how long I was in
dressing, how long a time elapsed ere the cab for which Smith had
'phoned arrived, how many precious minutes were lost upon the journey;
but, in a nervous whirl, these things slipped into the past, like the
telegraph poles seen from the window of an express, and, still in that
tense state, we came upon the scene of this newest outrage.

Mr. Norris West, whose lean, stoic face had latterly figured so often
in the daily press, lay upon the floor in the little entrance hall of
his chambers, flat upon his back, with the telephone receiver in his
hand.

The outer door had been forced by the police.  They had had to remove a
piece of the paneling to get at the bolt.  A medical man was leaning
over the recumbent figure in the striped pajama suit, and
Detective-Inspector Weymouth stood watching him as Smith and I entered.

"He has been heavily drugged," said the Doctor, sniffing at West's
lips, "but I cannot say what drug has been used.  It isn't chloroform
or anything of that nature.  He can safely be left to sleep it off, I
think."

I agreed, after a brief examination.

"It's most extraordinary," said Weymouth.  "He rang up the Yard about
an hour ago and said his chambers had been invaded by Chinamen.  Then
the man at the 'phone plainly heard him fall.  When we got here his
front door was bolted, as you've seen, and the windows are three floors
up.  Nothing is disturbed."

"The plans of the aero-torpedo?" rapped Smith.

"I take it they are in the safe in his bedroom," replied the detective,
"and that is locked all right.  I think he must have taken an overdose
of something and had illusions.  But in case there was anything in what
he mumbled (you could hardly understand him) I thought it as well to
send for you."

"Quite right," said Smith rapidly.  His eyes shone like steel.  "Lay
him on the bed, Inspector."

It was done, and my friend walked into the bedroom.

Save that the bed was disordered, showing that West had been sleeping
in it, there were no evidences of the extraordinary invasion mentioned
by the drugged man.  It was a small room--the chambers were of that
kind which are let furnished--and very neat.  A safe with a combination
lock stood in a corner.  The window was open about a foot at the top.
Smith tried the safe and found it fast.  He stood for a moment clicking
his teeth together, by which I knew him to be perplexed.  He walked
over to the window and threw it up.  We both looked out.

"You see," came Weymouth's voice, "it is altogether too far from the
court below for our cunning Chinese friends to have fixed a ladder with
one of their bamboo rod arrangements.  And, even if they could get up
there, it's too far down from the roof--two more stories--for them to
have fixed it from there."

Smith nodded thoughtfully, at the same time trying the strength of an
iron bar which ran from side to side of the window-sill. Suddenly he
stooped, with a sharp exclamation.  Bending over his shoulder I saw
what it was that had attracted his attention.

Clearly imprinted upon the dust-coated gray stone of the sill was a
confused series of marks--tracks call them what you will.

Smith straightened himself and turned a wondering look upon me.

"What is it, Petrie?" he said amazedly.  "Some kind of bird has been
here, and recently."  Inspector Weymouth in turn examined the marks.

"I never saw bird tracks like these, Mr. Smith," he muttered.

Smith was tugging at the lobe of his ear.

"No," he returned reflectively; "come to think of it, neither did I."

He twisted around, looking at the man on the bed.

"Do you think it was all an illusion?" asked the detective.

"What about those marks on the window-sill?" jerked Smith.

He began restlessly pacing about the room, sometimes stopping before
the locked safe and frequently glancing at Norris West.

Suddenly he walked out and briefly examined the other apartments, only
to return again to the bedroom.

"Petrie," he said, "we are losing valuable time.  West must be aroused."

Inspector Weymouth stared.

Smith turned to me impatiently.  The doctor summoned by the police had
gone.  "Is there no means of arousing him, Petrie?" he said.

"Doubtless," I replied, "he could be revived if one but knew what drug
he had taken."

My friend began his restless pacing again, and suddenly pounced upon a
little phial of tabloids which had been hidden behind some books on a
shelf near the bed.  He uttered a triumphant exclamation.

"See what we have here, Petrie!" he directed, handing the phial to me.
"It bears no label."

I crushed one of the tabloids in my palm and applied my tongue to the
powder.

"Some preparation of chloral hydrate," I pronounced.

"A sleeping draught?" suggested Smith eagerly.

"We might try," I said, and scribbled a formula upon a leaf of my
notebook.  I asked Weymouth to send the man who accompanied him to call
up the nearest chemist and procure the antidote.

During the man's absence Smith stood contemplating the unconscious
inventor, a peculiar expression upon his bronzed face.

"ANDAMAN--SECOND," he muttered.  "Shall we find the key to the riddle
here, I wonder?"

Inspector Weymouth, who had concluded, I think, that the mysterious
telephone call was due to mental aberration on the part of Norris West,
was gnawing at his mustache impatiently when his assistant returned.  I
administered the powerful restorative, and although, as later
transpired, chloral was not responsible for West's condition, the
antidote operated successfully.

Norris West struggled into a sitting position, and looked about him
with haggard eyes.

"The Chinamen!  The Chinamen!" he muttered.

He sprang to his feet, glaring wildly at Smith and me, reeled, and
almost fell.

"It is all right," I said, supporting him.  "I'm a doctor.  You have
been unwell."

"Have the police come?" he burst out.  "The safe--try the safe!"

"It's all right," said Inspector Weymouth.  "The safe is locked--unless
someone else knows the combination, there's nothing to worry about."

"No one else knows it," said West, and staggered unsteadily to the
safe.  Clearly his mind was in a dazed condition, but, setting his jaw
with a curious expression of grim determination, he collected his
thoughts and opened the safe.

He bent down, looking in.

In some way the knowledge came to me that the curtain was about to rise
on a new and surprising act in the Fu-Manchu drama.

"God!" he whispered--we could scarcely hear him--"the plans are gone!"



CHAPTER XIX


I HAVE never seen a man quite so surprised as Inspector Weymouth.

"This is absolutely incredible!" he said.  "There's only one door to
your chambers.  We found it bolted from the inside."

"Yes," groaned West, pressing his hand to his forehead.  "I bolted it
myself at eleven o'clock, when I came in."

"No human being could climb up or down to your windows.  The plans of
the aero-torpedo were inside a safe."

"I put them there myself," said West, "on returning from the War
Office, and I had occasion to consult them after I had come in and
bolted the door.  I returned them to the safe and locked it.  That it
was still locked you saw for yourselves, and no one else in the world
knows the combination."

"But the plans have gone," said Weymouth.  "It's magic!  How was it
done?  What happened last night, sir?  What did you mean when you rang
us up?"

Smith during this colloquy was pacing rapidly up and down the room.  He
turned abruptly to the aviator.

"Every fact you can remember, Mr. West, please," he said tersely; "and
be as brief as you possibly can."

"I came in, as I said," explained West, "about eleven o'clock and
having made some notes relating to an interview arranged for this
morning, I locked the plans in the safe and turned in."

"There was no one hidden anywhere in your chambers?" snapped Smith.

"There was not," replied West.  "I looked.  I invariably do.  Almost
immediately, I went to sleep."

"How many chloral tabloids did you take?" I interrupted.

Norris West turned to me with a slow smile.

"You're cute, Doctor," he said.  "I took two.  It's a bad habit, but I
can't sleep without.  They are specially made up for me by a firm in
Philadelphia."

"How long sleep lasted, when it became filled with uncanny dreams, and
when those dreams merged into reality, I do not know--shall never know,
I suppose.  But out of the dreamless void a face came to
me--closer--closer--and peered into mine.

"I was in that curious condition wherein one knows that one is dreaming
and seeks to awaken--to escape.  But a nightmare-like oppression held
me.  So I must lie and gaze into the seared yellow face that hung over
me, for it would drop so close that I could trace the cicatrized scar
running from the left ear to the corner of the mouth, and drawing up
the lip like the lip of a snarling cur.  I could look into the
malignant, jaundiced eyes; I could hear the dim whispering of the
distorted mouth--whispering that seemed to counsel something--something
evil.  That whispering intimacy was indescribably repulsive.  Then the
wicked yellow face would be withdrawn, and would recede until it became
as a pin's head in the darkness far above me--almost like a glutinous,
liquid thing.

"Somehow I got upon my feet, or dreamed I did--God knows where dreaming
ended and reality began.  Gentlemen maybe you'll conclude I went mad
last night, but as I stood holding on to the bedrail I heard the blood
throbbing through my arteries with a noise like a screw-propeller. I
started laughing.  The laughter issued from my lips with a shrill
whistling sound that pierced me with physical pain and seemed to wake
the echoes of the whole block.  I thought myself I was going mad, and I
tried to command my will--to break the power of the chloral--for I
concluded that I had accidentally taken an overdose.

"Then the walls of my bedroom started to recede, till at last I stood
holding on to a bed which had shrunk to the size of a doll's cot, in
the middle of a room like Trafalgar Square!  That window yonder was
such a long way off I could scarcely see it, but I could just detect a
Chinaman--the owner of the evil yellow face--creeping through it.  He
was followed by another, who was enormously tall--so tall that, as they
came towards me (and it seemed to take them something like half-an-hour
to cross this incredible apartment in my dream), the second Chinaman
seemed to tower over me like a cypress-tree.

"I looked up to his face--his wicked, hairless face.  Mr. Smith,
whatever age I live to, I'll never forget that face I saw last
night--or did I see it?  God knows!  The pointed chin, the great dome
of a forehead, and the eyes--heavens above, the huge green eyes!"

He shook like a sick man, and I glanced at Smith significantly.
Inspector Weymouth was stroking his mustache, and his mingled
expression of incredulity and curiosity was singular to behold.

"The pumping of my blood," continued West, "seemed to be bursting my
body; the room kept expanding and contracting.  One time the ceiling
would be pressing down on my head, and the Chinamen--sometimes I
thought there were two of them, sometimes twenty--became dwarfs; the
next instant it shot up like the roof of a cathedral.

"'Can I be awake,' I whispered, 'or am I dreaming?'

"My whisper went sweeping in windy echoes about the walls, and was lost
in the shadowy distances up under the invisible roof.

"'You are dreaming--yes.'  It was the Chinaman with the green eyes who
was addressing me, and the words that he uttered appeared to occupy an
immeasurable time in the utterance.  'But at will I can render the
subjective objective.' I don't think I can have dreamed those singular
words, gentlemen.

"And then he fixed the green eyes upon me--the blazing green eyes.  I
made no attempt to move.  They seemed to be draining me of something
vital--bleeding me of every drop of mental power.  The whole nightmare
room grew green, and I felt that I was being absorbed into its
greenness.

"I can see what you think.  And even in my delirium--if it was
delirium--I thought the same.  Now comes the climax of my
experience--my vision--I don't know what to call it.  I SAW some WORDS
issuing from my own mouth!"

Inspector Weymouth coughed discreetly.  Smith whisked round upon him.

"This will be outside your experience, Inspector, I know," he said,
"but Mr. Norris West's statement does not surprise me in the least.  I
know to what the experience was due."

Weymouth stared incredulously, but a dawning perception of the truth
was come to me, too.

"How I SAW a SOUND I just won't attempt to explain; I simply tell you I
saw it.  Somehow I knew I had betrayed myself--given something away."

"You gave away the secret of the lock combination!" rapped Smith.

"Eh!" grunted Weymouth.

But West went on hoarsely:

"Just before the blank came a name flashed before my eyes.  It was
'Bayard Taylor.'"

At that I interrupted West.

"I understand!" I cried.  "I understand!  Another name has just
occurred to me, Mr. West--that of the Frenchman, Moreau."

"You have solved the mystery," said Smith.  "It was natural Mr. West
should have thought of the American traveler, Bayard Taylor, though.
Moreau's book is purely scientific.  He has probably never read it."

"I fought with the stupor that was overcoming me," continued West,
"striving to associate that vaguely familiar name with the fantastic
things through which I moved.  It seemed to me that the room was empty
again.  I made for the hall, for the telephone.  I could scarcely drag
my feet along.  It seemed to take me half-an-hour to get there.  I
remember calling up Scotland Yard, and I remember no more."

There was a short, tense interval.

In some respects I was nonplused; but, frankly, I think Inspector
Weymouth considered West insane.  Smith, his hands locked behind his
back, stared out of the window.

"ANDAMAN--SECOND" he said suddenly.  "Weymouth, when is the first train
to Tilbury?"

"Five twenty-two from Fenchurch Street," replied the Scotland Yard man
promptly.

"Too late!" rapped my friend.  "Jump in a taxi and pick up two good men
to leave for China at once!  Then go and charter a special to Tilbury
to leave in twenty-five minutes.  Order another cab to wait outside for
me."

Weymouth was palpably amazed, but Smith's tone was imperative.  The
Inspector departed hastily.

I stared at Smith, not comprehending what prompted this singular course.

"Now that you can think clearly, Mr. West," he said, "of what does your
experience remind you?  The errors of perception regarding time; the
idea of SEEING A SOUND; the illusion that the room alternately
increased and diminished in size; your fit of laughter, and the
recollection of the name Bayard Taylor.  Since evidently you are
familiar with that author's work--'The Land of the Saracen,' is it
not?--these symptoms of the attack should be familiar, I think."

Norris West pressed his hands to his evidently aching head.

"Bayard Taylor's book," he said dully.  "Yes! . . . I know of what my
brain sought to remind me--Taylor's account of his experience under
hashish. Mr. Smith, someone doped me with hashish!"

Smith nodded grimly.

"Cannabis indica," I said--"Indian hemp.  That is what you were drugged
with.  I have no doubt that now you experience a feeling of nausea and
intense thirst, with aching in the muscles, particularly the deltoid.
I think you must have taken at least fifteen grains."

Smith stopped his perambulations immediately in front of West, looking
into his dulled eyes.

"Someone visited your chambers last night," he said slowly, "and for
your chloral tabloids substituted some containing hashish, or perhaps
not pure hashish.  Fu-Manchu is a profound chemist."

Norris West started.

"Someone substituted--" he began.

"Exactly," said Smith, looking at him keenly; "someone who was here
yesterday.  Have you any idea whom it could have been?"

West hesitated.  "I had a visitor in the afternoon," he said, seemingly
speaking the words unwillingly, "but--"

"A lady?" jerked Smith.  "I suggest that it was a lady."

West nodded.

"You're quite right," he admitted.  "I don't know how you arrived at
the conclusion, but a lady whose acquaintance I made recently--a
foreign lady."

"Karamaneh!" snapped Smith.

"I don't know what you mean in the least, but she came here--knowing
this to be my present address--to ask me to protect her from a
mysterious man who had followed her right from Charing Cross.  She said
he was down in the lobby, and naturally, I asked her to wait here
whilst I went and sent him about his business."

He laughed shortly.

"I am over-old," he said, "to be guyed by a woman.  You spoke just now
of someone called Fu-Manchu. Is that the crook I'm indebted to for the
loss of my plans?  I've had attempts made by agents of two European
governments, but a Chinaman is a novelty."

"This Chinaman," Smith assured him, "is the greatest novelty of his
age.  You recognize your symptoms now from Bayard Taylor's account?"

"Mr. West's statement," I said, "ran closely parallel with portions of
Moreau's book on 'Hashish Hallucinations.' Only Fu-Manchu, I think,
would have thought of employing Indian hemp.  I doubt, though, if it
was pure Cannabis indica. At any rate, it acted as an opiate--"

"And drugged Mr. West," interrupted Smith, "sufficiently to enable
Fu-Manchu to enter unobserved."

"Whilst it produced symptoms which rendered him an easy subject for the
Doctor's influence.  It is difficult in this case to separate
hallucination from reality, but I think, Mr. West, that Fu-Manchu must
have exercised an hypnotic influence upon your drugged brain.  We have
evidence that he dragged from you the secret of the combination."

"God knows we have!" said West.  "But who is this Fu-Manchu, and
how--how in the name of wonder did he get into my chambers?"

Smith pulled out his watch.  "That," he said rapidly, "I cannot delay
to explain if I'm to intercept the man who has the plans.  Come along,
Petrie; we must be at Tilbury within the hour.  There is just a bare
chance."



CHAPTER XX


IT was with my mind in a condition of unique perplexity that I hurried
with Nayland Smith into the cab which waited and dashed off through the
streets in which the busy life of London just stirred into being.  I
suppose I need not say that I could penetrate no farther into this,
Fu-Manchu's latest plot, than the drugging of Norris West with hashish?
Of his having been so drugged with Indian hemp--that is, converted
temporarily into a maniac--would have been evident to any medical man
who had heard his statement and noted the distressing after-effects
which conclusively pointed to Indian hemp poisoning.  Knowing something
of the Chinese doctor's powers, I could understand that he might have
extracted from West the secret of the combination by sheer force of
will whilst the American was under the influence of the drug.  But I
could not understand how Fu-Manchu had gained access to locked chambers
on the third story of a building.

"Smith," I said, "those bird tracks on the window-sill--they furnish
the key to a mystery which is puzzling me."

"They do," said Smith, glancing impatiently at his watch.  "Consult
your memories of Dr. Fu-Manchu's habits--especially your memories of
his pets."

I reviewed in my mind the creatures gruesome and terrible which
surrounded the Chinaman--the scorpions, the bacteria, the noxious
things which were the weapons wherewith he visited death upon
whomsoever opposed the establishment of a potential Yellow Empire.  But
no one of them could account for the imprints upon the dust of West's
window-sill.

"You puzzle me, Smith," I confessed.  "There is much in this
extraordinary case that puzzles me.  I can think of nothing to account
for the marks."

"Have you thought of Fu-Manchu's marmoset?" asked Smith.

"The monkey!" I cried.

"They were the footprints of a small ape," my friend continued.  "For a
moment I was deceived as you were, and believed them to be the tracks
of a large bird; but I have seen the footprints of apes before now, and
a marmoset, though an American variety, I believe, is not unlike some
of the apes of Burma."

"I am still in the dark," I said.

"It is pure hypothesis," continued Smith, "but here is the theory--in
lieu of a better one it covers the facts.  The marmoset--and it is
contrary from the character of Fu-Manchu to keep any creature for mere
amusement--is trained to perform certain duties.

"You observed the waterspout running up beside the window; you observed
the iron bar intended to prevent a window-cleaner from falling out?
For an ape the climb from the court below to the sill above was a
simple one.  He carried a cord, probably attached to his body.  He
climbed on to the sill, over the bar, and climbed down again.  By means
of this cord a rope was pulled up over the bar, by means of the rope
one of those ladders of silk and bamboo.  One of the Doctor's servants
ascended--probably to ascertain if the hashish had acted successfully.
That was the yellow dream-face which West saw bending over him.  Then
followed the Doctor, and to his giant will the drugged brain of West
was a pliant instrument which he bent to his own ends.  The court would
be deserted at that hour of the night, and, in any event, directly
after the ascent the ladder probably was pulled up, only to be lowered
again when West had revealed the secret of his own safe and Fu-Manchu
had secured the plans.  The reclosing of the safe and the removing of
the hashish tabloids, leaving no clew beyond the delirious ravings of a
drug slave--for so anyone unacquainted with the East must have
construed West's story--is particularly characteristic.  His own
tabloids were returned, of course.  The sparing of his life alone is a
refinement of art which points to a past master."

"Karamaneh was the decoy again?" I said shortly.

"Certainly.  Hers was the task to ascertain West's habits and to
substitute the tabloids.  She it was who waited in the luxurious
car--infinitely less likely to attract attention at that hour in that
place than a modest taxi--and received the stolen plans.  She did her
work well.

"Poor Karamaneh; she had no alternative!  I said I would have given a
hundred pounds for a sight of the messenger's face--the man to whom she
handed them.  I would give a thousand now!"

"ANDAMAN--SECOND," I said.  "What did she mean?"

"Then it has not dawned upon you?" cried Smith excitedly, as the cab
turned into the station.  "The ANDAMAN, of the Oriental Navigation
Company's line, leaves Tilbury with the next tide for China ports.  Our
man is a second-class passenger.  I am wiring to delay her departure,
and the special should get us to the docks inside of forty minutes."


Very vividly I can reconstruct in my mind that dash to the docks
through the early autumn morning.  My friend being invested with
extraordinary powers from the highest authorities, by Inspector
Weymouth's instructions the line had been cleared all the way.

Something of the tremendous importance of Nayland Smith's mission came
home to me as we hurried on to the platform, escorted by the
station-master, and the five of us--for Weymouth had two other C.I.D.
men with him--took our seats in the special.

Off we went on top speed, roaring through stations, where a glimpse
might be had of wondering officials upon the platforms, for a special
train was a novelty on the line.  All ordinary traffic arrangements
were held up until we had passed through, and we reached Tilbury in
time which I doubt not constituted a record.

There at the docks was the great liner, delayed in her passage to the
Far East by the will of my royally empowered companion.  It was novel,
and infinitely exciting.

"Mr. Commissioner Nayland Smith?" said the captain interrogatively,
when we were shown into his room, and looked from one to another and
back to the telegraph form which he held in his hand.

"The same, Captain," said my friend briskly.  "I shall not detain you a
moment.  I am instructing the authorities at all ports east of Suez to
apprehend one of your second-class passengers, should he leave the
ship.  He is in possession of plans which practically belong to the
British Government!"

"Why not arrest him now?" asked the seaman bluntly.

"Because I don't know him.  All second-class passengers' baggage will
be searched as they land.  I am hoping something from that, if all else
fails.  But I want you privately to instruct your stewards to watch any
passenger of Oriental nationality, and to cooperate with the two
Scotland Yard men who are joining you for the voyage.  I look to you to
recover these plans, Captain."

"I will do my best," the captain assured him.

Then, from amid the heterogeneous group on the dockside, we were
watching the liner depart, and Nayland Smith's expression was a very
singular one.  Inspector Weymouth stood with us, a badly puzzled man.
Then occurred the extraordinary incident which to this day remains
inexplicable, for, clearly heard by all three of us, a guttural voice
said:

"Another victory for China, Mr. Nayland Smith!"

I turned as though I had been stung.  Smith turned also.  My eyes
passed from face to face of the group about us.  None was familiar.  No
one apparently had moved away.

But the voice was the voice of DOCTOR FU-MANCHU.

As I write of it, now, I can appreciate the difference between that
happening, as it appealed to us, and as it must appeal to you who
merely read of it.  It is beyond my powers to convey the sense of the
uncanny which the episode created.  Yet, even as I think of it, I feel
again, though in lesser degree, the chill which seemed to creep through
my veins that day.

From my brief history of the wonderful and evil man who once walked, by
the way unsuspected, in the midst of the people of England--near whom
you, personally, may at some time unwittingly, have been--I am aware
that much must be omitted.  I have no space for lengthy examinations of
the many points but ill illuminated with which it is dotted.  This
incident at the docks is but one such point.

Another is the singular vision which appeared to me whilst I lay in the
cellar of the house near Windsor.  It has since struck me that it
possessed peculiarities akin to those of a hashish hallucination.  Can
it be that we were drugged on that occasion with Indian hemp?  Cannabis
indica is a treacherous narcotic, as every medical man knows full well;
but Fu-Manchu's knowledge of the drug was far in advance of our slow
science.  West's experience proved so much.

I may have neglected opportunities--later, you shall judge if I did
so--opportunities to glean for the West some of the strange knowledge
of the secret East.  Perhaps, at a future time, I may rectify my
errors.  Perhaps that wisdom--the wisdom stored up by Fu-Manchu--is
lost forever.  There is, however, at least a bare possibility of its
survival, in part; and I do not wholly despair of one day publishing a
scientific sequel to this record of our dealings with the Chinese
doctor.



CHAPTER XXI


TIME wore on and seemingly brought us no nearer, or very little nearer,
to our goal.  So carefully had my friend Nayland Smith excluded the
matter from the press that, whilst public interest was much engaged
with some of the events in the skein of mystery which he had come from
Burma to unravel, outside the Secret Service and the special department
of Scotland Yard few people recognized that the several murders,
robberies and disappearances formed each a link in a chain; fewer still
were aware that a baneful presence was in our midst, that a past master
of the evil arts lay concealed somewhere in the metropolis; searched
for by the keenest wits which the authorities could direct to the task,
but eluding all--triumphant, contemptuous.

One link in that chain Smith himself for long failed to recognize.  Yet
it was a big and important link.

"Petrie," he said to me one morning, "listen to this:

"'. . . In sight of Shanghai--a clear, dark night.  On board the deck of
a junk passing close to seaward of the Andaman a blue flare started up.
A minute later there was a cry of "Man overboard!"

"'Mr. Lewin, the chief officer, who was in charge, stopped the engines.
A boat was put out.  But no one was recovered.  There are sharks in
these waters.  A fairly heavy sea was running.

"'Inquiry showed the missing man to be a James Edwards, second class,
booked to Shanghai.  I think the name was assumed.  The man was some
sort of Oriental, and we had had him under close observation. . . .'"

"That's the end of their report," exclaimed Smith.

He referred to the two C.I.D. men who had joined the Andaman at the
moment of her departure from Tilbury.

He carefully lighted his pipe.

"IS it a victory for China, Petrie?" he said softly.

"Until the great war reveals her secret resources--and I pray that the
day be not in my time--we shall never know," I replied.

Smith began striding up and down the room.

"Whose name," he jerked abruptly, "stands now at the head of our danger
list?"

He referred to a list which we had compiled of the notable men
intervening between the evil genius who secretly had invaded London and
the triumph of his cause--the triumph of the yellow races.

I glanced at our notes.  "Lord Southery," I replied.

Smith tossed the morning paper across to me.

"Look," he said shortly.  "He's dead."

I read the account of the peer's death, and glanced at the long
obituary notice; but no more than glanced at it.  He had but recently
returned from the East, and now, after a short illness, had died from
some affection of the heart.  There had been no intimation that his
illness was of a serious nature, and even Smith, who watched over his
flock--the flock threatened by the wolf, Fu-Manchu--with jealous zeal,
had not suspected that the end was so near.

"Do you think he died a natural death, Smith?" I asked.

My friend reached across the table and rested the tip of a long finger
upon one of the sub-headings to the account:


"SIR FRANK NARCOMBE SUMMONED TOO LATE."


"You see," said Smith, "Southery died during the night, but Sir Frank
Narcombe, arriving a few minutes later, unhesitatingly pronounced death
to be due to syncope, and seems to have noticed nothing suspicious."

I looked at him thoughtfully.

"Sir Frank is a great physician," I said slowly; "but we must remember
he would be looking for nothing suspicious."

"We must remember," rapped Smith, "that, if Dr. Fu-Manchu is
responsible for Southery's death, except to the eye of an expert there
would be nothing suspicious to see.  Fu-Manchu leaves no clews."

"Are you going around?" I asked.

Smith shrugged his shoulders.

"I think not," he replied.  "Either a greater One than Fu-Manchu has
taken Lord Southery, or the yellow doctor has done his work so well
that no trace remains of his presence in the matter."

Leaving his breakfast untasted, he wandered aimlessly about the room,
littering the hearth with matches as he constantly relighted his pipe,
which went out every few minutes.

"It's no good, Petrie," he burst out suddenly; "it cannot be a
coincidence.  We must go around and see him."

An hour later we stood in the silent room, with its drawn blinds and
its deathful atmosphere, looking down at the pale, intellectual face of
Henry Stradwick, Lord Southery, the greatest engineer of his day.  The
mind that lay behind that splendid brow had planned the construction of
the railway for which Russia had paid so great a price, had conceived
the scheme for the canal which, in the near future, was to bring two
great continents, a full week's journey nearer one to the other.  But
now it would plan no more.

"He had latterly developed symptoms of angina pectoris," explained the
family physician; "but I had not anticipated a fatal termination so
soon.  I was called about two o'clock this morning, and found Lord
Southery in a dangerously exhausted condition.  I did all that was
possible, and Sir Frank Narcombe was sent for.  But shortly before his
arrival the patient expired."

"I understand, Doctor, that you had been treating Lord Southery for
angina pectoris?" I said.

"Yes," was the reply, "for some months."

"You regard the circumstances of his end as entirely consistent with a
death from that cause?"

"Certainly.  Do you observe anything unusual yourself?  Sir Frank
Narcombe quite agrees with me.  There is surely no room for doubt?"

"No," said Smith, tugging reflectively at the lobe of his left ear.
"We do not question the accuracy of your diagnosis in any way, sir."

The physician seemed puzzled.

"But am I not right in supposing that you are connected with the
police?" asked the physician.

"Neither Dr. Petrie nor myself are in any way connected with the
police," answered Smith.  "But, nevertheless, I look to you to regard
our recent questions as confidential."

As we were leaving the house, hushed awesomely in deference to the
unseen visitor who had touched Lord Southery with gray, cold fingers,
Smith paused, detaining a black-coated man who passed us on the stairs.

"You were Lord Southery's valet?"

The man bowed.

"Were you in the room at the moment of his fatal seizure?"

"I was, sir."

"Did you see or hear anything unusual--anything unaccountable?"

"Nothing, sir."

"No strange sounds outside the house, for instance?"

The man shook his head, and Smith, taking my arm, passed out into the
street.

"Perhaps this business is making me imaginative," he said; "but there
seems to be something tainting the air in yonder--something peculiar to
houses whose doors bear the invisible death-mark of Fu-Manchu."

"You are right, Smith!" I cried.  "I hesitated to mention the matter,
but I, too, have developed some other sense which warns me of the
Doctor's presence.  Although there is not a scrap of confirmatory
evidence, I am as sure that he has brought about Lord Southery's death
as if I had seen him strike the blow."

It was in that torturing frame of mind--chained, helpless, in our
ignorance, or by reason of the Chinaman's supernormal genius--that we
lived throughout the ensuing days.  My friend began to look like a man
consumed by a burning fever.  Yet, we could not act.

In the growing dark of an evening shortly following I stood idly
turning over some of the works exposed for sale outside a second-hand
bookseller's in New Oxford Street.  One dealing with the secret
societies of China struck me as being likely to prove instructive, and
I was about to call the shopman when I was startled to feel a hand
clutch my arm.

I turned around rapidly--and was looking into the darkly beautiful eyes
of Karamaneh!  She--whom I had seen in so many guises--was dressed in a
perfectly fitting walking habit, and had much of her wonderful hair
concealed beneath a fashionable hat.

She glanced about her apprehensively.

"Quick!  Come round the corner.  I must speak to you," she said, her
musical voice thrilling with excitement.

I never was quite master of myself in her presence.  He must have been
a man of ice who could have been, I think, for her beauty had all the
bouquet of rarity; she was a mystery--and mystery adds charm to a
woman.  Probably she should have been under arrest, but I know I would
have risked much to save her from it.

As we turned into a quiet thoroughfare she stopped and said:

"I am in distress.  You have often asked me to enable you to capture
Dr. Fu-Manchu. I am prepared to do so."

I could scarcely believe that I heard right.

"Your brother--" I began.

She seized my arm entreatingly, looking into my eyes.

"You are a doctor," she said.  "I want you to come and see him now."

"What!  Is he in London?"

"He is at the house of Dr. Fu-Manchu."

"And you would have me--"

"Accompany me there, yes."

Nayland Smith, I doubted not, would have counseled me against trusting
my life in the hands of this girl with the pleading eyes.  Yet I did
so, and with little hesitation; shortly we were traveling eastward in a
closed cab.  Karamaneh was very silent, but always when I turned to her
I found her big eyes fixed upon me with an expression in which there
was pleading, in which there was sorrow, in which there was something
else--something indefinable, yet strangely disturbing.  The cabman she
had directed to drive to the lower end of the Commercial Road, the
neighborhood of the new docks, and the scene of one of our early
adventures with Dr. Fu-Manchu. The mantle of dusk had closed about the
squalid activity of the East End streets as we neared our destination.
Aliens of every shade of color were about us now, emerging from
burrow-like alleys into the glare of the lamps upon the main road.  In
the short space of the drive we had passed from the bright world of the
West into the dubious underworld of the East.

I do not know that Karamaneh moved; but in sympathy, as we neared the
abode of the sinister Chinaman, she crept nearer to me, and when the
cab was discharged, and together we walked down a narrow turning
leading riverward, she clung to me fearfully, hesitated, and even
seemed upon the point of turning back.  But, overcoming her fear or
repugnance, she led on, through a maze of alleyways and courts, wherein
I hopelessly lost my bearings, so that it came home to me how wholly I
was in the hands of this girl whose history was so full of shadows,
whose real character was so inscrutable, whose beauty, whose charm
truly might mask the cunning of a serpent.

I spoke to her.

"S-SH!" She laid her hand upon my arm, enjoining me to silence.

The high, drab brick wall of what looked like some part of a dock
building loomed above us in the darkness, and the indescribable
stenches of the lower Thames were borne to my nostrils through a
gloomy, tunnel-like opening, beyond which whispered the river.  The
muffled clangor of waterside activity was about us.  I heard a key
grate in a lock, and Karamaneh drew me into the shadow of an open door,
entered, and closed it behind her.

For the first time I perceived, in contrast to the odors of the court
without, the fragrance of the peculiar perfume which now I had come to
associate with her.  Absolute darkness was about us, and by this
perfume alone I knew that she was near to me, until her hand touched
mine, and I was led along an uncarpeted passage and up an uncarpeted
stair.  A second door was unlocked, and I found myself in an
exquisitely furnished room, illuminated by the soft light of a shaded
lamp which stood upon a low, inlaid table amidst a perfect ocean of
silken cushions, strewn upon a Persian carpet, whose yellow richness
was lost in the shadows beyond the circle of light.

Karamaneh raised a curtain draped before a doorway, and stood listening
intently for a moment.

The silence was unbroken.

Then something stirred amid the wilderness of cushions, and two tiny
bright eyes looked up at me.  Peering closely, I succeeded in
distinguishing, crouched in that soft luxuriance, a little ape.  It was
Dr. Fu-Manchu's marmoset.  "This way," whispered Karamaneh.

Never, I thought, was a staid medical man committed to a more unwise
enterprise, but so far I had gone, and no consideration of prudence
could now be of avail.

The corridor beyond was thickly carpeted.  Following the direction of a
faint light which gleamed ahead, it proved to extend as a balcony
across one end of a spacious apartment.  Together we stood high up
there in the shadows, and looked down upon such a scene as I never
could have imagined to exist within many a mile of that district.

The place below was even more richly appointed than the room into which
first we had come.  Here, as there, piles of cushions formed splashes
of gaudy color about the floor.  Three lamps hung by chains from the
ceiling, their light softened by rich silk shades.  One wall was almost
entirely occupied by glass cases containing chemical apparatus, tubes,
retorts and other less orthodox indications of Dr. Fu-Manchu's
pursuits, whilst close against another lay the most extraordinary
object of a sufficiently extraordinary room--a low couch, upon which
was extended the motionless form of a boy.  In the light of a lamp
which hung directly above him, his olive face showed an almost
startling resemblance to that of Karamaneh--save that the girl's
coloring was more delicate.  He had black, curly hair, which stood out
prominently against the white covering upon which he lay, his hands
crossed upon his breast.

Transfixed with astonishment, I stood looking down upon him.  The
wonders of the "Arabian Nights" were wonders no longer, for here, in
East-End London, was a true magician's palace, lacking not its
beautiful slave, lacking not its enchanted prince!

"It is Aziz, my brother," said Karamaneh.

We passed down a stairway on to the floor of the apartment.  Karamaneh
knelt and bent over the boy, stroking his hair and whispering to him
lovingly.  I, too, bent over him; and I shall never forget the anxiety
in the girl's eyes as she watched me eagerly whilst I made a brief
examination.

Brief, indeed, for even ere I had touched him I knew that the comely
shell held no spark of life.  But Karamaneh fondled the cold hands, and
spoke softly in that Arabic tongue which long before I had divined must
be her native language.

Then, as I remained silent, she turned and looked at me, read the truth
in my eyes, and rose from her knees, stood rigidly upright, and
clutched me tremblingly.

"He is not dead--he is NOT dead!" she whispered, and shook me as a
child might, seeking to arouse me to a proper understanding.  "Oh, tell
me he is not--"

"I cannot," I replied gently, "for indeed he is."

"No!" she said, wild-eyed, and raising her hands to her face as though
half distraught.  "You do not understand--yet you are a doctor.  You do
not understand--"

She stopped, moaning to herself and looking from the handsome face of
the boy to me.  It was pitiful; it was uncanny.  But sorrow for the
girl predominated in my mind.

Then from somewhere I heard a sound which I had heard before in houses
occupied by Dr. Fu-Manchu--that of a muffled gong.

"Quick!"  Karamaneh had me by the arm.  "Up!  He has returned!"

She fled up the stairs to the balcony, I close at her heels.  The
shadows veiled us, the thick carpet deadened the sound of our tread, or
certainly we must have been detected by the man who entered the room we
had just quitted.

It was Dr. Fu-Manchu!

Yellow-robed, immobile, the inhuman green eyes glittering catlike even,
it seemed, before the light struck them, he threaded his way through
the archipelago of cushions and bent over the couch of Aziz.

Karamaneh dragged me down on to my knees.

"Watch!" she whispered.  "Watch!"

Dr. Fu-Manchu felt for the pulse of the boy whom a moment since I had
pronounced dead, and, stepping to the tall glass case, took out a
long-necked flask of chased gold, and from it, into a graduated glass,
he poured some drops of an amber liquid wholly unfamiliar to me.  I
watched him with all my eyes, and noted how high the liquid rose in the
measure.  He charged a needle-syringe, and, bending again over Aziz,
made an injection.

Then all the wonders I had heard of this man became possible, and with
an awe which any other physician who had examined Aziz must have felt,
I admitted him a miracle-worker. For as I watched, all but breathless,
the dead came to life!  The glow of health crept upon the olive
cheek--the boy moved--he raised his hands above his head--he sat up,
supported by the Chinese doctor!

Fu-Manchu touched some hidden bell.  A hideous yellow man with a
scarred face entered, carrying a tray upon which were a bowl containing
some steaming fluid, apparently soup, what looked like oaten cakes, and
a flask of red wine.

As the boy, exhibiting no more unusual symptoms than if he had just
awakened from a normal sleep, commenced his repast, Karamaneh drew me
gently along the passage into the room which we had first entered.  My
heart leaped wildly as the marmoset bounded past us to drop hand over
hand to the lower apartment in search of its master.

"You see," said Karamaneh, her voice quivering, "he is not dead!  But
without Fu-Manchu he is dead to me.  How can I leave him when he holds
the life of Aziz in his hand?"

"You must get me that flask, or some of its contents," I directed.
"But tell me, how does he produce the appearance of death?"

"I cannot tell you," she replied.  "I do not know.  It is something in
the wine.  In another hour Aziz will be again as you saw him.  But
see."  And, opening a little ebony box, she produced a phial half
filled with the amber liquid.

"Good!" I said, and slipped it into my pocket.  "When will be the best
time to seize Fu-Manchu and to restore your brother?"

"I will let you know," she whispered, and, opening the door, pushed me
hurriedly from the room.  "He is going away to-night to the north; but
you must not come to-night. Quick!  Quick!  Along the passage.  He may
call me at any moment."

So, with the phial in my pocket containing a potent preparation unknown
to Western science, and with a last long look into the eyes of
Karamaneh, I passed out into the narrow alley, out from the fragrant
perfumes of that mystery house into the place of Thames-side stenches.



CHAPTER XXII


"WE must arrange for the house to be raided without delay," said Smith.
"This time we are sure of our ally--"

"But we must keep our promise to her," I interrupted.

"You can look after that, Petrie," my friend said.  "I will devote the
whole of my attention to Dr. Fu-Manchu!" he added grimly.

Up and down the room he paced, gripping the blackened briar between his
teeth, so that the muscles stood out squarely upon his lean jaws.  The
bronze which spoke of the Burmese sun enhanced the brightness of his
gray eyes.

"What have I all along maintained?" he jerked, looking back at me
across his shoulder--"that, although Karamaneh was one of the strongest
weapons in the Doctor's armory, she was one which some day would be
turned against him.  That day has dawned."

"We must await word from her."

"Quite so."

He knocked out his pipe on the grate.  Then:

"Have you any idea of the nature of the fluid in the phial?"

"Not the slightest.  And I have none to spare for analytical purposes."

Nayland Smith began stuffing mixture into the hot pipe-bowl, and
dropping an almost equal quantity on the floor.

"I cannot rest, Petrie," he said.  "I am itching to get to work.  Yet,
a false move, and--" He lighted his pipe, and stood staring from the
window.

"I shall, of course, take a needle-syringe with me," I explained.

Smith made no reply.

"If I but knew the composition of the drug which produced the semblance
of death," I continued, "my fame would long survive my ashes."

My friend did not turn.  But:

"She said it was something he put in the wine?" he jerked.

"In the wine, yes."

Silence fell.  My thoughts reverted to Karamaneh, whom Dr. Fu-Manchu
held in bonds stronger than any slave-chains. For, with Aziz, her
brother, suspended between life and death, what could she do save obey
the mandates of the cunning Chinaman?  What perverted genius was his!
If that treasury of obscure wisdom which he, perhaps alone of living
men, had rifled, could but be thrown open to the sick and suffering,
the name of Dr. Fu-Manchu would rank with the golden ones in the
history of healing.

Nayland Smith suddenly turned, and the expression upon his face amazed
me.

"Look up the next train to L--!" he rapped.

"To L--?  What--?"

"There's the Bradshaw.  We haven't a minute to waste."

In his voice was the imperative note I knew so well; in his eyes was
the light which told of an urgent need for action--a portentous truth
suddenly grasped.

"One in half-an-hour--the last."

"We must catch it."

No further word of explanation he vouchsafed, but darted off to dress;
for he had spent the afternoon pacing the room in his dressing-gown and
smoking without intermission.

Out and to the corner we hurried, and leaped into the first taxi upon
the rank.  Smith enjoined the man to hasten, and we were off--all in
that whirl of feverish activity which characterized my friend's
movements in times of important action.

He sat glancing impatiently from the window and twitching at the lobe
of his ear.

"I know you will forgive me, old man," he said, "but there is a little
problem which I am trying to work out in my mind.  Did you bring the
things I mentioned?"

"Yes."

Conversation lapsed, until, just as the cab turned into the station,
Smith said:  "Should you consider Lord Southery to have been the first
constructive engineer of his time, Petrie?"

"Undoubtedly," I replied.

"Greater than Von Homber, of Berlin?"

"Possibly not.  But Von Homber has been dead for three years."

"Three years, is it?"

"Roughly."

"Ah!"


We reached the station in time to secure a non-corridor compartment to
ourselves, and to allow Smith leisure carefully to inspect the
occupants of all the others, from the engine to the guard's van.  He
was muffled up to the eyes, and he warned me to keep out of sight in
the corner of the compartment.  In fact, his behavior had me bursting
with curiosity.  The train having started:

"Don't imagine, Petrie," said Smith "that I am trying to lead you
blindfolded in order later to dazzle you with my perspicacity.  I am
simply afraid that this may be a wild-goose chase.  The idea upon which
I am acting does not seem to have struck you.  I wish it had.  The fact
would argue in favor of its being sound."

"At present I am hopelessly mystified."

"Well, then, I will not bias you towards my view.  But just study the
situation, and see if you can arrive at the reason for this sudden
journey.  I shall be distinctly encouraged if you succeed."

But I did not succeed, and since Smith obviously was unwilling to
enlighten me, I pressed him no more.  The train stopped at Rugby, where
he was engaged with the stationmaster in making some mysterious
arrangements.  At L--, however, their object became plain, for a
high-power car was awaiting us, and into this we hurried and ere the
greater number of passengers had reached the platform were being driven
off at headlong speed along the moon-bathed roads.

Twenty minutes' rapid traveling, and a white mansion leaped into the
line of sight, standing out vividly against its woody backing.

"Stradwick Hall," said Smith.  "The home of Lord Southery.  We are
first--but Dr. Fu-Manchu was on the train."

Then the truth dawned upon the gloom of my perplexity.



CHAPTER XXIII


"YOUR extraordinary proposal fills me with horror, Mr. Smith!"

The sleek little man in the dress suit, who looked like a head waiter
(but was the trusted legal adviser of the house of Southery) puffed at
his cigar indignantly.  Nayland Smith, whose restless pacing had led
him to the far end of the library, turned, a remote but virile figure,
and looked back to where I stood by the open hearth with the solicitor.

"I am in your hands, Mr. Henderson," he said, and advanced upon the
latter, his gray eyes ablaze.  "Save for the heir, who is abroad on
foreign service, you say there is no kin of Lord Southery to consider.
The word rests with you.  If I am wrong, and you agree to my proposal,
there is none whose susceptibilities will suffer--"

"My own, sir!"

"If I am right, and you prevent me from acting, you become a murderer,
Mr. Henderson."

The lawyer started, staring nervously up at Smith, who now towered over
him menacingly.

"Lord Southery was a lonely man," continued my friend.  "If I could
have placed my proposition before one of his blood, I do not doubt what
my answer had been.  Why do you hesitate?  Why do you experience this
feeling of horror?"

Mr. Henderson stared down into the fire.  His constitutionally ruddy
face was pale.

"It is entirely irregular, Mr. Smith.  We have not the necessary
powers--"

Smith snapped his teeth together impatiently, snatching his watch from
his pocket and glancing at it.

"I am vested with the necessary powers.  I will give you a written
order, sir."

"The proceeding savors of paganism.  Such a course might be admissible
in China, in Burma--"

"Do you weigh a life against such quibbles?  Do you suppose that,
granting MY irresponsibility, Dr. Petrie would countenance such a thing
if he doubted the necessity?"

Mr. Henderson looked at me with pathetic hesitance.

"There are guests in the house--mourners who attended the ceremony
to-day. They--"

"Will never know, if we are in error," interrupted Smith.  "Good God!
why do you delay?"

"You wish it to be kept secret?"

"You and I, Mr. Henderson, and Dr. Petrie will go now.  We require no
other witnesses.  We are answerable only to our consciences."

The lawyer passed his hand across his damp brow.

"I have never in my life been called upon to come to so momentous a
decision in so short a time," he confessed.  But, aided by Smith's
indomitable will, he made his decision.  As its result, we three,
looking and feeling like conspirators, hurried across the park beneath
a moon whose placidity was a rebuke to the turbulent passions which
reared their strangle-growth in the garden of England.  Not a breath of
wind stirred amid the leaves.  The calm of perfect night soothed
everything to slumber.  Yet, if Smith were right (and I did not doubt
him), the green eyes of Dr. Fu-Manchu had looked upon the scene; and I
found myself marveling that its beauty had not wilted up.  Even now the
dread Chinaman must be near to us.

As Mr. Henderson unlocked the ancient iron gates he turned to Nayland
Smith.  His face twitched oddly.

"Witness that I do this unwillingly," he said--"most unwillingly."

"Mine be the responsibility," was the reply.

Smith's voice quivered, responsive to the nervous vitality pent up
within that lean frame.  He stood motionless, listening--and I knew for
whom he listened.  He peered about him to right and left--and I knew
whom he expected but dreaded to see.

Above us now the trees looked down with a solemnity different from the
aspect of the monarchs of the park, and the nearer we came to our
journey's end the more somber and lowering bent the verdant arch--or so
it seemed.

By that path, patched now with pools of moonlight, Lord Southery had
passed upon his bier, with the sun to light his going; by that path
several generations of Stradwicks had gone to their last resting-place.

To the doors of the vault the moon rays found free access.  No branch,
no leaf, intervened.  Mr. Henderson's face looked ghastly.  The keys
which he carried rattled in his hand.

"Light the lantern," he said unsteadily.

Nayland Smith, who again had been peering suspiciously about into the
shadows, struck a match and lighted the lantern which he carried.  He
turned to the solicitor.

"Be calm, Mr. Henderson," he said sternly.  "It is your plain duty to
your client."

"God be my witness that I doubt it," replied Henderson, and opened the
door.

We descended the steps.  The air beneath was damp and chill.  It
touched us as with clammy fingers; and the sensation was not wholly
physical.

Before the narrow mansion which now sufficed Lord Southery, the great
engineer whom kings had honored, Henderson reeled and clutched at me
for support.  Smith and I had looked to him for no aid in our uncanny
task, and rightly.

With averted eyes he stood over by the steps of the tomb, whilst my
friend and myself set to work.  In the pursuit of my profession I had
undertaken labors as unpleasant, but never amid an environment such as
this.  It seemed that generations of Stradwicks listened to each turn
of every screw.

At last it was done, and the pallid face of Lord Southery questioned
the intruding light.  Nayland Smith's hand was as steady as a rigid bar
when he raised the lantern.  Later, I knew, there would be a sudden
releasing of the tension of will--a reaction physical and mental--but
not until his work was finished.

That my own hand was steady I ascribed to one thing
solely--professional zeal.  For, under conditions which, in the event
of failure and exposure, must have led to an unpleasant inquiry by the
British Medical Association, I was about to attempt an experiment never
before essayed by a physician of the white races.

Though I failed, though I succeeded, that it ever came before the
B.M.A., or any other council, was improbable; in the former event, all
but impossible.  But the knowledge that I was about to practice
charlatanry, or what any one of my fellow-practitioners must have
designated as such, was with me.  Yet so profound had my belief become
in the extraordinary being whose existence was a danger to the world
that I reveled in my immunity from official censure.  I was glad that
it had fallen to my lot to take at least one step--though blindly--into
the FUTURE of medical science.

So far as my skill bore me, Lord Southery was dead.  Unhesitatingly, I
would have given a death certificate, save for two considerations.  The
first, although his latest scheme ran contrary from the interests of
Dr. Fu-Manchu, his genius, diverted into other channels, would serve
the yellow group better than his death.  The second, I had seen the boy
Aziz raised from a state as like death as this.

From the phial of amber-hued liquid which I had with me, I charged the
needle syringe.  I made the injection, and waited.

"If he is really dead!" whispered Smith.  "It seems incredible that he
can have survived for three days without food.  Yet I have known a
fakir to go for a week."

Mr. Henderson groaned.

Watch in hand, I stood observing the gray face.

A second passed; another; a third.  In the fourth the miracle began.
Over the seemingly cold clay crept the hue of pulsing life.  It came in
waves--in waves which corresponded with the throbbing of the awakened
heart; which swept fuller and stronger; which filled and quickened the
chilled body.

As we rapidly freed the living man from the trappings of the dead one,
Southery, uttering a stifled scream, sat up, looked about him with
half-glazed eyes, and fell back.  "My God!" cried Smith.

"It is all right," I said, and had time to note how my voice had
assumed a professional tone.  "A little brandy from my flask is all
that is necessary now."

"You have two patients, Doctor," rapped my friend.

Mr. Henderson had fallen in a swoon to the floor of the vault.

"Quiet," whispered Smith; "HE is here."

He extinguished the light.

I supported Lord Southery.  "What has happened?" he kept moaning.
"Where am I?  Oh, God!  what has happened?"

I strove to reassure him in a whisper, and placed my traveling coat
about him.  The door at the top of the mausoleum steps we had reclosed
but not relocked.  Now, as I upheld the man whom literally we had
rescued from the grave, I heard the door reopen.  To aid Henderson I
could make no move.  Smith was breathing hard beside me.  I dared not
think what was about to happen, nor what its effects might be upon Lord
Southery in his exhausted condition.

Through the Memphian dark of the tomb cut a spear of light, touching
the last stone of the stairway.

A guttural voice spoke some words rapidly, and I knew that Dr.
Fu-Manchu stood at the head of the stairs.  Although I could not see my
friend, I became aware that Nayland Smith had his revolver in his hand,
and I reached into my pocket for mine.

At last the cunning Chinaman was about to fall into a trap.  It would
require all his genius, I thought, to save him to-night.  Unless his
suspicions were aroused by the unlocked door, his capture was imminent.

Someone was descending the steps.

In my right hand I held my revolver, and with my left arm about Lord
Southery, I waited through ten such seconds of suspense as I have
rarely known.

The spear of light plunged into the well of darkness again.

Lord Southery, Smith and myself were hidden by the angle of the wall;
but full upon the purplish face of Mr. Henderson the beam shone.  In
some way it penetrated to the murk in his mind; and he awakened from
his swoon with a hoarse cry, struggled to his feet, and stood looking
up the stair in a sort of frozen horror.

Smith was past him at a bound.  Something flashed towards him as the
light was extinguished.  I saw him duck, and heard the knife ring upon
the floor.

I managed to move sufficiently to see at the top, as I fired up the
stairs, the yellow face of Dr. Fu-Manchu, to see the gleaming,
chatoyant eyes, greenly terrible, as they sought to pierce the gloom.
A flying figure was racing up, three steps at a time (that of a brown
man scantily clad). He stumbled and fell, by which I knew that he was
hit; but went on again, Smith hard on his heels.

"Mr. Henderson!" I cried, "relight the lantern and take charge of Lord
Southery.  Here is my flask on the floor.  I rely upon you."

Smith's revolver spoke again as I went bounding up the stair.  Black
against the square of moonlight I saw him stagger, I saw him fall.  As
he fell, for the third time, I heard the crack of his revolver.

Instantly I was at his side.  Somewhere along the black aisle beneath
the trees receding footsteps pattered.

"Are you hurt, Smith?" I cried anxiously.

He got upon his feet.

"He has a dacoit with him," he replied, and showed me the long curved
knife which he held in his hand, a full inch of the blade bloodstained.
"A near thing for me, Petrie."

I heard the whir of a restarted motor.

"We have lost him," said Smith.

"But we have saved Lord Southery," I said.  "Fu-Manchu will credit us
with a skill as great as his own."

"We must get to the car," Smith muttered, "and try to overtake them.
Ugh!  my left arm is useless."

"It would be mere waste of time to attempt to overtake them," I argued,
"for we have no idea in which direction they will proceed."

"I have a very good idea," snapped Smith.  "Stradwick Hall is less than
ten miles from the coast.  There is only one practicable means of
conveying an unconscious man secretly from here to London."

"You think he meant to take him from here to London?"

"Prior to shipping him to China; I think so.  His clearing-house is
probably on the Thames."

"A boat?"

"A yacht, presumably, is lying off the coast in readiness.  Fu-Manchu
may even have designed to ship him direct to China."

Lord Southery, a bizarre figure, my traveling coat wrapped about him,
and supported by his solicitor, who was almost as pale as himself,
emerged from the vault into the moonlight.

"This is a triumph for you, Smith," I said.

The throb of Fu-Manchu's car died into faintness and was lost in the
night's silence.

"Only half a triumph," he replied.  "But we still have another
chance--the raid on his house.  When will the word come from Karamaneh?"

Southery spoke in a weak voice.

"Gentlemen," he said, "it seems I am raised from the dead."

It was the weirdest moment of the night wherein we heard that newly
buried man speak from the mold of his tomb.

"Yes," replied Smith slowly, "and spared from the fate of Heaven alone
knows how many men of genius.  The yellow society lacks a Southery, but
that Dr. Fu-Manchu was in Germany three years ago I have reason to
believe; so that, even without visiting the grave of your great
Teutonic rival, who suddenly died at about that time, I venture to
predict that they have a Von Homber.  And the futurist group in China
knows how to MAKE men work!"



CHAPTER XXIV


FROM the rescue of Lord Southery my story bears me mercilessly on to
other things.  I may not tarry, as more leisurely penmen, to round my
incidents; they were not of my choosing.  I may not pause to make you
better acquainted with the figure of my drama; its scheme is none of
mine.  Often enough, in those days, I found a fitness in the lines of
Omar:


    We are no other than a moving show
    Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go
    Round with the Sun-illumined Lantern held
    In Midnight by the Master of the Show.


But "the Master of the Show," in this case, was Dr. Fu-Manchu!

I have been asked many times since the days with which these records
deal: Who WAS Dr. Fu-Manchu?  Let me confess here that my final answer
must be postponed.  I can only indicate, at this place, the trend of my
reasoning, and leave my reader to form whatever conclusion he pleases.

What group can we isolate and label as responsible for the overthrow of
the Manchus?  The casual student of modern Chinese history will reply:
"Young China."  This is unsatisfactory.  What do we mean by Young
China?  In my own hearing Fu-Manchu had disclaimed, with scorn,
association with the whole of that movement; and assuming that the name
were not an assumed one, he clearly can have been no anti-Manchu, no
Republican.

The Chinese Republican is of the mandarin class, but of a new
generation which veneers its Confucianism with Western polish.  These
youthful and unbalanced reformers, in conjunction with older but no
less ill-balanced provincial politicians, may be said to represent
Young China.  Amid such turmoils as this we invariably look for, and
invariably find, a Third Party.  In my opinion, Dr. Fu-Manchu was one
of the leaders of such a party.

Another question often put to me was:  Where did the Doctor hide during
the time that he pursued his operations in London?  This is more
susceptible of explanation.  For a time Nayland Smith supposed, as I
did myself, that the opium den adjacent to the old Ratcliff Highway was
the Chinaman's base of operations; later we came to believe that the
mansion near Windsor was his hiding-place, and later still, the hulk
lying off the downstream flats.  But I think I can state with
confidence that the spot which he had chosen for his home was neither
of these, but the East End riverside building which I was the first to
enter.  Of this I am all but sure; for the reason that it not only was
the home of Fu-Manchu, of Karamaneh, and of her brother, Aziz, but the
home of something else--of something which I shall speak of later.

The dreadful tragedy (or series of tragedies) which attended the raid
upon the place will always mark in my memory the supreme horror of a
horrible case.  Let me endeavor to explain what occurred.

By the aid of Karamaneh, you have seen how we had located the whilom
warehouse, which, from the exterior, was so drab and dreary, but which
within was a place of wondrous luxury.  At the moment selected by our
beautiful accomplice, Inspector Weymouth and a body of detectives
entirely surrounded it; a river police launch lay off the wharf which
opened from it on the river-side; and this upon a singularly black
night, than which a better could not have been chosen.

"You will fulfill your promise to me?" said Karamaneh, and looked up
into my face.

She was enveloped in a big, loose cloak, and from the shadow of the
hood her wonderful eyes gleamed out like stars.

"What do you wish us to do?" asked Nayland Smith.

"You--and Dr. Petrie," she replied swiftly, "must enter first, and
bring out Aziz.  Until he is safe--until he is out of that place--you
are to make no attempt upon--"

"Upon Dr. Fu-Manchu?" interrupted Weymouth; for Karamaneh hesitated to
pronounce the dreaded name, as she always did.  "But how can we be sure
that there is no trap laid for us?"

The Scotland Yard man did not entirely share my confidence in the
integrity of this Eastern girl whom he knew to have been a creature of
the Chinaman's.

"Aziz lies in the private room," she explained eagerly, her old accent
more noticeable than usual.  "There is only one of the Burmese men in
the house, and he--he dare not enter without orders!"

"But Fu-Manchu?"

"We have nothing to fear from him.  He will be your prisoner within ten
minutes from now!  I have no time for words--you must believe!"  She
stamped her foot impatiently.  "And the dacoit?" snapped Smith.

"He also."

"I think perhaps I'd better come in, too," said Weymouth slowly.

Karamaneh shrugged her shoulders with quick impatience, and unlocked
the door in the high brick wall which divided the gloomy, evil-smelling
court from the luxurious apartments of Dr. Fu-Manchu.

"Make no noise," she warned.  And Smith and myself followed her along
the uncarpeted passage beyond.

Inspector Weymouth, with a final word of instruction to his second in
command, brought up the rear.  The door was reclosed; a few paces
farther on a second was unlocked.  Passing through a small room,
unfurnished, a farther passage led us to a balcony.  The transition was
startling.

Darkness was about us now, and silence:  a perfumed, slumberous
darkness--a silence full of mystery.  For, beyond the walls of the
apartment whereon we looked down waged the unceasing battle of sounds
that is the hymn of the great industrial river.  About the scented
confines which bounded us now floated the smoke-laden vapors of the
Lower Thames.

From the metallic but infinitely human clangor of dock-side life, from
the unpleasant but homely odors which prevail where ships swallow in
and belch out the concrete evidences of commercial prosperity, we had
come into this incensed stillness, where one shaded lamp painted dim
enlargements of its Chinese silk upon the nearer walls, and left the
greater part of the room the darker for its contrast.

Nothing of the Thames-side activity--of the riveting and scraping--the
bumping of bales--the bawling of orders--the hiss of steam--penetrated
to this perfumed place.  In the pool of tinted light lay the deathlike
figure of a dark-haired boy, Karamaneh's muffled form bending over him.

"At last I stand in the house of Dr. Fu-Manchu!" whispered Smith.

Despite the girl's assurance, we knew that proximity to the sinister
Chinaman must be fraught with danger.  We stood, not in the lion's den,
but in the serpent's lair.

From the time when Nayland Smith had come from Burma in pursuit of this
advance-guard of a cogent Yellow Peril, the face of Dr. Fu-Manchu
rarely had been absent from my dreams day or night.  The millions might
sleep in peace--the millions in whose cause we labored!--but we who
knew the reality of the danger knew that a veritable octopus had
fastened upon England--a yellow octopus whose head was that of Dr.
Fu-Manchu, whose tentacles were dacoity, thuggee, modes of death,
secret and swift, which in the darkness plucked men from life and left
no clew behind.

"Karamaneh!" I called softly.

The muffled form beneath the lamp turned so that the soft light fell
upon the lovely face of the slave girl.  She who had been a pliant
instrument in the hands of Fu-Manchu now was to be the means whereby
society should be rid of him.

She raised her finger warningly; then beckoned me to approach.

My feet sinking in the rich pile of the carpet, I came through the
gloom of the great apartment in to the patch of light, and, Karamaneh
beside me, stood looking down upon the boy.  It was Aziz, her brother;
dead so far as Western lore had power to judge, but kept alive in that
deathlike trance by the uncanny power of the Chinese doctor.

"Be quick," she said; "be quick!  Awaken him!  I am afraid."

From the case which I carried I took out a needle-syringe and a phial
containing a small quantity of amber-hued liquid.  It was a drug not to
be found in the British Pharmacopoeia.  Of its constitution I knew
nothing.  Although I had had the phial in my possession for some days I
had not dared to devote any of its precious contents to analytical
purposes.  The amber drops spelled life for the boy Aziz, spelled
success for the mission of Nayland Smith, spelled ruin for the fiendish
Chinaman.

I raised the white coverlet.  The boy, fully dressed, lay with his arms
crossed upon his breast.  I discerned the mark of previous injections
as, charging the syringe from the phial, I made what I hoped would be
the last of such experiments upon him.  I would have given half of my
small worldly possessions to have known the real nature of the drug
which was now coursing through the veins of Aziz--which was tinting the
grayed face with the olive tone of life; which, so far as my medical
training bore me, was restoring the dead to life.

But such was not the purpose of my visit.  I was come to remove from
the house of Dr. Fu-Manchu the living chain which bound Karamaneh to
him.  The boy alive and free, the Doctor's hold upon the slave girl
would be broken.

My lovely companion, her hands convulsively clasped, knelt and devoured
with her eyes the face of the boy who was passing through the most
amazing physiological change in the history of therapeutics.  The
peculiar perfume which she wore--which seemed to be a part of
her--which always I associated with her--was faintly perceptible.
Karamaneh was breathing rapidly.

"You have nothing to fear," I whispered; "see, he is reviving.  In a
few moments all will be well with him."

The hanging lamp with its garishly colored shade swung gently above us,
wafted, it seemed, by some draught which passed through the apartment.
The boy's heavy lids began to quiver, and Karamaneh nervously clutched
my arm, and held me so whilst we watched for the long-lashed eyes to
open.  The stillness of the place was positively unnatural; it seemed
inconceivable that all about us was the discordant activity of the
commercial East End.  Indeed, this eerie silence was becoming
oppressive; it began positively to appall me.

Inspector Weymouth's wondering face peeped over my shoulder.

"Where is Dr. Fu-Manchu?" I whispered, as Nayland Smith in turn
appeared beside me.  "I cannot understand the silence of the house--"

"Look about," replied Karamaneh, never taking her eyes from the face of
Aziz.

I peered around the shadowy walls.  Tall glass cases there were,
shelves and niches:  where once, from the gallery above, I had seen the
tubes and retorts, the jars of unfamiliar organisms, the books of
unfamiliar lore, the impedimenta of the occult student and man of
science--the visible evidences of Fu-Manchu's presence.
Shelves--cases--niches--were bare.  Of the complicated appliances
unknown to civilized laboratories, wherewith he pursued his strange
experiments, of the tubes wherein he isolated the bacilli of
unclassified diseases, of the yellow-bound volumes for a glimpse at
which (had they known of their contents) the great men of Harley Street
would have given a fortune--no trace remained.  The silken cushions;
the inlaid tables; all were gone.

The room was stripped, dismantled.  Had Fu-Manchu fled?  The silence
assumed a new significance.  His dacoits and kindred ministers of death
all must have fled, too.

"You have let him escape us!" I said rapidly.  "You promised to aid us
to capture him--to send us a message--and you have delayed until--"

"No," she said; "no!" and clutched at my arm again.  "Oh!  is he not
reviving slowly?  Are you sure you have made no mistake?"

Her thoughts were all for the boy; and her solicitude touched me.  I
again examined Aziz, the most remarkable patient of my busy
professional career.

As I counted the strengthening pulse, he opened his dark eyes--which
were so like the eyes of Karamaneh--and, with the girl's eager arms
tightly about him, sat up, looking wonderingly around.

Karamaneh pressed her cheek to his, whispering loving words in that
softly spoken Arabic which had first betrayed her nationality to
Nayland Smith.  I handed her my flask, which I had filled with wine.

"My promise is fulfilled!" I said.  "You are free!  Now for Fu-Manchu!
But first let us admit the police to this house; there is something
uncanny in its stillness."

"No," she replied.  "First let my brother be taken out and placed in
safety.  Will you carry him?"

She raised her face to that of Inspector Weymouth, upon which was
written awe and wonder.

The burly detective lifted the boy as tenderly as a woman, passed
through the shadows to the stairway, ascended, and was swallowed up in
the gloom.  Nayland Smith's eyes gleamed feverishly.  He turned to
Karamaneh.

"You are not playing with us?" he said harshly.  "We have done our
part; it remains for you to do yours."

"Do not speak so loudly," the girl begged.  "HE is near us--and, oh,
God, I fear him so!"

"Where is he?" persisted my friend.

Karamaneh's eyes were glassy with fear now.

"You must not touch him until the police are here," she said--but from
the direction of her quick, agitated glances I knew that, her brother
safe now, she feared for me, and for me alone.  Those glances sent my
blood dancing; for Karamaneh was an Eastern jewel which any man of
flesh and blood must have coveted had he known it to lie within his
reach.  Her eyes were twin lakes of mystery which, more than once, I
had known the desire to explore.

"Look--beyond that curtain"--her voice was barely audible--"but do not
enter.  Even as he is, I fear him."

Her voice, her palpable agitation, prepared us for something
extraordinary.  Tragedy and Fu-Manchu were never far apart.  Though we
were two, and help was so near, we were in the abode of the most
cunning murderer who ever came out of the East.

It was with strangely mingled emotions that I crossed the thick carpet,
Nayland Smith beside me, and drew aside the draperies concealing a
door, to which Karamaneh had pointed.  Then, upon looking into the dim
place beyond, all else save what it held was forgotten.

We looked upon a small, square room, the walls draped with fantastic
Chinese tapestry, the floor strewn with cushions; and reclining in a
corner, where the faint, blue light from a lamp, placed upon a low
table, painted grotesque shadows about the cavernous face--was Dr.
Fu-Manchu!

At sight of him my heart leaped--and seemed to suspend its functions,
so intense was the horror which this man's presence inspired in me.  My
hand clutching the curtain, I stood watching him.  The lids veiled the
malignant green eyes, but the thin lips seemed to smile.  Then Smith
silently pointed to the hand which held a little pipe.  A sickly
perfume assailed my nostrils, and the explanation of the hushed
silence, and the ease with which we had thus far executed our plan,
came to me.  The cunning mind was torpid--lost in a brutish world of
dreams.

Fu-Manchu was in an opium sleep!

The dim light traced out a network of tiny lines, which covered the
yellow face from the pointed chin to the top of the great domed brow,
and formed deep shadow pools in the hollows beneath his eyes.  At last
we had triumphed.

I could not determine the depth of his obscene trance; and mastering
some of my repugnance, and forgetful of Karamaneh's warning, I was
about to step forward into the room, loaded with its nauseating opium
fumes, when a soft breath fanned my cheek.

"Do not go in!" came Karamaneh's warning voice--hushed--trembling.

Her little hand grasped my arm.  She drew Smith and myself back from
the door.

"There is danger there!" she whispered.

"Do not enter that room!  The police must reach him in some way--and
drag him out!  Do not enter that room!"

The girl's voice quivered hysterically; her eyes blazed into savage
flame.  The fierce resentment born of dreadful wrongs was consuming her
now; but fear of Fu-Manchu held her yet.  Inspector Weymouth came down
the stairs and joined us.

"I have sent the boy to Ryman's room at the station," he said.  "The
divisional surgeon will look after him until you arrive, Dr. Petrie.
All is ready now.  The launch is just off the wharf and every side of
the place under observation.  Where's our man?"

He drew a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and raised his eyebrows
interrogatively.  The absence of sound--of any demonstration from the
uncanny Chinaman whom he was there to arrest--puzzled him.

Nayland Smith jerked his thumb toward the curtain.

At that, and before we could utter a word, Weymouth stepped to the
draped door.  He was a man who drove straight at his goal and saved
reflections for subsequent leisure.  I think, moreover, that the
atmosphere of the place (stripped as it was it retained its heavy,
voluptuous perfume) had begun to get a hold upon him.  He was anxious
to shake it off; to be up and doing.

He pulled the curtain aside and stepped into the room.  Smith and I
perforce followed him.  Just within the door the three of us stood
looking across at the limp thing which had spread terror throughout the
Eastern and Western world.  Helpless as Fu-Manchu was, he inspired
terror now, though the giant intellect was inert--stupefied.

In the dimly lit apartment we had quitted I heard Karamaneh utter a
stifled scream.  But it came too late.

As though cast up by a volcano, the silken cushions, the inlaid table
with its blue-shaded lamp, the garish walls, the sprawling figure with
the ghastly light playing upon its features--quivered, and shot upward!

So it seemed to me; though, in the ensuing instant I remembered, too
late, a previous experience of the floors of Fu-Manchu's private
apartments; I knew what had indeed befallen us.  A trap had been
released beneath our feet.

I recall falling--but have no recollection of the end of my fall--of
the shock marking the drop.  I only remember fighting for my life
against a stifling something which had me by the throat.  I knew that I
was being suffocated, but my hands met only the deathly emptiness.

Into a poisonous well of darkness I sank.  I could not cry out.  I was
helpless.  Of the fate of my companions I knew nothing--could surmise
nothing.  Then . . . all consciousness ended.



CHAPTER XXV


I WAS being carried along a dimly lighted, tunnel-like place, slung,
sackwise, across the shoulder of a Burman.  He was not a big man, but
he supported my considerable weight with apparent ease.  A deadly
nausea held me, but the rough handling had served to restore me to
consciousness.  My hands and feet were closely lashed.  I hung limply
as a wet towel: I felt that this spark of tortured life which had
flickered up in me must ere long finally become extinguished.

A fancy possessed me, in these the first moments of my restoration to
the world of realities, that I had been smuggled into China; and as I
swung head downward I told myself that the huge, puffy things which
strewed the path were a species of giant toadstool, unfamiliar to me
and possibly peculiar to whatever district of China I now was in.

The air was hot, steamy, and loaded with a smell as of rotting
vegetation.  I wondered why my bearer so scrupulously avoided touching
any of the unwholesome-looking growths in passing through what seemed a
succession of cellars, but steered a tortuous course among the bloated,
unnatural shapes, lifting his bare brown feet with a catlike delicacy.

He passed under a low arch, dropped me roughly to the ground and ran
back.  Half stunned, I lay watching the agile brown body melt into the
distances of the cellars.  Their walls and roof seemed to emit a faint,
phosphorescent light.

"Petrie!" came a weak voice from somewhere ahead. . . .  "Is that you,
Petrie?"

It was Nayland Smith!

"Smith!" I said, and strove to sit up.  But the intense nausea overcame
me, so that I all but swooned.

I heard his voice again, but could attach no meaning to the words which
he uttered.  A sound of terrific blows reached my ears, too.  The
Burman reappeared, bending under the heavy load which he bore.  For, as
he picked his way through the bloated things which grew upon the floors
of the cellars, I realized that he was carrying the inert body of
Inspector Weymouth.  And I found time to compare the strength of the
little brown man with that of a Nile beetle, which can raise many times
its own weight.  Then, behind him, appeared a second figure, which
immediately claimed the whole of my errant attention.

"Fu-Manchu!" hissed my friend, from the darkness which concealed him.

It was indeed none other than Fu-Manchu--the Fu-Manchu whom we had
thought to be helpless.  The deeps of the Chinaman's cunning--the fine
quality of his courage, were forced upon me as amazing facts.

He had assumed the appearance of a drugged opium-smoker so well as to
dupe me--a medical man; so well as to dupe Karamaneh--whose experience
of the noxious habit probably was greater than my own.  And, with the
gallows dangling before him, he had waited--played the part of a
lure--whilst a body of police actually surrounded the place!

I have since thought that the room probably was one which he actually
used for opium debauches, and the device of the trap was intended to
protect him during the comatose period.

Now, holding a lantern above his head, the deviser of the trap
whereinto we, mouselike, had blindly entered, came through the cellars,
following the brown man who carried Weymouth.  The faint rays of the
lantern (it apparently contained a candle) revealed a veritable forest
of the gigantic fungi--poisonously colored--hideously swollen--climbing
from the floor up the slimy walls--climbing like horrid parasites to
such part of the arched roof as was visible to me.

Fu-Manchu picked his way through the fungi ranks as daintily as though
the distorted, tumid things had been viper-headed.

The resounding blows which I had noted before, and which had never
ceased, culminated in a splintering crash.  Dr. Fu-Manchu and his
servant, who carried the apparently insensible detective, passed in
under the arch, Fu-Manchu glancing back once along the passages.  The
lantern he extinguished, or concealed; and whilst I waited, my mind
dully surveying memories of all the threats which this uncanny being
had uttered, a distant clamor came to my ears.

Then, abruptly, it ceased.  Dr. Fu-Manchu had closed a heavy door; and
to my surprise I perceived that the greater part of it was of glass.
The will-o'-the-wisp glow which played around the fungi rendered the
vista of the cellars faintly luminous, and visible to me from where I
lay.  Fu-Manchu spoke softly.  His voice, its guttural note alternating
with a sibilance on certain words, betrayed no traces of agitation.
The man's unbroken calm had in it something inhuman.  For he had just
perpetrated an act of daring unparalleled in my experience, and, in the
clamor now shut out by the glass door I tardily recognized the entrance
of the police into some barricaded part of the house--the coming of
those who would save us--who would hold the Chinese doctor for the
hangman!

"I have decided," he said deliberately, "that you are more worthy of my
attention than I had formerly supposed.  A man who can solve the secret
of the Golden Elixir (I had not solved it; I had merely stolen some)
should be a valuable acquisition to my Council.  The extent of the
plans of Mr. Commissioner Nayland Smith and of the English Scotland
Yard it is incumbent upon me to learn.  Therefore, gentlemen, you
live--for the present!"

"And you'll swing," came Weymouth's hoarse voice, "in the near future!
You and all your yellow gang!"

"I trust not," was the placid reply.  "Most of my people are safe: some
are shipped as lascars upon the liners; others have departed by
different means.  Ah!"

That last word was the only one indicative of excitement which had yet
escaped him.  A disk of light danced among the brilliant poison hues of
the passages--but no sound reached us; by which I knew that the glass
door must fit almost hermetically.  It was much cooler here than in the
place through which we had passed, and the nausea began to leave me, my
brain to grow more clear.  Had I known what was to follow I should have
cursed the lucidity of mind which now came to me; I should have prayed
for oblivion--to be spared the sight of that which ensued.

"It's Logan!" cried Inspector Weymouth; and I could tell that he was
struggling to free himself of his bonds.  From his voice it was evident
that he, too, was recovering from the effects of the narcotic which had
been administered to us all.

"Logan!" he cried.  "Logan!  This way--HELP!"

But the cry beat back upon us in that enclosed space and seemed to
carry no farther than the invisible walls of our prison.

"The door fits well," came Fu-Manchu's mocking voice.  "It is fortunate
for us all that it is so.  This is my observation window, Dr. Petrie,
and you are about to enjoy an unique opportunity of studying fungology.
I have already drawn your attention to the anaesthetic properties of
the lycoperdon, or common puff-ball. You may have recognized the fumes?
The chamber into which you rashly precipitated yourselves was charged
with them.  By a process of my own I have greatly enhanced the value of
the puff-ball in this respect.  Your friend, Mr. Weymouth, proved the
most obstinate subject; but he succumbed in fifteen seconds."

"Logan!  Help!  HELP!  This way, man!"

Something very like fear sounded in Weymouth's voice now.  Indeed, the
situation was so uncanny that it almost seemed unreal.  A group of men
had entered the farthermost cellars, led by one who bore an electric
pocket-lamp. The hard, white ray danced from bloated gray fungi to
others of nightmare shape, of dazzling, venomous brilliance.  The
mocking, lecture-room voice continued:

"Note the snowy growth upon the roof, Doctor.  Do not be deceived by
its size.  It is a giant variety of my own culture and is of the order
empusa. You, in England, are familiar with the death of the common
house-fly--which is found attached to the window-pane by a coating of
white mold.  I have developed the spores of this mold and have produced
a giant species.  Observe the interesting effect of the strong light
upon my orange and blue amanita fungus!"

Hard beside me I heard Nayland Smith groan, Weymouth had become
suddenly silent.  For my own part, I could have shrieked in pure
horror.  FOR I KNEW WHAT WAS COMING. I realized in one agonized instant
the significance of the dim lantern, of the careful progress through
the subterranean fungi grove, of the care with which Fu-Manchu and his
servant had avoided touching any of the growths.  I knew, now, that Dr.
Fu-Manchu was the greatest fungologist the world had ever known; was a
poisoner to whom the Borgias were as children--and I knew that the
detectives blindly were walking into a valley of death.

Then it began--the unnatural scene--the saturnalia of murder.

Like so many bombs the brilliantly colored caps of the huge
toadstool-like things alluded to by the Chinaman exploded, as the white
ray sought them out in the darkness which alone preserved their
existence.  A brownish cloud--I could not determine whether liquid or
powdery--arose in the cellar.

I tried to close my eyes--or to turn them away from the reeling forms
of the men who were trapped in that poison-hole. It was useless:

I must look.

The bearer of the lamp had dropped it, but the dim, eerily illuminated
gloom endured scarce a second.  A bright light sprang up--doubtless at
the touch of the fiendish being who now resumed speech:

"Observe the symptoms of delirium, Doctor!"  Out there, beyond the
glass door, the unhappy victims were laughing--tearing their garments
from their bodies--leaping--waving their arms--were become MANIACS!

"We will now release the ripe spores of giant entpusa," continued the
wicked voice.  "The air of the second cellar being super-charged with
oxygen, they immediately germinate.  Ah!  it is a triumph!  That
process is the scientific triumph of my life!"

Like powdered snow the white spores fell from the roof, frosting the
writhing shapes of the already poisoned men.  Before my horrified gaze,
THE FUNGUS GREW; it spread from the head to the feet of those it
touched; it enveloped them as in glittering shrouds. . . .

"They die like flies!" screamed Fu-Manchu, with a sudden febrile
excitement; and I felt assured of something I had long suspected:  that
that magnificent, perverted brain was the brain of a homicidal
maniac--though Smith would never accept the theory.

"It is my fly-trap!" shrieked the Chinaman.  "And I am the god of
destruction!"



CHAPTER XXVI


THE clammy touch of the mist revived me.  The culmination of the scene
in the poison cellars, together with the effects of the fumes which I
had inhaled again, had deprived me of consciousness.  Now I knew that I
was afloat on the river.  I still was bound: furthermore, a cloth was
wrapped tightly about my mouth, and I was secured to a ring in the deck.

By moving my aching head to the left I could look down into the oily
water; by moving it to the right I could catch a glimpse of the
empurpled face of Inspector Weymouth, who, similarly bound and gagged,
lay beside me, but only of the feet and legs of Nayland Smith.  For I
could not turn my head sufficiently far to see more.

We were aboard an electric launch.  I heard the hated guttural voice of
Fu-Manchu, subdued now to its habitual calm, and my heart leaped to
hear the voice that answered him.  It was that of Karamaneh.  His
triumph was complete.  Clearly his plans for departure were complete;
his slaughter of the police in the underground passages had been a
final reckless demonstration of which the Chinaman's subtle cunning
would have been incapable had he not known his escape from the country
to be assured.

What fate was in store for us?  How would he avenge himself upon the
girl who had betrayed him to his enemies?  What portion awaited those
enemies?  He seemed to have formed the singular determination to
smuggle me into China--but what did he purpose in the case of Weymouth,
and in the case of Nayland Smith?

All but silently we were feeling our way through the mist.  Astern died
the clangor of dock and wharf into a remote discord.  Ahead hung the
foggy curtain veiling the traffic of the great waterway; but through it
broke the calling of sirens, the tinkling of bells.

The gentle movement of the screw ceased altogether.  The launch lay
heaving slightly upon the swells.

A distant throbbing grew louder--and something advanced upon us through
the haze.

A bell rang and muffled by the fog a voice proclaimed itself--a voice
which I knew.  I felt Weymouth writhing impotently beside me; heard him
mumbling incoherently; and I knew that he, too, had recognized the
voice.

It was that of Inspector Ryman of the river police and their launch was
within biscuit-throw of that upon which we lay!

"'Hoy!  'Hoy!"

I trembled.  A feverish excitement claimed me.  They were hailing us.
We carried no lights; but now--and ignoring the pain which shot from my
spine to my skull I craned my neck to the left--the port light of the
police launch glowed angrily through the mist.

I was unable to utter any save mumbling sounds, and my companions were
equally helpless.  It was a desperate position.  Had the police seen us
or had they hailed at random?  The light drew nearer.

"Launch, 'hoy!"

They had seen us!  Fu-Manchu's guttural voice spoke shortly--and our
screw began to revolve again; we leaped ahead into the bank of
darkness.  Faint grew the light of the police launch--and was gone.
But I heard Ryman's voice shouting.

"Full speed!" came faintly through the darkness.  "Port!  Port!"

Then the murk closed down, and with our friends far astern of us we
were racing deeper into the fog banks--speeding seaward; though of this
I was unable to judge at the time.

On we raced, and on, sweeping over growing swells.  Once, a black,
towering shape dropped down upon us.  Far above, lights blazed, bells
rang, vague cries pierced the fog.  The launch pitched and rolled
perilously, but weathered the wash of the liner which so nearly had
concluded this episode.  It was such a journey as I had taken once
before, early in our pursuit of the genius of the Yellow Peril; but
this was infinitely more terrible; for now we were utterly in
Fu-Manchu's power.

A voice mumbled in my ear.  I turned my bound-up face; and Inspector
Weymouth raised his hands in the dimness and partly slipped the bandage
from his mouth.

"I've been working at the cords since we left those filthy cellars," he
whispered.  "My wrists are all cut, but when I've got out a knife and
freed my ankles--"

Smith had kicked him with his bound feet.  The detective slipped the
bandage back to position and placed his hands behind him again.  Dr.
Fu-Manchu, wearing a heavy overcoat but no hat, came aft.  He was
dragging Karamaneh by the wrists.  He seated himself on the cushions
near to us, pulling the girl down beside him.  Now, I could see her
face--and the expression in her beautiful eyes made me writhe.

Fu-Manchu was watching us, his discolored teeth faintly visible in the
dim light, to which my eyes were becoming accustomed.

"Dr. Petrie," he said, "you shall be my honored guest at my home in
China.  You shall assist me to revolutionize chemistry.  Mr. Smith, I
fear you know more of my plans than I had deemed it possible for you to
have learned, and I am anxious to know if you have a confidant.  Where
your memory fails you, and my files and wire jackets prove ineffectual,
Inspector Weymouth's recollections may prove more accurate."

He turned to the cowering girl--who shrank away from him in pitiful,
abject terror.

"In my hands, Doctor," he continued, "I hold a needle charged with a
rare culture.  It is the link between the bacilli and the fungi.  You
have seemed to display an undue interest in the peach and pearl which
render my Karamaneh so delightful, In the supple grace of her movements
and the sparkle of her eyes.  You can never devote your whole mind to
those studies which I have planned for you whilst such distractions
exist.  A touch of this keen point, and the laughing Karamaneh becomes
the shrieking hag--the maniacal, mowing--"

Then, with an ox-like rush, Weymouth was upon him!

Karamaneh, wrought upon past endurance, with a sobbing cry, sank to the
deck--and lay still.  I managed to writhe into a half-sitting posture,
and Smith rolled aside as the detective and the Chinaman crashed down
together.

Weymouth had one big hand at the Doctor's yellow throat; with his left
he grasped the Chinaman's right.  It held the needle.

Now, I could look along the length of the little craft, and, so far as
it was possible to make out in the fog, only one other was aboard--the
half-clad brown man who navigated her--and who had carried us through
the cellars.  The murk had grown denser and now shut us in like a box.
The throb of the motor--the hissing breath of the two who fought--with
so much at issue--these sounds and the wash of the water alone broke
the eerie stillness.

By slow degrees, and with a reptilian agility horrible to watch,
Fu-Manchu was neutralizing the advantage gained by Weymouth.  His
clawish fingers were fast in the big man's throat; the right hand with
its deadly needle was forcing down the left of his opponent.  He had
been underneath, but now he was gaining the upper place.  His powers of
physical endurance must have been truly marvelous.  His breath was
whistling through his nostrils significantly, but Weymouth was palpably
tiring.

The latter suddenly changed his tactics.  By a supreme effort, to which
he was spurred, I think, by the growing proximity of the needle, he
raised Fu-Manchu--by the throat and arm--and pitched him sideways.

The Chinaman's grip did not relax, and the two wrestlers dropped, a
writhing mass, upon the port cushions.  The launch heeled over, and my
cry of horror was crushed back into my throat by the bandage.  For, as
Fu-Manchu sought to extricate himself, he overbalanced--fell back--and,
bearing Weymouth with him--slid into the river!

The mist swallowed them up.

There are moments of which no man can recall his mental impressions,
moments so acutely horrible that, mercifully, our memory retains
nothing of the emotions they occasioned.  This was one of them.  A
chaos ruled in my mind.  I had a vague belief that the Burman, forward,
glanced back.  Then the course of the launch was changed.  How long
intervened between the tragic end of that Gargantuan struggle and the
time when a black wall leaped suddenly up before us I cannot pretend to
state.

With a sickening jerk we ran aground.  A loud explosion ensued, and I
clearly remember seeing the brown man leap out into the fog--which was
the last I saw of him.

Water began to wash aboard.

Fully alive to our imminent peril, I fought with the cords that bound
me; but I lacked poor Weymouth's strength of wrist, and I began to
accept as a horrible and imminent possibility, a death from drowning,
within six feet of the bank.

Beside me, Nayland Smith was straining and twisting.  I think his
object was to touch Karamaneh, in the hope of arousing her.  Where he
failed in his project, the inflowing water succeeded.  A silent prayer
of thankfulness came from my very soul when I saw her stir--when I saw
her raise her hands to her head--and saw the big, horror-bright eyes
gleam through the mist veil.



CHAPTER XXVII


WE quitted the wrecked launch but a few seconds before her stern
settled down into the river.  Where the mud-bank upon which we found
ourselves was situated we had no idea.  But at least it was terra firma
and we were free from Dr. Fu-Manchu.

Smith stood looking out towards the river.

"My God!" he groaned.  "My God!"

He was thinking, as I was, of Weymouth.

And when, an hour later, the police boat located us (on the mud-flats
below Greenwich) and we heard that the toll of the poison cellars was
eight men, we also heard news of our brave companion.

"Back there in the fog, sir," reported Inspector Ryman, who was in
charge, and his voice was under poor command, "there was an uncanny
howling, and peals of laughter that I'm going to dream about for
weeks--"

Karamaneh, who nestled beside me like a frightened child, shivered; and
I knew that the needle had done its work, despite Weymouth's giant
strength.

Smith swallowed noisily.

"Pray God the river has that yellow Satan," he said.  "I would
sacrifice a year of my life to see his rat's body on the end of a
grappling-iron!"

We were a sad party that steamed through the fog homeward that night.
It seemed almost like deserting a staunch comrade to leave the spot--so
nearly as we could locate it--where Weymouth had put up that last
gallant fight.  Our helplessness was pathetic, and although, had the
night been clear as crystal, I doubt if we could have acted otherwise,
it came to me that this stinking murk was a new enemy which drove us
back in coward retreat.

But so many were the calls upon our activity, and so numerous the
stimulants to our initiative in those times, that soon we had matter to
relieve our minds from this stress of sorrow.

There was Karamaneh to be considered--Karamaneh and her brother.  A
brief counsel was held, whereat it was decided that for the present
they should be lodged at a hotel.

"I shall arrange," Smith whispered to me, for the girl was watching us,
"to have the place patrolled night and day."

"You cannot suppose--"

"Petrie!  I cannot and dare not suppose Fu-Manchu dead until with my
own eyes I have seen him so!"

Accordingly we conveyed the beautiful Oriental girl and her brother
away from that luxurious abode in its sordid setting.  I will not dwell
upon the final scene in the poison cellars lest I be accused of
accumulating horror for horror's sake.  Members of the fire brigade,
helmed against contagion, brought out the bodies of the victims wrapped
in their living shrouds. . . .

From Karamaneh we learned much of Fu-Manchu, little of herself.

"What am I?  Does my poor history matter--to anyone?" was her answer to
questions respecting herself.

And she would droop her lashes over her dark eyes.

The dacoits whom the Chinaman had brought to England originally
numbered seven, we learned.  As you, having followed me thus far, will
be aware, we had thinned the ranks of the Burmans.  Probably only one
now remained in England.  They had lived in a camp in the grounds of
the house near Windsor (which, as we had learned at the time of its
destruction, the Doctor had bought outright). The Thames had been his
highway.

Other members of the group had occupied quarters in various parts of
the East End, where sailormen of all nationalities congregate.
Shen-Yan's had been the East End headquarters.  He had employed the
hulk from the time of his arrival, as a laboratory for a certain class
of experiments undesirable in proximity to a place of residence.

Nayland Smith asked the girl on one occasion if the Chinaman had had a
private sea-going vessel, and she replied in the affirmative.  She had
never been on board, however, had never even set eyes upon it, and
could give us no information respecting its character.  It had sailed
for China.

"You are sure," asked Smith keenly, "that it has actually left?"

"I understood so, and that we were to follow by another route."

"It would have been difficult for Fu-Manchu to travel by a passenger
boat?"

"I cannot say what were his plans."

In a state of singular uncertainty, then, readily to be understood, we
passed the days following the tragedy which had deprived us of our
fellow-worker.

Vividly I recall the scene at poor Weymouth's home, on the day that we
visited it.  I then made the acquaintance of the Inspector's brother.
Nayland Smith gave him a detailed account of the last scene.

"Out there in the mist," he concluded wearily, "it all seemed very
unreal."

"I wish to God it had been!"

"Amen to that, Mr. Weymouth.  But your brother made a gallant finish.
If ridding the world of Fu-Manchu were the only good deed to his
credit, his life had been well spent."

James Weymouth smoked awhile in thoughtful silence.  Though but four
and a half miles S.S.E. of St. Paul's the quaint little cottage, with
its rustic garden, shadowed by the tall trees which had so lined the
village street before motor 'buses were, was a spot as peaceful and
secluded as any in broad England.  But another shadow lay upon it
to-day--chilling, fearful.  An incarnate evil had come out of the dim
East and in its dying malevolence had touched this home.

"There are two things I don't understand about it, sir," continued
Weymouth.  "What was the meaning of the horrible laughter which the
river police heard in the fog?  And where are the bodies?"

Karamaneh, seated beside me, shuddered at the words.  Smith, whose
restless spirit granted him little repose, paused in his aimless
wanderings about the room and looked at her.

In these latter days of his Augean labors to purge England of the
unclean thing which had fastened upon her, my friend was more lean and
nervous-looking than I had ever known him.  His long residence in Burma
had rendered him spare and had burned his naturally dark skin to a
coppery hue; but now his gray eyes had grown feverishly bright and his
face so lean as at times to appear positively emaciated.  But I knew
that he was as fit as ever.

"This lady may be able to answer your first question," he said.  "She
and her brother were for some time in the household of Dr. Fu-Manchu.
In fact, Mr. Weymouth, Karamaneh, as her name implies, was a slave."

Weymouth glanced at the beautiful, troubled face with scarcely veiled
distrust.  "You don't look as though you had come from China, miss," he
said, with a sort of unwilling admiration.

"I do not come from China," replied Karamaneh.  "My father was a pure
Bedawee.  But my history does not matter." (At times there was
something imperious in her manner; and to this her musical accent added
force.) "When your brave brother, Inspector Weymouth, and Dr.
Fu-Manchu, were swallowed up by the river, Fu-Manchu held a poisoned
needle in his hand.  The laughter meant that the needle had done its
work.  Your brother had become mad!"

Weymouth turned aside to hide his emotion.  "What was on the needle?"
he asked huskily.

"It was something which he prepared from the venom of a kind of swamp
adder," she answered.  "It produces madness, but not always death."

"He would have had a poor chance," said Smith, "even had he been in
complete possession of his senses.  At the time of the encounter we
must have been some considerable distance from shore, and the fog was
impenetrable."

"But how do you account for the fact that neither of the bodies have
been recovered?"

"Ryman of the river police tells me that persons lost at that point are
not always recovered--or not until a considerable time later."

There was a faint sound from the room above.  The news of that tragic
happening out in the mist upon the Thames had prostrated poor Mrs.
Weymouth.

"She hasn't been told half the truth," said her brother-in-law. "She
doesn't know about--the poisoned needle.  What kind of fiend was this
Dr. Fu-Manchu?" He burst out into a sudden blaze of furious resentment.
"John never told me much, and you have let mighty little leak into the
papers.  What was he?  Who was he?"

Half he addressed the words to Smith, half to Karamaneh.

"Dr. Fu-Manchu," replied the former, "was the ultimate expression of
Chinese cunning; a phenomenon such as occurs but once in many
generations.  He was a superman of incredible genius, who, had he
willed, could have revolutionized science.  There is a superstition in
some parts of China according to which, under certain peculiar
conditions (one of which is proximity to a deserted burial-ground) an
evil spirit of incredible age may enter unto the body of a new-born
infant.  All my efforts thus far have not availed me to trace the
genealogy of the man called Dr. Fu-Manchu. Even Karamaneh cannot help
me in this.  But I have sometimes thought that he was a member of a
certain very old Kiangsu family--and that the peculiar conditions I
have mentioned prevailed at his birth!"

Smith, observing our looks of amazement, laughed shortly, and quite
mirthlessly.

"Poor old Weymouth!" he jerked.  "I suppose my labors are finished; but
I am far from triumphant.  Is there any improvement in Mrs. Weymouth's
condition?"

"Very little," was the reply; "she has lain in a semi-conscious state
since the news came.  No one had any idea she would take it so.  At one
time we were afraid her brain was going.  She seemed to have delusions."

Smith spun round upon Weymouth.

"Of what nature?" he asked rapidly.

The other pulled nervously at his mustache.

"My wife has been staying with her," he explained, "since--it happened;
and for the last three nights poor John's widow has cried out at the
same time--half-past two--that someone was knocking on the door."

"What door?"

"That door yonder--the street door."

All our eyes turned in the direction indicated.

"John often came home at half-past two from the Yard," continued
Weymouth; "so we naturally thought poor Mary was wandering in her mind.
But last night--and it's not to be wondered at--my wife couldn't sleep,
and she was wide awake at half-past two."

"Well?"

Nayland Smith was standing before him, alert, bright-eyed.

"She heard it, too!"

The sun was streaming into the cozy little sitting-room; but I will
confess that Weymouth's words chilled me uncannily.  Karamaneh laid her
hand upon mine, in a quaint, childish fashion peculiarly her own.  Her
hand was cold, but its touch thrilled me.  For Karamaneh was not a
child, but a rarely beautiful girl--a pearl of the East such as many a
monarch has fought for.

"What then?" asked Smith.

"She was afraid to move--afraid to look from the window!"

My friend turned and stared hard at me.

"A subjective hallucination, Petrie?"

"In all probability," I replied.  "You should arrange that your wife be
relieved in her trying duties, Mr. Weymouth.  It is too great a strain
for an inexperienced nurse."



CHAPTER XXVIII


OF all that we had hoped for in our pursuit of Fu-Manchu how little had
we accomplished.  Excepting Karamaneh and her brother (who were victims
and not creatures of the Chinese doctor's) not one of the formidable
group had fallen alive into our hands.  Dreadful crimes had marked
Fu-Manchu's passage through the land.  Not one-half of the truth (and
nothing of the later developments) had been made public.  Nayland
Smith's authority was sufficient to control the press.

In the absence of such a veto a veritable panic must have seized upon
the entire country; for a monster--a thing more than humanly
evil--existed in our midst.

Always Fu-Manchu's secret activities had centered about the great
waterway.  There was much of poetic justice in his end; for the Thames
had claimed him, who so long had used the stream as a highway for the
passage to and fro for his secret forces.  Gone now were the yellow men
who had been the instruments of his evil will; gone was the giant
intellect which had controlled the complex murder machine.  Karamaneh,
whose beauty he had used as a lure, at last was free, and no more with
her smile would tempt men to death--that her brother might live.

Many there are, I doubt not, who will regard the Eastern girl with
horror.  I ask their forgiveness in that I regarded her quite
differently.  No man having seen her could have condemned her unheard.
Many, having looked into her lovely eyes, had they found there what I
found, must have forgiven her almost any crime.

That she valued human life but little was no matter for wonder.  Her
nationality--her history--furnished adequate excuse for an attitude not
condonable in a European equally cultured.

But indeed let me confess that hers was a nature incomprehensible to me
in some respects.  The soul of Karamaneh was a closed book to my
short-sighted Western eyes.  But the body of Karamaneh was exquisite;
her beauty of a kind that was a key to the most extravagant rhapsodies
of Eastern poets.  Her eyes held a challenge wholly Oriental in its
appeal; her lips, even in repose, were a taunt.  And, herein, East is
West and West is East.

Finally, despite her lurid history, despite the scornful
self-possession of which I knew her capable, she was an unprotected
girl--in years, I believe, a mere child--whom Fate had cast in my way.
At her request, we had booked passages for her brother and herself to
Egypt.  The boat sailed in three days.  But Karamaneh's beautiful eyes
were sad; often I detected tears on the black lashes.  Shall I endeavor
to describe my own tumultuous, conflicting emotions?  It would be
useless, since I know it to be impossible.  For in those dark eyes
burned a fire I might not see; those silken lashes veiled a message I
dared not read.

Nayland Smith was not blind to the facts of the complicated situation.
I can truthfully assert that he was the only man of my acquaintance
who, having come in contact with Karamaneh, had kept his head.

We endeavored to divert her mind from the recent tragedies by a round
of amusements, though with poor Weymouth's body still at the mercy of
unknown waters Smith and I made but a poor show of gayety; and I took a
gloomy pride in the admiration which our lovely companion everywhere
excited.  I learned, in those days, how rare a thing in nature is a
really beautiful woman.

One afternoon we found ourselves at an exhibition of water colors in
Bond Street.  Karamaneh was intensely interested in the subjects of the
drawings--which were entirely Egyptian.  As usual, she furnished matter
for comment amongst the other visitors, as did the boy, Aziz, her
brother, anew upon the world from his living grave in the house of Dr.
Fu-Manchu.

Suddenly Aziz clutched at his sister's arm, whispering rapidly in
Arabic.  I saw her peachlike color fade; saw her become pale and
wild-eyed--the haunted Karamaneh of the old days.

She turned to me.

"Dr. Petrie--he says that Fu-Manchu is here!"

"Where?"

Nayland Smith rapped out the question violently, turning in a flash
from the picture which he was examining.

"In this room!" she whispered glancing furtively, affrightedly about
her.  "Something tells Aziz when HE is near--and I, too, feel strangely
afraid.  Oh, can it be that he is not dead!"

She held my arm tightly.  Her brother was searching the room with big,
velvet black eyes.  I studied the faces of the several visitors; and
Smith was staring about him with the old alert look, and tugging
nervously at the lobe of his ear.  The name of the giant foe of the
white race instantaneously had strung him up to a pitch of supreme
intensity.

Our united scrutinies discovered no figure which could have been that
of the Chinese doctor.  Who could mistake that long, gaunt shape, with
the high, mummy-like shoulders, and the indescribable gait, which I can
only liken to that of an awkward cat?

Then, over the heads of a group of people who stood by the doorway, I
saw Smith peering at someone--at someone who passed across the outer
room.  Stepping aside, I, too, obtained a glimpse of this person.

As I saw him, he was a tall, old man, wearing a black Inverness coat
and a rather shabby silk hat.  He had long white hair and a patriarchal
beard, wore smoked glasses and walked slowly, leaning upon a stick.

Smith's gaunt face paled.  With a rapid glance at Karamaneh, he made
off across the room.

Could it be Dr. Fu-Manchu?

Many days had passed since, already half-choked by Inspector Weymouth's
iron grip, Fu-Manchu, before our own eyes, had been swallowed up by the
Thames.  Even now men were seeking his body, and that of his last
victim.  Nor had we left any stone unturned.  Acting upon information
furnished by Karamaneh, the police had searched every known haunt of
the murder group.  But everything pointed to the fact that the group
was disbanded and dispersed; that the lord of strange deaths who had
ruled it was no more.

Yet Smith was not satisfied.  Neither, let me confess, was I. Every
port was watched; and in suspected districts a kind of house-to-house
patrol had been instituted.  Unknown to the great public, in those days
a secret war waged--a war in which all the available forces of the
authorities took the field against one man!  But that one man was the
evil of the East incarnate.

When we rejoined him, Nayland Smith was talking to the commissionaire
at the door.  He turned to me.

"That is Professor Jenner Monde," he said.  "The sergeant, here, knows
him well."

The name of the celebrated Orientalist of course was familiar to me,
although I had never before set eyes upon him.

"The Professor was out East the last time I was there, sir," stated the
commissionaire.  "I often used to see him.  But he's an eccentric old
gentleman.  Seems to live in a world of his own.  He's recently back
from China, I think."

Nayland Smith stood clicking his teeth together in irritable
hesitation.  I heard Karamaneh sigh, and, looking at her, I saw that
her cheeks were regaining their natural color.

She smiled in pathetic apology.

"If he was here he is gone," she said.  "I am not afraid now."

Smith thanked the commissionaire for his information and we quitted the
gallery.

"Professor Jenner Monde," muttered my friend, "has lived so long in
China as almost to be a Chinaman.  I have never met him--never seen
him, before; but I wonder--"

"You wonder what, Smith?"

"I wonder if he could possibly be an ally, of the Doctor's!"

I stared at him in amazement.

"If we are to attach any importance to the incident at all," I said,
"we must remember that the boy's impression--and Karamaneh's--was that
Fu-Manchu was present in person."

"I DO attach importance to the incident, Petrie; they are naturally
sensitive to such impressions.  But I doubt if even the abnormal
organization of Aziz could distinguish between the hidden presence of a
creature of the Doctor's and that of the Doctor himself.  I shall make
a point of calling upon Professor Jenner Monde."

But Fate had ordained that much should happen ere Smith made his
proposed call upon the Professor.

Karamaneh and her brother safely lodged in their hotel (which was
watched night and day by four men under Smith's orders), we returned to
my quiet suburban rooms.

"First," said Smith, "let us see what we can find out respecting
Professor Monde."

He went to the telephone and called up New Scotland Yard.  There
followed some little delay before the requisite information was
obtained.  Finally, however, we learned that the Professor was
something of a recluse, having few acquaintances, and fewer friends.

He lived alone in chambers in New Inn Court, Carey Street.  A charwoman
did such cleaning as was considered necessary by the Professor, who
employed no regular domestic.  When he was in London he might be seen
fairly frequently at the British Museum, where his shabby figure was
familiar to the officials.  When he was not in London--that is, during
the greater part of each year--no one knew where he went.  He never
left any address to which letters might be forwarded.

"How long has he been in London now?" asked Smith.

So far as could be ascertained from New Inn Court (replied Scotland
Yard) roughly a week.

My friend left the telephone and began restlessly to pace the room.
The charred briar was produced and stuffed with that broad cut Latakia
mixture of which Nayland Smith consumed close upon a pound a week.  He
was one of those untidy smokers who leave tangled tufts hanging from
the pipe-bowl and when they light up strew the floor with smoldering
fragments.

A ringing came, and shortly afterwards a girl entered.

"Mr. James Weymouth to see you, sir."

"Hullo!" rapped Smith.  "What's this?"

Weymouth entered, big and florid, and in some respects singularly like
his brother, in others as singularly unlike.  Now, in his black suit,
he was a somber figure; and in the blue eyes I read a fear suppressed.

"Mr. Smith," he began, "there's something uncanny going on at Maple
Cottage."

Smith wheeled the big arm-chair forward.

"Sit down, Mr. Weymouth," he said.  "I am not entirely surprised.  But
you have my attention.  What has occurred?"

Weymouth took a cigarette from the box which I proffered and poured out
a peg of whisky.  His hand was not quite steady.

"That knocking," he explained.  "It came again the night after you were
there, and Mrs. Weymouth--my wife, I mean--felt that she couldn't spend
another night there, alone."

"Did she look out of the window?" I asked.

"No, Doctor; she was afraid.  But I spent last night downstairs in the
sitting-room--and _I_ looked out!"

He took a gulp from his glass.  Nayland Smith, seated on the edge of
the table, his extinguished pipe in his hand, was watching him keenly.

"I'll admit I didn't look out at once," Weymouth resumed.  "There was
something so uncanny, gentlemen, in that knocking--knocking--in the
dead of the night.  I thought"--his voice shook--"of poor Jack, lying
somewhere amongst the slime of the river--and, oh, my God!  it came to
me that it was Jack who was knocking--and I dare not think what
he--what it--would look like!"

He leaned forward, his chin in his hand.  For a few moments we were all
silent.

"I know I funked," he continued huskily.  "But when the wife came to
the head of the stairs and whispered to me:  'There it is again.  What
in heaven's name can it be'--I started to unbolt the door.  The
knocking had stopped.  Everything was very still.  I heard Mary--HIS
widow--sobbing, upstairs; that was all.  I opened the door, a little
bit at a time."

Pausing again, he cleared his throat, and went on:

"It was a bright night, and there was no one there--not a soul.  But
somewhere down the lane, as I looked out into the porch, I heard most
awful groans!  They got fainter and fainter.  Then--I could have sworn
I heard SOMEONE LAUGHING!  My nerves cracked up at that; and I shut the
door again."

The narration of his weird experience revived something of the natural
fear which it had occasioned.  He raised his glass, with unsteady hand,
and drained it.

Smith struck a match and relighted his pipe.  He began to pace the room
again.  His eyes were literally on fire.

"Would it be possible to get Mrs. Weymouth out of the house before
to-night?  Remove her to your place, for instance?" he asked abruptly.

Weymouth looked up in surprise.

"She seems to be in a very low state," he replied.  He glanced at me.
"Perhaps Dr. Petrie would give us an opinion?"

"I will come and see her," I said.  "But what is your idea, Smith?"

"I want to hear that knocking!" he rapped.  "But in what I may see fit
to do I must not be handicapped by the presence of a sick woman."

"Her condition at any rate will admit of our administering an opiate,"
I suggested.  "That would meet the situation?"

"Good!" cried Smith.  He was intensely excited now.  "I rely upon you
to arrange something, Petrie.  Mr. Weymouth"--he turned to our
visitor--"I shall be with you this evening not later than twelve
o'clock."

Weymouth appeared to be greatly relieved.  I asked him to wait whilst I
prepared a draught for the patient.  When he was gone:

"What do you think this knocking means, Smith?" I asked.

He tapped out his pipe on the side of the grate and began with nervous
energy to refill it again from the dilapidated pouch.

"I dare not tell you what I hope, Petrie," he replied--"nor what I
fear."



CHAPTER XXIX


DUSK was falling when we made our way in the direction of Maple
Cottage.  Nayland Smith appeared to be keenly interested in the
character of the district.  A high and ancient wall bordered the road
along which we walked for a considerable distance.  Later it gave place
to a rickety fence.

My friend peered through a gap in the latter.

"There is quite an extensive estate here," he said, "not yet cut up by
the builder.  It is well wooded on one side, and there appears to be a
pool lower down."

The road was a quiet one, and we plainly heard the tread--quite
unmistakable--of an approaching policeman.  Smith continued to peer
through the hole in the fence, until the officer drew up level with us.
Then:

"Does this piece of ground extend down to the village, constable?" he
inquired.

Quite willing for a chat, the man stopped, and stood with his thumbs
thrust in his belt.

"Yes, sir.  They tell me three new roads will be made through it
between here and the hill."

"It must be a happy hunting ground for tramps?"

"I've seen some suspicious-looking coves about at times.  But after
dusk an army might be inside there and nobody would ever be the wiser."

"Burglaries frequent in the houses backing on to it?"

"Oh, no.  A favorite game in these parts is snatching loaves and
bottles of milk from the doors, first thing, as they're delivered.
There's been an extra lot of it lately.  My mate who relieves me has
got special instructions to keep his eye open in the mornings!"  The
man grinned.  "It wouldn't be a very big case even if he caught
anybody!" "No," said Smith absently; "perhaps not.  Your business must
be a dry one this warm weather.  Good-night."

"Good-night, sir," replied the constable, richer by half-a-crown--"and
thank you."

Smith stared after him for a moment, tugging reflectively at the lobe
of his ear.

"I don't know that it wouldn't be a big case, after all," he murmured.
"Come on, Petrie."

Not another word did he speak, until we stood at the gate of Maple
Cottage.  There a plain-clothes man was standing, evidently awaiting
Smith.  He touched his hat.

"Have you found a suitable hiding-place?" asked my companion rapidly.

"Yes, sir," was the reply.  "Kent--my mate--is there now.  You'll
notice that he can't be seen from here."

"No," agreed Smith, peering all about him.  "He can't. Where is he?"

"Behind the broken wall," explained the man, pointing.  "Through that
ivy there's a clear view of the cottage door."

"Good.  Keep your eyes open.  If a messenger comes for me, he is to be
intercepted, you understand.  No one must be allowed to disturb us.
You will recognize the messenger.  He will be one of your fellows.
Should he come--hoot three times, as much like an owl as you can."

We walked up to the porch of the cottage.  In response to Smith's
ringing came James Weymouth, who seemed greatly relieved by our arrival.

"First," said my friend briskly, "you had better run up and see the
patient."

Accordingly, I followed Weymouth upstairs and was admitted by his wife
to a neat little bedroom where the grief-stricken woman lay, a wanly
pathetic sight.

"Did you administer the draught, as directed?" I asked.

Mrs. James Weymouth nodded.  She was a kindly looking woman, with the
same dread haunting her hazel eyes as that which lurked in her
husband's blue ones.

The patient was sleeping soundly.  Some whispered instructions I gave
to the faithful nurse and descended to the sitting-room. It was a warm
night, and Weymouth sat by the open window, smoking.  The dim light
from the lamp on the table lent him an almost startling likeness to his
brother; and for a moment I stood at the foot of the stairs scarce able
to trust my reason.  Then he turned his face fully towards me, and the
illusion was lost.

"Do you think she is likely to wake, Doctor?" he asked.

"I think not," I replied.

Nayland Smith stood upon the rug before the hearth, swinging from one
foot to the other, in his nervously restless way.  The room was foggy
with the fumes of tobacco, for he, too, was smoking.

At intervals of some five to ten minutes, his blackened briar (which I
never knew him to clean or scrape) would go out.  I think Smith used
more matches than any other smoker I have ever met, and he invariably
carried three boxes in various pockets of his garments.

The tobacco habit is infectious, and, seating myself in an arm-chair, I
lighted a cigarette.  For this dreary vigil I had come prepared with a
bunch of rough notes, a writing-block, and a fountain pen.  I settled
down to work upon my record of the Fu-Manchu case.

Silence fell upon Maple Cottage.  Save for the shuddering sigh which
whispered through the over-hanging cedars and Smith's eternal
match-striking, nothing was there to disturb me in my task.  Yet I
could make little progress.  Between my mind and the chapter upon which
I was at work a certain sentence persistently intruded itself.  It was
as though an unseen hand held the written page closely before my eyes.
This was the sentence:

"Imagine a person, tall, lean, and feline, high-shouldered, with a brow
like Shakespeare and a face like Satan, a close-shaven skull, and long,
magnetic eyes of the true cat-green: invest him with all the cruel
cunning of an entire Eastern race, accumulated in one giant
intellect. . ."

Dr. Fu-Manchu!  Fu-Manchu as Smith had described him to me on that
night which now seemed so remotely distant--the night upon which I had
learned of the existence of the wonderful and evil being born of that
secret quickening which stirred in the womb of the yellow races.

As Smith, for the ninth or tenth time, knocked out his pipe on a bar of
the grate, the cuckoo clock in the kitchen proclaimed the hour.

"Two," said James Weymouth.

I abandoned my task, replacing notes and writing-block in the bag that
I had with me.  Weymouth adjusted the lamp which had begun to smoke.

I tiptoed to the stairs and, stepping softly, ascended to the sick
room.  All was quiet, and Mrs. Weymouth whispered to me that the
patient still slept soundly.  I returned to find Nayland Smith pacing
about the room in that state of suppressed excitement habitual with him
in the approach of any crisis.  At a quarter past two the breeze
dropped entirely, and such a stillness reigned all about us as I could
not have supposed possible so near to the ever-throbbing heart of the
great metropolis.  Plainly I could hear Weymouth's heavy breathing.  He
sat at the window and looked out into the black shadows under the
cedars.  Smith ceased his pacing and stood again on the rug very still.
He was listening!  I doubt not we were all listening.

Some faint sound broke the impressive stillness, coming from the
direction of the village street.  It was a vague, indefinite
disturbance, brief, and upon it ensued a silence more marked than ever.
Some minutes before, Smith had extinguished the lamp.  In the darkness
I heard his teeth snap sharply together.

The call of an owl sounded very clearly three times.

I knew that to mean that a messenger had come; but from whence or
bearing what tidings I knew not.  My friend's plans were
incomprehensible to me, nor had I pressed him for any explanation of
their nature, knowing him to be in that high-strung and somewhat
irritable mood which claimed him at times of uncertainty--when he
doubted the wisdom of his actions, the accuracy of his surmises.  He
gave no sign.

Very faintly I heard a clock strike the half-hour. A soft breeze stole
again through the branches above.  The wind I thought must be in a new
quarter since I had not heard the clock before.  In so lonely a spot it
was difficult to believe that the bell was that of St. Paul's. Yet such
was the fact.

And hard upon the ringing followed another sound--a sound we all had
expected, had waited for; but at whose coming no one of us, I think,
retained complete mastery of himself.

Breaking up the silence in a manner that set my heart wildly leaping it
came--an imperative knocking on the door!

"My God!" groaned Weymouth--but he did not move from his position at
the window.

"Stand by, Petrie!" said Smith.

He strode to the door--and threw it widely open.

I know I was very pale.  I think I cried out as I fell back--retreated
with clenched hands from before THAT which stood on the threshold.

It was a wild, unkempt figure, with straggling beard, hideously staring
eyes.  With its hands it clutched at its hair--at its chin; plucked at
its mouth.  No moonlight touched the features of this unearthly
visitant, but scanty as was the illumination we could see the gleaming
teeth--and the wildly glaring eyes.

It began to laugh--peal after peal--hideous and shrill.

Nothing so terrifying had ever smote upon my ears.  I was palsied by
the horror of the sound.

Then Nayland Smith pressed the button of an electric torch which he
carried.  He directed the disk of white light fully upon the face in
the doorway.

"Oh, God!" cried Weymouth.  "It's John!"--and again and again: "Oh,
God!  Oh, God!"

Perhaps for the first time in my life I really believed (nay, I could
not doubt) that a thing of another world stood before me.  I am ashamed
to confess the extent of the horror that came upon me.  James Weymouth
raised his hands, as if to thrust away from him that awful thing in the
door.  He was babbling--prayers, I think, but wholly incoherent.

"Hold him, Petrie!"

Smith's voice was low.  (When we were past thought or intelligent
action, he, dominant and cool, with that forced calm for which, a
crisis over, he always paid so dearly, was thinking of the woman who
slept above.)

He leaped forward; and in the instant that he grappled with the one who
had knocked I knew the visitant for a man of flesh and blood--a man who
shrieked and fought like a savage animal, foamed at the mouth and
gnashed his teeth in horrid frenzy; knew him for a madman--knew him for
the victim of Fu-Manchu--not dead, but living--for Inspector
Weymouth--a maniac!

In a flash I realized all this and sprang to Smith's assistance.  There
was a sound of racing footsteps and the men who had been watching
outside came running into the porch.  A third was with them; and the
five of us (for Weymouth's brother had not yet grasped the fact that a
man and not a spirit shrieked and howled in our midst) clung to the
infuriated madman, yet barely held our own with him.

"The syringe, Petrie!" gasped Smith.  "Quick!  You must manage to make
an injection!"

I extricated myself and raced into the cottage for my bag.  A
hypodermic syringe ready charged I had brought with me at Smith's
request.  Even in that thrilling moment I could find time to admire the
wonderful foresight of my friend, who had divined what would
befall--isolated the strange, pitiful truth from the chaotic
circumstances which saw us at Maple Cottage that night.

Let me not enlarge upon the end of the awful struggle.  At one time I
despaired (we all despaired) of quieting the poor, demented creature.
But at last it was done; and the gaunt, blood-stained savage whom we
had known as Detective-Inspector Weymouth lay passive upon the couch in
his own sitting-room. A great wonder possessed my mind for the genius
of the uncanny being who with the scratch of a needle had made a brave
and kindly man into this unclean, brutish thing.

Nayland Smith, gaunt and wild-eyed, and trembling yet with his
tremendous exertions, turned to the man whom I knew to be the messenger
from Scotland Yard.

"Well?" he rapped.

"He is arrested, sir," the detective reported.  "They have kept him at
his chambers as you ordered."

"Has she slept through it?" said Smith to me.  (I had just returned
from a visit to the room above.) I nodded.

"Is HE safe for an hour or two?"--indicating the figure on the couch.
"For eight or ten," I replied grimly.

"Come, then.  Our night's labors are not nearly complete."



CHAPTER XXX


LATER was forthcoming evidence to show that poor Weymouth had lived a
wild life, in hiding among the thick bushes of the tract of land which
lay between the village and the suburb on the neighboring hill.
Literally, he had returned to primitive savagery and some of his food
had been that of the lower animals, though he had not scrupled to
steal, as we learned when his lair was discovered.

He had hidden himself cunningly; but witnesses appeared who had seen
him, in the dusk, and fled from him.  They never learned that the
object of their fear was Inspector John Weymouth.  How, having escaped
death in the Thames, he had crossed London unobserved, we never knew;
but his trick of knocking upon his own door at half-past two each
morning (a sort of dawning of sanity mysteriously linked with old
custom) will be a familiar class of symptom to all students of
alienation.

I revert to the night when Smith solved the mystery of the knocking.

In a car which he had in waiting at the end of the village we sped
through the deserted streets to New Inn Court.  I, who had followed
Nayland Smith through the failures and successes of his mission, knew
that to-night he had surpassed himself; had justified the confidence
placed in him by the highest authorities.

We were admitted to an untidy room--that of a student, a traveler and a
crank--by a plain-clothes officer.  Amid picturesque and disordered
fragments of a hundred ages, in a great carven chair placed before a
towering statue of the Buddha, sat a hand-cuffed man.  His white hair
and beard were patriarchal; his pose had great dignity.  But his
expression was entirely masked by the smoked glasses which he wore.

Two other detectives were guarding the prisoner.

"We arrested Professor Jenner Monde as he came in, sir," reported the
man who had opened the door.  "He has made no statement.  I hope there
isn't a mistake."

"I hope not," rapped Smith.

He strode across the room.  He was consumed by a fever of excitement.
Almost savagely, he tore away the beard, tore off the snowy wig dashed
the smoked glasses upon the floor.

A great, high brow was revealed, and green, malignant eyes, which fixed
themselves upon him with an expression I never can forget.

IT WAS DR. FU-MANCHU!

One intense moment of silence ensued--of silence which seemed to throb.
Then:

"What have you done with Professor Monde?" demanded Smith.

Dr. Fu-Manchu showed his even, yellow teeth in the singularly evil
smile which I knew so well.  A manacled prisoner he sat as unruffled as
a judge upon the bench.  In truth and in justice I am compelled to say
that Fu-Manchu was absolutely fearless.

"He has been detained in China," he replied, in smooth, sibilant
tones--"by affairs of great urgency.  His well-known personality and
ungregarious habits have served me well, here!"

Smith, I could see, was undetermined how to act; he stood tugging at
his ear and glancing from the impassive Chinaman to the wondering
detectives.

"What are we to do, sir?" one of them asked.

"Leave Dr. Petrie and myself alone with the prisoner, until I call you."

The three withdrew.  I divined now what was coming.

"Can you restore Weymouth's sanity?" rapped Smith abruptly.  "I cannot
save you from the hangman, nor"--his fists clenched convulsively--"would
I if I could; but--"

Fu-Manchu fixed his brilliant eyes upon him.

"Say no more, Mr. Smith," he interrupted; "you misunderstand me.  I do
not quarrel with that, but what I have done from conviction and what I
have done of necessity are separated--are seas apart.  The brave
Inspector Weymouth I wounded with a poisoned needle, in self-defense;
but I regret his condition as greatly as you do.  I respect such a man.
There is an antidote to the poison of the needle."

"Name it," said Smith.

Fu-Manchu smiled again.

"Useless," he replied.  "I alone can prepare it.  My secrets shall die
with me.  I will make a sane man of Inspector Weymouth, but no one else
shall be in the house but he and I."

"It will be surrounded by police," interrupted Smith grimly.

"As you please," said Fu-Manchu. "Make your arrangements.  In that
ebony case upon the table are the instruments for the cure.  Arrange
for me to visit him where and when you will--"

"I distrust you utterly.  It is some trick," jerked Smith.

Dr. Fu-Manchu rose slowly and drew himself up to his great height.  His
manacled hands could not rob him of the uncanny dignity which was his.
He raised them above his head with a tragic gesture and fixed his
piercing gaze upon Nayland Smith.

"The God of Cathay hear me," he said, with a deep, guttural note in his
voice--"I swear--"


The most awful visitor who ever threatened the peace of England, the
end of the visit of Fu-Manchu was characteristic--terrible--inexplicable.

Strange to relate, I did not doubt that this weird being had conceived
some kind of admiration or respect for the man to whom he had wrought
so terrible an injury.  He was capable of such sentiments, for he
entertained some similar one in regard to myself.

A cottage farther down the village street than Weymouth's was vacant,
and in the early dawn of that morning became the scene of outre
happenings.  Poor Weymouth, still in a comatose condition, we removed
there (Smith having secured the key from the astonished agent). I
suppose so strange a specialist never visited a patient
before--certainly not under such conditions.

For into the cottage, which had been entirely surrounded by a ring of
police, Dr. Fu-Manchu was admitted from the closed car in which, his
work of healing complete, he was to be borne to prison--to death!

Law and justice were suspended by my royally empowered friend that the
enemy of the white race might heal one of those who had hunted him down!

No curious audience was present, for sunrise was not yet come; no
concourse of excited students followed the hand of the Master; but
within that surrounded cottage was performed one of those miracles of
science which in other circumstances had made the fame of Dr. Fu-Manchu
to live forever.

Inspector Weymouth, dazed, disheveled, clutching his head as a man who
has passed through the Valley of the Shadow--but sane--sane!--walked
out into the porch!

He looked towards us--his eyes wild, but not with the fearsome wildness
of insanity.

"Mr. Smith!" he cried--and staggered down the path--"Dr. Petrie!
What--"

There came a deafening explosion.  From EVERY visible window of the
deserted cottage flames burst forth!

"QUICK!" Smith's voice rose almost to a scream--"into the house!"

He raced up the path, past Inspector Weymouth, who stood swaying there
like a drunken man.  I was close upon his heels.  Behind me came the
police.

The door was impassable!  Already, it vomited a deathly heat, borne
upon stifling fumes like those of the mouth of the Pit.  We burst a
window.  The room within was a furnace!

"My God!" cried someone.  "This is supernatural!"

"Listen!" cried another.  "Listen!"

The crowd which a fire can conjure up at any hour of day or night, out
of the void of nowhere, was gathering already.  But upon all descended
a pall of silence.

From the heat of the holocaust a voice proclaimed itself--a voice
raised, not in anguish but in TRIUMPH!  It chanted barbarically--and
was still.

The abnormal flames rose higher--leaping forth from every window.

"The alarm!" said Smith hoarsely.  "Call up the brigade!"


I come to the close of my chronicle, and feel that I betray a
trust--the trust of my reader.  For having limned in the colors at my
command the fiendish Chinese doctor, I am unable to conclude my task as
I should desire, unable, with any consciousness of finality, to write
Finis to the end of my narrative.

It seems to me sometimes that my pen is but temporarily idle--that I
have but dealt with a single phase of a movement having a hundred
phases.  One sequel I hope for, and against all the promptings of logic
and Western bias.  If my hope shall be realized I cannot, at this time,
pretend to state.

The future, 'mid its many secrets, holds this precious one from me.

I ask you then, to absolve me from the charge of ill completing my
work; for any curiosity with which this narrative may leave the reader
burdened is shared by the writer.

With intent, I have rushed you from the chambers of Professor Jenner
Monde to that closing episode at the deserted cottage; I have made the
pace hot in order to impart to these last pages of my account something
of the breathless scurry which characterized those happenings.

My canvas may seem sketchy:  it is my impression of the reality.  No
hard details remain in my mind of the dealings of that night.
Fu-Manchu arrested--Fu-Manchu, manacled, entering the cottage on his
mission of healing; Weymouth, miraculously rendered sane, coming forth;
the place in flames.

And then?

To a shell the cottage burned, with an incredible rapidity which
pointed to some hidden agency; to a shell about ashes which held NO
TRACE OF HUMAN BONES!

It has been asked of me:  Was there no possibility of Fu-Manchu's
having eluded us in the ensuing confusion?  Was there no loophole of
escape?

I reply, that so far as I was able to judge, a rat could scarce have
quitted the building undetected.  Yet that Fu-Manchu had, in some
incomprehensible manner and by some mysterious agency, produced those
abnormal flames, I cannot doubt.  Did he voluntarily ignite his own
funeral pyre?

As I write, there lies before me a soiled and creased sheet of vellum.
It bears some lines traced in a cramped, peculiar, and all but
illegible hand.  This fragment was found by Inspector Weymouth (to this
day a man mentally sound) in a pocket of his ragged garments.

When it was written I leave you to judge.  How it came to be where
Weymouth found it calls for no explanation:


"To Mr. Commissioner NAYLAND SMITH and Dr. PETRIE--

"Greeting!  I am recalled home by One who may not be denied.  In much
that I came to do I have failed.  Much that I have done I would undo;
some little I have undone.  Out of fire I came--the smoldering fire of
a thing one day to be a consuming flame; in fire I go.  Seek not my
ashes.  I am the lord of the fires!  Farewell.

"FU-MANCHU."


Who has been with me in my several meetings with the man who penned
that message I leave to adjudge if it be the letter of a madman bent
upon self-destruction by strange means, or the gibe of a
preternaturally clever scientist and the most elusive being ever born
of the land of mystery--China.

For the present, I can aid you no more in the forming of your verdict.
A day may come though I pray it do not--when I shall be able to throw
new light upon much that is dark in this matter.  That day, so far as I
can judge, could only dawn in the event of the Chinaman's survival;
therefore I pray that the veil be never lifted.

But, as I have said, there is another sequel to this story which I can
contemplate with a different countenance.  How, then, shall I conclude
this very unsatisfactory account?

Shall I tell you, finally, of my parting with lovely, dark-eyed
Karamaneh, on board the liner which was to bear her to Egypt?

No, let me, instead, conclude with the words of Nayland Smith:

"_I_ sail for Burma in a fortnight, Petrie.  I have leave to break my
journey at the Ditch.  How would a run up the Nile fit your programme?
Bit early for the season, but you might find something to amuse you!"









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