15 The train was late, and as our cab turned out of Waterloo's station and began to ascend to the bridge, from a hundred steeples rang out all 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 London's greatest caravaniseries 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 with 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 from the bricks of London, but in the rocks of Hindustan. In one of those rooms Graham Guthrie might at the moment be sleeping all unaware that he would awake to the call of Sylvia in 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 watchdogs 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. Hello! cried a man in a white overall. Where do 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 a 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 demure, 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 carns to the Aladdin's palaces they are. On a second-floor landing we met a man in a tweed suit to whom Asir Suron presented us. Glad to meet 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're the hotel detective, he said. Take us without delay to Mr. Graham Guthrie. A marked change took place in the other's demeanour 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 tonight? asked Smith. I have, was the saddling reply. That accounts for your finding me where you did. My usual post is in the lobby. But about eleven o'clock, when the theatre began to come in, I had a hazy sort of impression that someone or something had slipped past in the crowd, something that had no business in the hotel. We got out of the lift. I don't follow you, said Smith. If you thought you saw something entering you must have formed a more or less definitive 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. Number 189. Mr. Guthrie's door, sir. Smith knocked. Hello? came a muffled voice. What do you want? Open the door. Don't delay. It's important. He turned to the hotel detective. Stay right here 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, grey-haired and florid, with widely-opened eyes of the true fighting blow, a bristling moustache and prominent shaggy brows. Nail and Smith introduced himself tersely, proffering his card and an open letter. Those are my credentials, Mr. Guthrie, he said. So no doubt you will realise 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 pyjamas, 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 Nail and 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 the 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 Sylvia? I read of it in the Indian papers, said Guthrie unasily. 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 tonight 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 in the embankment, a curious chill of isolation swept about me. Again I realised 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 realised 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 silver, 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 I am not ashamed to confess, the 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 could reach that window. 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 in action was impossible. I joined him, and we looked out into the empty air. Don't come too near, Petrie. He wanded 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 further bank, and the shop 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 an arm upward. The crack of his revolver came, and he collapsed onto 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 night. The light! The light! I cried. Guthrie ran and turned on the light. Maylan 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.  He's choking. My hands are twitched. I seized the strangling cord. A knife! Quick! I cried. I've lost mine. Guthrie ran to the dressing table, and passed me an open pen-knife. 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 Carly, he said. The man was a fancigar, a religious strangler. Since Fu Manchu has decoits 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 thuggy on slightly improved lines. I'd 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.  A man leaning out from an open window is very nicely poised.  No loop was used, but a running line, which as the victim fell, remained in the hand of the murderer. No clue. Therefore we see at once what commended the system to Fu Manchu. Graham Guthrie, very pale, stood looking down at the dead strangler.  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 were as active as monkeys, and where an ordinary man would infallibly break his neck, they were 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 Irrawaddy? I asked. Yes, was the reply. And I know what you were thinking. The steamers of the Irrawaddy flotilla had a corrugated iron roof over the top deck. The thug must have been lying up there as the Colasi 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 the power over such people as Fazingers. 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 a Smith, I interrupted. Dr. Fu Manchu may have discovered the part she played. In which event? God help her. End of Chapter 15 Recording by F.N.H. Recorded in Sunny Anchorage, Alaska Chapter 16 Of The Insidious Dr. Fu Manchu This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by F.N.H. The Insidious Dr. Fu Manchu by Sax Roma Chapter 16 Upon the following day we were afoot again, and shortly at hand grips with the enemy. In retrospect that restless time offers a chaotic prospect, with no peaceful spot amid its turmoil. 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 Naelyn Smith.  Beyond where the Thames tidied slumberously seaward showed the roofs of Royal Windsor, the castle tower showing through the autumn haze, the piece of beautiful Thameside was about us. This was one of the few tangible clues 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 at its centre. Within that circle was the house from which miraculously we had escaped, a house used by the most highly organised 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 co-operators were invisible, these numbered no fewer than twelve, all of them experienced men. Thus far we had drawn a blank, but the place for which Smith and I were making now clearly came 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 murderous 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. Naelyn Smith was engaged in a furious struggle with the old gypsy woman. His long arms clasped about her. He was roughly dragging her out onto 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 was now evidently hard put to it to hold his own when a man swore thee, 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 petry, he cried. After him! Don't let him escape! It's a decoyt! My brain, in a confused whirl, my mind yet disposed to a belief that my friend had lost his senses. The word decoyt 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 race over the white, now had me fast in its grip again. I was an actor in one of those dream scenes of the grim, foo-man-chew 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 decoyts. I was close upon his heels, but I was not prepared for him to leap in amongst 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 the right and left, he had vanished completely. Only ever widening ring 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 decoyt did not rise. I searched the surface in all direction 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 my 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 me 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 father bank a girl was pulling a punt along, and a 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 nonplussed is to say less than the truth. I was amazed. That it was the decoy 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 the water for so long, yet 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, but 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 decoyte? 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.  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 wildfowl, I added. Nothing else. A wildfowl? snapped Smith. If you will consult your recollections of the habits of wildfowl, you will see that this particular specimen was a rarer avias. It's an old trick, Petrie, but a good one, for it is used in decoying. A decoyte's head was concealed in that wildfowl. It's useless. He has certainly made goodies escaped 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 upstream came a faint call. A decoyte! Nail and 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, Wrapsmith. So this time we were right, but, of course, he's had ample opportunity to remove his effects. I knew that. The man's daring is incredible. He's given himself till the very last moment, and we blundered upon two of his 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 clue, 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 witness many curious scenes. But of the many such scenes in that race drama wherein Naelyn 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 Yardmen 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 Café. 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 his many minutes. In the big arm-chair the pseudo-gypsy 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 unknown 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.  He murdered a fisherman thirty miles above prom only a month before I left. The DSP 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.  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 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 scoffily. 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 far more soft. My sister died in the desert. My brother lived. Better, far better, than 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? The slave has no country. No name. No name? I cried. You may call me Karamana, she said. As Karamana 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.  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 Crickton Davy? 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 skirt, and she who called herself Karamana 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. Cannot revenge himself upon your brother when you are in no way to blame, I said angrily. We arrested you. You're not here of your own free will.  Listen, she said, 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 brothers. No, her voice sunk to a whisper. For your own. End of Chapter 16 Recorded in Sunny Anchorage, Alaska Chapter 17 of the Insidious Dr. Fu Manchu This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by FNH. The Insidious Dr. Fu Manchu by Sax Roma Chapter 17 A cool breeze met us, blowing from the lower reaches of the Thames. Far behind us twinkled the dim lights of Lowe'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 a cool breeze that the river flowed round the bend ahead. It was very quiet. Only the sound of our footsteps, as Nailin 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 faunable Chinese doctor, but we were following out our compact with Karamana, 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 will strike the Hulk. I grasped the revolver in my pocket, and the presence of the little weapon was curiously reassuring. I have endeavoured, 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 awe with whom he came in contact, the terrors which he controlled and hurled at whomsoever come at 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 ask? 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 joked. 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 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 smouldering shell, now the hull lying off the marshes. Always he made his headquarters upon the river. It was significant. And even if tonight's expedition should fail, this was a clue for our future guidance. Bear to the right, directed Smith, we must reconnoitre 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 wildly 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, then upon another such night as this, I'd 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. Caramane 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 the darkness. That will be the cabin, said Smith. Acting upon our prearranged plan, we turned and walked up onto the staging area 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, his 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 onto 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 and the groans of the laboring Hulk and the lapping of the waves about the staging drowned the sound and the splash as my revolver dropped into the river. Rather white-faced, I think, I joined Smith on the deck. He 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, 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 mask-like intellectual face bent forwards amongst the riot of cinder 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 the 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.  That was an electric moment. I was prepared for anything. For anything except what really happened. The doctor's wonderful evil face portrayed 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, Wrapsmith, and attempt no tricks. His voice quivered with excitement. The game's up, Fu Manchu. Find something to time 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 discoloured teeth, but leaving the filmed eyes inanimate, dull, inhuman. He spoke softly, cillibently. 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, pockmarked face with two wolfish fangs bared, and jaundiced eyes squinting obliquely into mine was within two inches of mine. A lean, brown hand and arm, and great views standing up like cords held a crescent-shaped knife a fraction of an inch above my juggler 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 round, for God's sake, keep him covered. But a decoyte has his knife at my throat. Then for the first time Smith's hand trembled. But his glance never wavered from the malignant and motionless countenance of Dr. Fu Manchu. He clenched his teeth hard, so that the muscle 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.  The girl had betrayed us. You suppose 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 honours, Mr. Smith, are mine, I think. Smith made no reply. I divine that he was thinking furiously. Fu Manchu moved his hand to caress the marmoset, which had leaped playfully upon his shoulder and crouched there, gibbing at us in a whistling voice. Don't stir, said Smith savagely. I warn you. Fu Manchu kept his hand raised. May I ask 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 today 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 note-paper could scarcely have been slipped between the blade and vein, I think. But my heart throbbed even more wildly when I heard those words. And in pass, 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 Mardi's perfect English, I must accept yours. Of your resources outside the cabin I know nothing. You, I take it, know as little of mine. My Burmese friend and Dr. 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, 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 decoy must leave his knife also, he stipulated. Fu Manchu smiled, his evil smile again. Agreed. Shall I lead the way? No, wrapped Smith. Petrie and the decoy first, then you, I last. A guttural word of command from Fu Manchu, and we left the cabin with its evil odours, its mortuary specimens, and its strange instruments, and in the order arranged mounted to the deck. It would 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 dripping ladder, all reached the pier, and strode across the flats, the Chinaman always under close cover of Smith's revolver. Round about our feet, now leaping ahead, now gambling back, came and went, the Marma said. The decoy dressed solely in a dark loincloth walked beside me, carrying his huge knife, and sometimes glancing at me with his blood-lustful eyes. Never before, I ventured 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. Searching 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 cursed myself for an honourable fool, he said.  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 decoyt walked back. Naelyn 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. Bockeage of valuables and do the same, he muttered hoarsely. We have a poor chance, but we are both fairly fit. Tonight, 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 flitness of foot. As Smith's words I realised in a flash that such was to be our fate tonight. 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 decoyt rose in the night and was answered, and was answered again. Three, at least, is Smith. Three, armed decoyt, hopeless. Take the revolver, I cried. Smith, it's— No, wrap Smith 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 at 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 decoyts 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 decoyts had out distanced their fellow or fellows and were actually within three hundred yards of us.  The brilliant moonlight gleamed upon bare 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 that 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 race 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 looked as unattainable as three miles. Once I stumbled. My God! came from Smith weakly. But I recovered myself. Bare feet patted close upon our heels, and panting breaths told how even foo-man-choose 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 decoyt, 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 too.  That Smith had burst the latch, I felt assured. But by some divine accident my weak hands found the bolt. With that 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 pain 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. Weekly 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 decoyt 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 souls pattering upon the path outside stole to me. Two runners I thought there were, so that four decoyts must have been upon our trial. 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 raincoat. Caramana, I whispered, and Smith, with difficulty supporting himself upright and holding fast at the ledge beside the door, muttered something hoarsely which sounded like, God bless her.  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 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 take it, please? He took it without a word. Perhaps he could not trust himself to speak. Now go, hurry, she said. You're 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 had just had a miraculous escape from death, I opened the door. Coatless, dishevelled figures my friend and I stepped out into the moonlight.  Caramanna had shopped to kill for both had bullets in their brains. If God ever planned a more complex nature than hers, a nature more tumultuous and 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.  We moved away. All was very still now, and the lights glimmered faintly ahead. Not a whisper of cloud brushed the moon's disc. Good-night, Caramanna. I whispered softly. End of Chapter 17. Recorded in sunny Anchorage, Alaska. Chapter 18 Of the Insidious Dr. Fu Manchu This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by F.N.H. The Insidious Dr. Fu Manchu by Sax Roma. Chapter 18 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 Caramanna. 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 Caramanna. Indeed, in the latter task I found one more congenial yet, in the direction and extent of the ideas which 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 Caramanna were to be credited she had come to Fu Manchu as 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 picture 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 a 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 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 Naelyn 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, expressed 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 friends. He rang the bell beside the door. Almost immediately it was opened by a negro woman, gross, hideously ugly. Smith uttered something in a 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 civility, ushering us into an ill-lighted passage with every evidence of profound respect. Following this passage, in passing and in a door, far beyond whence preceded bursts of discordant music, we entered a little room bare of furniture, with coarse matting for mural decorations and a paddle-less red carpet on the floor. In a niche burned a common metal lamp. The negrous left us and close upon a departure entered a very aged man with long patriarchal beard, who greeted my friend with dignified courtesy. Following a brief conversation the aged Arab, for such he was or 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 devans or low seats around three of its walls, these devans 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 centre of the floor, accompanied by a young negro woman upon a guitar, and 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 curtain door at the farther end of the room. A buzz of conversation arose. It's a sort of combined weckler 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've been here before on several occasions, but I've always drawn blank. He was peering eagerly into the strange club room. Whom do you expect to find here? I asked. He's a recognised meeting-place, said Smith in my ear. It is almost certainly that some of Fu Manchu's group use it at times. Curiously I surveyed all the faces which were visible from the spy-hole. My eyes rested particularly upon the two Chinaman. Do you recognise any one? I whispered. 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 ensuring 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-coloured opera-clog was crossing the floor and coming in the direction of the spot where we were concealed.  A momentary view I had of her, and wildly incongruous she looked in that place, and she had disappeared from sight, having approached someone invisibly who sat upon the divan immediately beneath our point of vantage. From the way in which the company gazed towards her, I divine that she was no habitu of this 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 a midnight expedition of so unusual a character? I began a whispered question, but Smith tugged at my arms a 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, Caramane. 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 Caramane. For that it was she I no longer doubted. Recrossed the room, and disappeared. The man she spoke to, his Smith, we must see him. We must have him. He pulled the mat aside, and stepped out into the anti-room. He was empty. Down the passage he led, and we were almost to 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. Aquari had disappeared, as if by magic. A big car was just turning the corner towards Leicester Square. That is the girl, wrap Smith, but wherein Heaven's name is the man to whom she brought the message.  Angry and nonplussed 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. Clues 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. Dr. Fu Manchu was a menace to the civilised world, yet his very existence remained unsuspected by the millions whose fate he sought to command. Into what dark scheme of 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 as Fu Manchu set his death-seal. Caramane on this occasion may not have been acting as an emissary of the doctors. I feel assured that she was, Petrie. Of the many whom this yellow cloud may have at this moment enveloped, to which one did her message refer. The man's instructions were urgent, witnesses hasty departure, cursed. He dashed his right clenched fist into the palm of his left hand. I never had a glimpse of his face, first or last. To think of the hours I've spent in that place, in anticipation of just such a meeting, only to bungle the opportunity when it arose. Scares heeding what course we followed, we had come now to pick a dilly circus, and had walked out into the heart of the night's traffic. I dragged Smith aside in time to save him from an off-front wheel of the big Mercedes, when 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 came perceptibly to me. The cabs and cars about us were naturally 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. And a man, 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, Caramane, 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 and a man, second, could possibly mean. Hang it all, cried Smith. It might mean anything—a result of a race, for instance. He burst into one of his rare laughs, and began to stuff broad-cut 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 a man, 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 had 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's got at Frank Norris West. Inspector Weymouth has just been on the phone. Norris West, I cried. The American aviator and inventor of the Aero Torpedo, yes, he's been offering it to the English War Office, and they've 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. These 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 world 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 panelling to get at the bolt. A medical man was leaning over the recumbent figure in the striped pyjama suit, and Detective Inspector Weymouth stood watching him as Smith and I entered. He's 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 Chinaman. 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 for the Aero torpedo? Wraps Smith. I take it they are in the safe in the 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. Lame on the bed, Inspector. It was done, and my friend walked into the bedroom. Saved that the bed was disordered, showing that West had been sleeping in it, there was no evidence of the extraordinary invasion mentioned by the drugged man. It was a small room. The chambers were of that kind that 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 bit at a window and threw it up. We both looked out. You see, came ways. It is altogether too far from the court below for our cunning Chinese friends to have fixed a ladder up 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 the side to side of the windowsill. Suddenly he stooped, and with a sharp exclamation, bending over his shoulder, I saw what it was that had attracted his attention. Clearly imprinted upon the dust-coated grey stone of the sill was a confused series of marks, tracks, call them what you will. Smith straightened himself, and turned a wandering look upon me. What is it, Petrie? he said amazingly. Some kind of bird has been here recently. Inspector Weymouth, in turn, examined the marks. I never saw a 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 round, looking at the man on the bed. Do you think it was an illusion? asked the detective. What about those marks on the windowsill, Jerk Smith? He began restlessly pacing about the room, sometimes stopping before the lock 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, were losing valuable time. West must be aroused. Inspector Weymouth started. 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 have been revived by one that knew what drug he had taken. My friend began his restless pacing again, and suddenly pounced upon a little file of tabloids which had been hidden behind some books on a shelf near the bed. He turned a triumph from the exclamation. See what we have here, Petrie, he directed, handing the file 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 hydrite, 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 produce the antidote. During the man's absence Smith stood cots on plate in the unconscious inventor, a peculiar expression upon his bronzed face. And a man's 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 moustache impatiently when his assistant returned. I administered the powerful restorative, and although his 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 Chinaman, the Chinaman, he muttered. He sprang to his feet, glaring wildly at Smith and me, reeled, and almost fell. It's all right, I said, supporting him. I'm a doctor. You've 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 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! 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've 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 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. 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 calliliquy, 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, especially 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 a 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 kicker-tri's scar running from the left ear to the corner of the mouth, and drawing up the lip, like the lip of a snarling kerr. I could look into the malignant, jaunist 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 a pin's head in the darkness far above me. Almost like a glutinous liquid thing. Somehow I got to 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 bed rail, 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 quarrel, for I concluded that I had accidentally taken an overdose. Then the walls to 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. It was 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 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 of my dream, the second Chinaman seemed to tower over me, like a cypress tree. I looked up into 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.  Inspector Weymouth was stroking his moustache, 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 Chinaman, sometimes I thought there were two of them, sometimes twenty, became dwarfs. The next instant he 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 to come. How I saw a sound I 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, Rapsmith. Ah! 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, Morrow. You have solved the mystery, said Smith. It was natural Mr West should have thought of the American traveller, Bayard Taylor. Though Morrow'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 nonplussed, but frankly I think Inspector Weymouth considered West insane. Smith, his hands locked behind his back, stared out of the window. Anderman Second, he said suddenly. Weymouth, when is the first train to Tilbury? 522 from Fenchurch Street, replied the Scotland Yardman promptly. Too late, wrapped 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 pulpably 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 your recollection of the same Bayard Taylor. Since evidently you are familiar with that author's work, the land of the Saracen, is it not? The 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 you now 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.  Someone visited your chambers last night, he said slowly, and for your chloral tablets 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 kingly. Someone who was here yesterday. Have you any idea who it could have been? West hesitated.  West nodded. You're quite right, he admitted. I don't know how you arrived at the conclusion, but a lady who's acquaintance I made recently. A foreign lady. Karamana, snap 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 guided 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 recognise your symptoms now from Bayard Taylor's account. Mr West's statement, I said, ran closely parallel with portions of Moro's book on Hashish hallucinations. Only Fu Manchu, I think, would have thought of employing Indian hemp. I doubt, though, if it were a 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 drunk brain. We have evidence that he is 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 am 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. End of CHAPTER XIX It was with my mind, in a condition of unique perplexity, that I hurried with Naylon 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 in 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 a third story of a building. Smith, I said, those bird-tracks on the windowsill, they furnished the key to a mystery which is puzzlingly. Do they, 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 windowsill. 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, ah, 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 from 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 onto 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.  The court would be deserted at that hour of the night, and in any event, directly after the ascent of the ladder, it was probably 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 site and the removing of the hashish's tabloids, leaving no clue beyond the delirious ravings of a drug-slave, for so any one unacquainted with the east master 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. Caramane 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 to attract attention at that hour in that place than a modest taxi, and received the stolen plans. She did her work well. Poor Caramane, she had no alternative. I said I would have given a hundred pounds for a site of the messenger's face, the man whom she handed them. I would give a thousand now. And a man second, I said. What did she mean? Then it is not dawned upon you, cried Smith excitedly as the cab turned into the station. The and a man 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 dashed to the docks through the early 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 Nail and Smith's mission came home to me as we hurried onto the platform escorted by the station master, and the five of us, for Weymouth had two other CID 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 wandering 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 a passage to the far east by the will of my royally empowered companion. It was novel and infinitely exciting. Mr. Commissioner Nail and 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 for 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 Yardmen 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 Nalen 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. Nalen Smith. I turned, as though I had been stung. Smith turned also. My eyes passed from face to face with the group about us. None was familiar. No one apparently had moved away. But the voice was the voice of Dr. 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. For 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 ill illuminated with which it is dotted. This incident at the dock 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 own 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. End of Chapter 20. Recording in sunny Anchorage, Alaska. Chapter 21. Of the insidious Dr. Fu Manchu. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by FNH. The insidious Dr. Fu Manchu by Sax Roma. Chapter 21. Time wore on, and seemingly brought us no nearer or very little nearer to our goal. So carefully had my friend Naylen Smith excluded the matter from the press, that whilst the public interest was much engaged with some of the events, in the scheme of the mystery which we 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, and 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 alluding all, triumphant, contemptuous. One link in that chain Smith himself for a long time failed to recognize, yet it was a big and important link. Petri, 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 Seawood of the Anderman, 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 engine. 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 James Edwards, second class, booked to Shanghai. I think the name was assumed, the man was some sort of oriental, and we had to have him under close observation. That's the end of their report, exclaimed Smith. He referred to the two CID men who had joined the Anderman at the moment of her departure from Tilbury. He carefully lighted his pipe. Is it a victory for China, Petri? he said softly. Until the Great War reveals her secret resources, and I pray that they may not be in my time, we shall never know, I reply. 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 her notes. Lord Sothery, I replied. Smith tossed the morning paper across to me. Log, he said shortly, he's dead. I read the account of the pier'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 zealous 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 subheadings to the account. Sir Frank Narkoom summoned too late. You see, said Smith. Sothery died during the night, but Sir Frank Narkoom arriving a few minutes later unhesitatingly pronounced death due to sin-cope, 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, wrapped Smith, that if Dr. Fu Manchu is responsible for Sothery's death, except to the eye of an expert, there would be nothing suspicious to see. Fu Manchu leaves no clues. 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 Sothery, 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, lettering the half with matches as he constantly relighted his pipe, which went out every few minutes. It's no good, Petri, 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 Starwood, Lord Sothery, 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, and conceived the scheme for the canal which, in the near future, was to bring two great continents a full week's journey nearer to one another. 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 Sothery in a dangerous, exhaustive condition. I did all that was possible, and Sir Frank Narcon was sent for. But shortly before his arrival the patient expired. I understand, Doctor, that you have been treating Lord Sothery for angina pectoris, I said. Yes, was the reply, for some months. You regard the circumstances of his end as entirely consistent with the death from that cause? Certainly. Do you observe anything unusual yourself? Sir Frank Narcon 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 Sothery with grey, cold fingers, Smith paused, detaining a black-coated man who had passed us on the stairs. You were Lord Sothery's valet? The man bowed. Were you in the room at the moment of his final 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, but 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 the houses whose doors bear the invisible death-mark of Fu Manchu. You're 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 sure that he has brought about Lord Sothery'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 secretive 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 Karamané. 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 had heard right. Your brother, I began. She seized my arm intreatingly, looking into my eyes. You were 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 made accompany me there, yes. Lailin Smith, I doubted not, would have counselled me against trusting my life in the hands of this girl with the pleading eyes. Yet I did so, with little hesitation. Shortly we were travelling eastward in a closed cab. Caramané 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 cab man she had directed to drive to the lower end of the commercial road, the neighbourhood of the new docks, and the scene of one of our early adventures with Dr. Fu Manchu. The mantle of dust had closed about the squalid activity of the East End streets as we neared our destination. Aliens of every shade of colour 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 Caramané 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 Riverwood, 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 now 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 might truly mask the cunning of a serpent. I spoke to her. Sh! she laid her hand upon my arm in joining 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 clanger of waterside activity was about us. I heard a key great in a lock, and Caramané 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 odours 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 me until a 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 inlay 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. Caramané 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 luxuriant, a little ape. It was Dr. Fu Manchu's marmoset. This way, whispered Caramané. 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 cleaned ahead, it proved to extend to 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 colour about the floor. Three lamps hung by chains from the ceiling, the light softened by rich silk shades. One wall was almost entirely occupied by glass cases containing chemical apparatus, tubes, reports, 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 Caramané, saying that the girl's colouring 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 the east end of London, was a true magician's palace, lacking not its beautiful slave, lacking not his enchanted prince. It is as is, my brother, said Caramané. We passed down a stairway onto the floor of the apartment, Caramané 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 cunnly shell held no spark of life. But Caramané fondled the cold hands and spoke softly in that Arabic tongue which long before I had devined 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's 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! 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! Caramané had led me by the arm. Up! He has returned. She fled up the stairs to the balcony, eye closer to 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 human green eyes glittering cat-like even, it seemed, before the light struck them. He threaded his way through the archipelago of cushions, and bent over the couch of Aziz. Caramané dragged me onto 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 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 man 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 oat and cakes, and a flask of red wine. As the boy, exhibiting no more unusual symptoms than had feared just awakened from a normal sleep, commenced his repast. Karimane drew me gently along the passage into the room which we had first entered. My heart leapt wildly as the marmoset bounded past us to drop hand over hand to the lower apartment in search of its master. You see, said Karimane, 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 again be as you saw him. But see, and owning a little ebony box, she produced a file 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 you may call for me at any moment. So with the file in my pocket containing a potent preparation unknown to western science, and with the last long look into the eyes of Karamané, I passed out into the narrow alley, from the fragrant perfumes of that mystery house, into the place of Thameside's stenches.