 26. The Demon's Self Through the glass panes of the skylight I looked down upon a scene so bizarre that my actual environment became blotted out, and I was mentally translated to Cairo, to that quarter of Cairo immediately surrounding the famous square of the fountain, to those indescribable streets, wherefrom arises the perfume of deathless evil, wherein, to the wailing, luresome music of the reed-pipe, painted dancing-girls sway in the wild abandon of dances that were ancient when Thebes was the city of a hundred gates. I seemed to stand again in Elwasser. The room below was rectangular, and around three of the walls were divans strewn with garish cushions, whilst highly-coloured eastern rugs were spread upon the floor. Four lamps swung on chains, two from either of the beams which traversed the apartment. They were fine examples of nated, perforated brasswork. Upon the divan some eight or nine men were seated, fully half of whom were orientals or half-castes, before each stood a little inlaid table bearing a brass tray, and upon the trays were various boxes, some apparently containing sweet-meats, others cigarettes. One or two of the visitors smoked curious, long-stemmed pipes and sipped coffee, even as I leaned from the platform surveying that incredible scene, incredible in a street of Soho, another devotee of Hashish entered, a tall, distinguished-looking man wearing a light coat over his evening dress. God! whispered Smith beside me. Sir Bingham Pine of the Inje Office! You see, Petrie, you see? This place is allure! My God! He broke off as I clutched wildly at his arm. The last arrival having taken his seat in a corner of the divan, two heavy curtains draped before an opening at one end of the room parted, and a girl came out carrying a tray such as already reposed before each of the other men in the room. She wore a dress of dark-coloured gauze, banded about with gold tissue and embroidered with gold thread and pearls, and around her shoulders floated, so ethereally that she seemed to move in a violet cloud, a scarf of deli muslin. A whitey ash-mack trimmed with gold tissue concealed the lower part of her face. My heart throbbed wildly. I seemed to be choking, by the wonderful hair alone I must have known her, by the great brilliant eyes, by the shape of those slim white ankles, by every movement of that exquisite form. It was Garamina. I sprang madly back from the rail, and Smith had my arm and an iron grip. Where are you going? he snapped. Where am I going? I cried. Do you think? What do you propose to do? he interrupted harshly. Do you know so little of the resources of Dr. Fu Manchu that you would throw yourself blindly into that den? Damn it all, man! I know what you suffer, but wait! Wait! We must not act rashly. Our plans must be well considered. He drew me back to my former post, and clapped his hand on my shoulders sympathetically. Clutching the rail like a man frenzied as indeed I was, I looked down into that infamous den again, striving hard for composure. Garamina listlessly placed the tray upon the little table before Sir Bingham Pine, and withdrew without vouchsafing him a single glance in acknowledgment of his unconcealed admiration. A moment later, above the dim clamour of London far below, there crept to my ears a sound which completed the magical quality of the scene, rendering that sky-platform on a roof of Soho a magical carpet bearing me to the golden orient. This sound was the wailing of a reed pipe. The company is complete, Mermit Smith. I had expected this. Again the curtains parted, and a gazea glided out into the room. She wore a white dress clinging closely to her figure from shoulders to hips, where it was clasped with an ornate girdle, and a skirt of sky-blue gauze which clothed her as Iow was clothed of old. Her arms were covered with gold bangles, and gold bands were clasped about her ankles. Her jet-black frizzy hair was unconfined and without ornament, and she wore a sort of highly coloured scarf so arranged that it effectually concealed the greater part of her face, but served to accentuate the brightness of the great flashing eyes. She had unmistakable beauty of a sort. But how different from the sweet witchery of Karamina! With a bold swinging grace she walked down the centre of the room, swaying her arms from side to side and snapping her fingers. Zarmy! exclaimed Smith. But his exclamation was unnecessary, for already I had recognised the evil Eurasian who was so efficient a servant of the Chinese doctor. The wailing of the pipes continued, and now faintly I could detect the throbbing of a darabuka. This was El-Wasser indeed. The dance commenced. Its every phase followed eagerly by the motley cleantel of the Hashish House. Zarmy danced with an insolent and nonchalance that nevertheless displayed her barbaric beauty to greatest advantage. She was lithe as a serpent, graceful as a young panther. Another Lamia come to dam the souls of men with those arts denounced in a long dead age by Apollonius of Tyana. She seemed at once some penanced lady elf, some demon's mistress, or the demon's self. Entranced against my will I watched the Eurasian until the barbaric dance completed she ran from the room, and the curtains concealed her from view. How my mind was torn between hope and fear that I should see Karamina again. How I longed for one more glimpse of her, yet loathed the thought of her presence in that infamous house. She was a captive of that there could be no doubt. A captive in the hands of the giant criminal whose wiles were endless, whose resources were boundless, whose intense cunning had enabled him for years to weave his nefarious plots in the very heart of civilisation and remain immune. Suddenly that woman is a sorceress muttered Nalen Smith. There is about her something serpentine, at once repelling and fascinating. It would be of interest, Petrie, to learn what state secrets have been felt from the brains of habituaries of this den, and interesting to know from what unsuspected spyhole Fumanchu views his nightly catch. If his voice died away in a most curious fashion I have since thought that here was a case of true telepathy, for as Smith spoke of Fumanchu's spyhole the idea leapt instantly to my mind that this was it, this strange platform upon which we stood. I drew back from the rail, turned, stared at Smith. I read in his face that our suspicions were identical then. Look, look! whispered Weymouth. He was gazing at the trap door which was slowly rising inch by inch, inch by inch. Fascinatedly, raptly we all gazed. A head appeared in the opening and some vague reflected light revealed too long, narrow, slightly oblique eyes watching us. They were brilliantly green. By God! came an almighty roar from Weymouth. It's Dr. Fumanchu! As one man we leapt for the trap, it dropped with a resounding bang, and I distinctly heard a bolt shot home. A guttural voice, the unmistakable, unforgettable voice of Fumanchu, sounded dimly from below. I turned and sprang back to the rail of the platform, peering down into the hashish house. The occupants of the devans were making for the curtained doorway. Some who seemed to be in a state of stupor were being assisted by the others and by the man Ishmael, who had now appeared upon the scene. Of Karamina, Zarmie, or Fumanchu, there was no sign. Suddenly, the lights were extinguished. This is maddening! cried Nailand Smith. Maddening! No doubt they have some other exit, some hiding place, and they are slipping through our hands. Inspector Weymouth blew a shrill blast upon his whistle, and Smith, running to the rail of the platform, began to shatter the pains of the skylight with his foot. That's hopeless, sir! cried Weymouth. You'd be torn to pieces on the jacket glass! Smith desisted with a savage exclamation, and stood beating his right fist into the palm of his left hand, and glaring madly at the Scotland Yard man. I know I'm to blame, admitted Weymouth, but the words were out before I knew I'd spoken. Ah! as an answering whistle came from somewhere in the street below. But will they ever find us? He blew again shrilly, several whistles replied, and a whispered smoke floated up from the shattered pain of the skylight. I can smell petrol, muttered Weymouth. An ever-increasing roar, not unlike that of an approaching storm at sea, came from the streets beneath. Whistles scurled remotely and intimately, and sometimes one voice, sometimes another, would detach itself from this stormy background with weird effect. Somewhere deep in the bowels of the hashish house, there went on ceaselessly a splintering and crashing, as though a determined assault were being made upon a door. A light shone up through the skylight. Back once more to the rail-eye sprang, looked down into the room below, and saw a sight never to be forgotten. Passing from Devan to Curtendore, from piles of cushions to stacked-up tables, and bearing a flaming torch hastily improvised out of a roll of newspaper, was Dr. Fu Man Xu. Everything inflammable in the place had been soaked with petrol, and his gaunt yellow face lighted by the ever-growing conflagration, so that it truly seemed not the face of a man, but that of a demon of the hells. The Chinese doctor ignited point after point. Smith! I screamed, We are trapped! That fiend means to burn us alive! And the place will flare like matchwood, its touch and go this time, Petrie. To drop to the sloping roof underneath would mean almost certain death on the pavement. I dragged my pistol from my pocket and began wildly to fire shot after shot into the Holocaust below, but the awful Chinaman had escaped, probably by some secret exit reserved for his own use, for certain he must have known that escape into the court was now cut off. Flames were beginning to hiss through the skylight. A tremendous crackling and crashing told of the glass destroyed. Smoke spurted up through the cracks of the boarding upon which we stood, and a great shout came from the crowd in the streets. In the distance, a long, long way off, it seemed, was born a new note in the stormy human symphony. It grew in volume. It seemed to be sweeping down upon us, nearer, nearer, nearer. Now it was in the streets immediately adjoining the cafe de l'Égypte, and now, blessed sound, it culminated in a mighty cheer. The fire engines, said Weymouth Cooley, and raised himself on to the lower rail, for the platform was growing uncomfortably hot. Tongues of fire licked out venomously from beneath my feet. I leapt for the railing in turn and sat astride it, as one end of the flooring burst into flame. The heat from the blazing room above, which we hung suspended, was now all but insupportable, and the fumes threatened to stifle us. My head seemed to be bursting. My throat and lungs were consumed by internal fires. Merciful heavens, Whistwood Smith, will they reach us in time? Not if they don't get here within the next thirty seconds, answered Weymouth Grimly, and changed his position in order to avoid a tongue of flame that hung really sought to reach him. Nayland Smith turned and looked at me squally in the eyes. Words trembled on his tongue, but those words were never spoken. For a brass helmet appeared suddenly out of the smoke banks, followed almost immediately by a second. Quick, sir, this way! Jump! I'll catch you! Exactly what followed, I never knew, but there was a mighty burst of cheering, a sense of tension released, and it became a task less agonizing to breathe. Feeling very dazed, I found myself in the heart of a huge, excited crowd, with Weymouth beside me and Nayland Smith holding my arm. Vaguely, I heard, there have the manish by all, but a hollow crash drowned the end of a sentence, a shower of sparks shot up into the night's darkness, high above our heads. That's the Platform gone. End of Chapter 26 Chapter 27 One night, early in the following week, I sat at work upon my notes, dealing with our almost miraculous escape from the blazing hashish house, when the clock of St. Paul's began to strike midnight. I paused in my work, leaning back wearily, and wondering what detained Nayland Smith so late. Some friends from Burma had carried him off to a theatre, and in their good company I had thought him safe enough. Yet, with the omnipresent menace of Fu Manchu hanging over our heads, always I doubted, always I feared, if my friend should chance to be delayed abroad at night. What a world of unreality was mine in those days, jostling as I did, commonplace folk in commonplace surroundings, I yet knew myself removed from them, knew myself all but alone in my knowledge of the great and evil man, whose presence in England had diverted my life into these strange channels. But, despite all of my knowledge, and despite the infinitely greater knowledge and wider experience of Nayland Smith, what did I know? What did he know of the strange organisation called the Seafan, and of its most formidable member, Dr. Fu Manchu? Where did the dreadful Chinaman hide, with his murderers, his poisons, and his nameless death agents? What a roof in broad England, a sheltered caramena, the companion of my dreams, the desire of every waking hour! I uttered a sigh of despair when, to my unbound astonishment, there came a loud wrap upon the window-pane. Leaping up, I crossed to the window, threw it widely open, and lent out, looking down into the court below. It was deserted. In no other window visible to me was any light to be seen, and no living thing moved in the shadows beneath. The clamour of Fleet Street's diminishing traffic came dimly to my ears, the last stroke from St. Paul's quivered through the night. What was the meaning of the sound which had disturbed me? Surely I could not have imagined it. Yet, right, left, above and below, from the cloister-esque shadows on the east of the court to the blank wall of the building on the west, no living thing stirred. Quietly I reclosed the window and stood by it for a moment listening. Nothing occurred, and I returned to the writing-table, puzzled, but in no sense alarmed. I resumed the seemingly interminable record of the Seafan mysteries, and I had just taken up my pen when two loud raps sounded upon the pane behind me. In a trice I was at the window, had thrown it open, and was craning out. Practical joking was not characteristic of Naylon Smith, and I knew of none other likely to take such a liberty, as before the court below proved to be empty. Someone was softly wrapping at the door of the chambers. I turned swiftly from the open window, and now came fear. Momentarily the icy finger of panic touched me, for I thought myself invested upon all sides. Who could this late caller be, this midnight visitor who rapped ghostly, in preference to ringing the bell? From the table- drawer I took out a browning pistol, slipped it into my pocket, and crossed to the narrow hallway. It was in darkness, but I depressed the switch lighting the lamp. Toward the closed door I looked, as the soft wrapping was repeated. I advanced, then hesitated, and, strung up to a keen pitch of fearful anticipation, stood there in doubt. The silence remained unbroken for the space perhaps of half a minute. Then again came the ghostly wrapping. Who's there? I cried loudly. Nothing stirred outside the door, and still I hesitated. To some who read, my hesitancy may brand me childishly timid, but I, who had met many of the dreadful creatures of Dr. Fu Manchu, had good reason to fear whosoever or what so ever rapped at midnight upon my door. Was I likely to forget the great half-human ape, with the strength of four lusty men, which once he had loosed upon us? Had I not caused to remember his Burmese dacquot and Chinese stranglers? No, I had just caused for dread, as I fully recognized when, snatching the pistol from my pocket, I strode forward, flung wide the door, and stood peering out into the black gulf of the stair-head. Nothing. No one appeared. Conscious of a longing to cry out, if only that the sound of my own voice might reassure me, I stood listening. The silence was complete. Who's there? I cried again, and loudly enough to arrest the attention of the occupant of the chamber's opposite, if he chanced to be at home. None replied, and finding this phantom silence more nerve-wracking than any clamour, I stepped outside the door, and my heart gave a great leap, then seemed to remain inert in my breast. Right and left of me, upon either side of the doorway, stood a dim figure. I had walked deliberately into a trap. The shock of the discovery paralyzed my mind for one instant. In the next, and with the sinister pair closing swiftly upon me, I stepped back. I stepped into the arms of some third assailant, who must have entered the chambers by way of the open window, and silently crept up behind me. So much I realized, and no more. A bag reeking of some hashish-like perfume was clapped over my head, and pressed firmly against mouth and nostrils. I felt myself to be stifling, dying, and dropping into a bottomless pit. When I opened my eyes, I failed for some time to realize that I was conscious in the true sense of the word that I was really awake. I sat upon a bench covered with a red carpet in a fair-sized room, very simply furnished in the Chinese manner, but having a two-leaved gilded door which was shut. At the further end of this apartment was a dais some three feet high, also carpeted with red, and upon it was placed a very large cushion covered with a tiger's skin. Seated cross-legged upon the cushion was a Chinaman of most majestic appearance. His countenance was truly noble and gracious, and he was dressed in a yellow robe lined with martin fur. His hair, which was thickly splashed with grey, was confined upon the top of his head by three golden combs, and a large diamond was suspended from his left ear. A pearl-embroidered black cat, surmounted by the red coral ball denoting the Mandarin's rank, lay upon a second smaller cushion beside him. Leaning back against the wall I stared at his personage with a dreadful fixity, for I counted him the figment of a disarranged mind, but palpably he remained before me, fanning himself complacently and watching me with every mark of kindly interest. Evidently perceiving that I was fully alive to my surroundings, the Chinaman addressed a remark to me in a tongue quite unfamiliar. I shook my head daisily. Ah, he commented in French. You do not speak my language. I do not, I answered also in French, but since it seems we have one common tongue, what is the meaning of the outrage to which I have been subjected, and who are you? As I spoke the words I rose to my feet, but was immediately attacked by vertigo, which compelled me to resume my seat upon the bench. Compose yourself, said the Chinaman, taking a pinch of snuff from a silver vase which stood convenient to his hand. I have been compelled to adopt certain measures in order to bring about this interview. In China such measures are not unusual, but I recognise that they are out of occurrence with your English ideas. Emphatically they are, I replied. The placid manner of this singularly imposing old man rendered proper resentment difficult. A sense of futility and of unreality claimed me. I felt that this was a dream world governed by dream laws. You have good reason, he continued, calmly raising the pinch of snuff to his nostrils. Good reason to distrust all that is Chinese. Therefore, when I dispatch my servants to your abode, knowing you to be alone, I instructed them to observe every law of courtesy, compatible with the shore invitation. Hence I pray you absolve me for I intended no offence. Words failed me altogether. Wonders exceeded wonder. What was coming? What did it all mean? I have selected you rather than Mr. Commissioner Nyland Smith, continued the mandarin. As the recipient of those secrets which I am about to impart, for the reason that your friend might possibly be acquainted with my appearance, I will confess there was a time I must have regarded you with animosity, as one who sought the destruction of the most ancient and potent organization in the world, thus siphon. As he uttered the words, he raised his right hand and touched his forehead, his mouth, and finally his breast, a gesture reminiscent of that employed by Muslims. But my first task is to wash hoyo, he resumed, that the activities of that order are in no way inimical to yourself, your country or your king. The extensive harmifications of the order have recently been employed by a certain Dr. Fumanchou for his own ends, and since he was, I admit it, a high official, a schism has been created in our ranks. Exactly a month ago, sentence of death was passed upon him by the sublime prince, and since I myself must return a mititi to China, I look to Mr. Nyland Smith to carry out that sentence. I said nothing, I remained bereft of the power of speech. Tha siphon, he added, repeating the gesture with his hand, does own Dr. Fumanchou and her servants do with him what will. In this envelope he held up a sealed package, his information which should prove helpful to Mr. Smith. I have now a request to make. You will convey it here in the garments which you wore at the time that my servants called upon you. I was hatless and wore red leather and slippers, and overcooked and a hat can't doubtless be found to a soldier temporarily, and my request is that you close your eyes until permission is given to open them. Is there any one of my readers in doubt respecting my reception of this proposal? Remember my situation, remember the bizarre happening that had led up to it, remember too, air judging me, that whilst I could not doubt the unseen presence of Chinaman unnumbered surrounding that strange apartment with the golden door, I had not the remotest clue to guide me in determining where it was situated, since the duration of my unconsciousness was immeasurable, the place in which I found myself might have been anywhere within, say, thirty miles of Fleet Street. I agree, I said. The Mandarin bowed composedly. Kindly close your eyes, Dr. Pitui. He requested, and feel nothing, nor danger for T'anzu. I obeyed, instantly sounded the note of a gong, and I became aware that the golden door was open. A soft voice, evidently that of a cultured Chinaman spoke quite close to my ear. Keep your eyes tightly closed please, and I will help you with his court. The envelope you will find in the pocket, and here is a Tweet-cap. Now take my hand. Wearing the borrowed garments, I was led from the room along a passage, down a flight of thickly carpeted stairs, and so out of the house into the street. Faint evidences of remote traffic reached my ears as I was assisted into a car, and placed in a cushioned corner. The car moved off, proceeded for some distance then. I'll allow me to help you to descend, said the soft voice. You may open your eyes in thirty seconds. I was assisted from the step onto the pavement, and I heard the car being driven back. Having slowly counted thirty, I opened my eyes and looked about me. This, and not the fevered moment when first I had looked upon the room with the golden door, seemed to be my true awakening, for about me was a comprehensible world. The homely streets of London, with deserted Portland Place stretching away on one hand, and the glimpse of Midnight Regent Street obtainable on the other. The clock of the neighbouring church struck one. My mind yet dull with wonder of it all, I walked on to Oxford Circus, and there obtained a taxicab in which I drove to Fleet Street. Discharging the man, I passed quickly under the time-warrant archway into the court, and approached our stair. Indeed, I was about to ascend when someone came racing down, and almost knocked me over. Petrie! Petrie! Thank God you're safe! It was Nalyn Smith, his eyes blazing with excitement, as I could see by the dim light of the lamp near the archway, and his hands as he clapped them upon my shoulders, quivering tensely. Petrie! he ran on impulsively, and speaking with extraordinary rapidity, I was detained by a most ingenious trick, and arrived only five minutes ago to find you missing, the window wide open, the signs of hawks evidently to support a rope ladder having been attached to the ledge. But where were you going? Weymouth has just rung up. We have indisputable proof that the Mandarin Kai Ming whom I had believed to be dead, and whom I know for a high official of the seafan, is actually in London. It's neck or nothing this time, Petrie. I'm going straight to Portland Place. To the Chinese Legation? Exactly. Perhaps I can save you a journey, I said slowly. I have just come from there. End of Chapter 27 Chapter 28 of the Hand of Fu Manchu This Librivox recording is in the public domain. The Hand of Fu Manchu by Sax Romer. Chapter 28 The Mandarin Kai Ming Naelyn Smith strode up and down the little sitting-room, tugging almost savagely at the lobe of his left ear. Tonight his increasing grayness was very perceptible, and with his feverishly bright eyes staring straight before him he looked haggard and ill, despite the deceptive tan of his skin. Petrie. He began in his abrupt fashion. I am losing confidence in myself. Why, I asked in surprise. I hardly know. For some occult reason I feel afraid. Afraid? Exactly. Afraid. There is some deep mystery here that I cannot fathom. In the first place, if they had really meant you to remain ignorant of the place at which the episodes described by you occurred, they would scarcely have dropped you at the end of Portland Place. You mean? I mean that I don't believe you were taken to the Chinese Legation at all. Undoubtedly you saw the Mandarin Kai Ming. I recognize him from your description. You have met him then? No, but I know those who have. He is undoubtedly a very dangerous man, and it is just possible—he hesitated, glancing at me strangely. It is just possible, he continued amusingly, that his presence marks the beginning of the end. Fu Manchu's health may be permanently impaired, and Kai Ming may have superseded him. But if what you suspect, Smith, be only partly true, with what object was I seized and carried to that singular interview, what was the meaning of the whole solemn farce? Its meaning remains to be discovered, he answered, but that the Mandarin is amicably disposed I refuse to believe. You may dismiss the idea. When dealing with Kai Ming we are, to all intents and purposes, dealing with Fu Manchu. To me this man's presence means one thing—we are about to be subjected to attempts along slightly different lines. I was completely puzzled by Smith's tone. You evidently know more of this man, Kai Ming, than you have yet explained to me, I said. Naelyn Smith pulled out the blackened briar and began rapidly to load it. He is a graduate, he replied, of the Lama College, all monastery of Rushuram. This does not enlighten me. Having got his pipe going well. What do you know of animal magnetism, snapped Smith? The question seemed so wildly irrelevant that I stared at him in silence for some moments then. Certain powers, sometimes grouped under that head, are recognised in every hospital today, I answered shortly. Quite so, and the monastery of Rushuram is entirely devoted to the study of the subject. Do you mean that that gentle old man—Petre, a certain Monsieur Sokolov, a Russian gentleman who is acquaintance I made in Mandalay, related to me an episode that took place at the house of the Mandarin, Kai Ming, in Canton. It actually occurred in the presence of Monsieur Sokolov, and therefore is worthy of your close attention. He had had certain transactions with Kai Ming, and at their conclusion received an invitation to dine with the Mandarin. The entertainment took place in a sort of logea or open pavilion, immediately in front of which was an ornamental lake, with numerous water lilies growing upon its surface. One of the servants, I think his name was Lai, dropped a silver bowl containing orange flower water for pouring upon the hands, and some of the contents likely sprinkled Monsieur Sokolov's garments. Kai Ming spoke no word of rebuke, Petre. He merely looked at Lai with those deceptive gazelle-like eyes. Lai, according to my acquaintance's account, began to make palpable and increasingly anxious attempts to look elsewhere rather than into the mild eyes of his implacable master. Monsieur Sokolov, who, up to that moment, had entertained similar views to your own, respecting his host, regarded this unmoving stare of Kai Ming's as a sort of kindly, because silent reprimand, the behaviour of the unhappy Lai was speedily served to disabuse his mind of that delusion. Petre, the man, grew livid. His whole body began to twitch and shake as though an ague had attacked him, and his eyes protruded hideously from their sockets. Monsieur Sokolov assured me that he felt himself turning pale, when Kai Ming very slowly raised his right hand and pointed to the pond. Lai began to pant as though engaged in a life and death struggle with a physically superior antagonist. He clutched at the posts of the loger with frenzied hands, and a bloody froth came to his lips. He began to move backward, step by step, step by step, all the time striving with might and main to prevent himself from doing so. His eyes were set rigidly upon Kai Ming, like the eyes of a rabbit fascinated by a python. Kai Ming continued to point. Right to the brink of the lake the man retreated, and there for one dreadful moment he paused and uttered a sort of groaning sob. Then clutching his fists frenziedly he stepped back into the water and immediately sank among the lilies. Kai Ming continued to gaze fixedly at the spot where bubbles were rising, and presently up came the livid face of the drowning man, still having those glazed eyes turned immovably upon the Mandarin. For nearly five seconds that hideous distorted face gazed from amid the mass of blooms, and then it sank again, and rose no more. What! I do mean to tell me! Kai Ming struck a gong, another servant appeared with a fresh bowl of water, and the Mandarin calmly resumed his dinner. I drew a deep breath and raised my hand to my head. It is almost unbelievable, I said, but what completely passes my comprehension is his allowing me to depart unscathed, having once held me in his power. Why the long harangue and the pose of friendship? That point is not so difficult. What! That does not surprise me in the least. You may recollect that Dr. Fu Manchu entertains for you an undoubted affection, distinctly Chinese in its character, but nevertheless an affection. There is no intention of assassinating you, Petrie. I am the selected victim. I started up. Smith, what do you mean? What danger other than that which has threatened us for over two years threatens us tonight? Now you come to the point which does puzzle me. I believe I stated a while ago I was afraid. You have placed your finger upon the cause of my fear. What threatens us tonight? He spoke the words in such a fashion that they seemed physically to chill me. The shadows of the room grew menacing. The very silence became horrible. I longed for the terrible longing for company, for the strength that is in numbers. I would have had the place full to overflowing, for it seemed that we too, condemned by the mysterious organization called the Sea Fan, were at that moment surrounded by the entire arsenal of horrors at the command of Dr. Fu Manchu. I broke that morbid silence my voice had assumed an unnatural tone. Why do you read this man Kaiming so much? Because he must be aware that I know he is in London. Well? Dr. Fu Manchu has no official status. Long ago his legation denied all knowledge of his existence, but the Mandarin Kaiming is known to every diplomat in Europe, Asia and America also. Only I, and now yourself, know that he is a high official of the Sea Fan. Kaiming is aware that I know. Why, therefore, does he risk his neck in London? He lies upon his natural cunning. Petri, he is aware that I hold evidence to hang him, either here or in China. He relies upon one thing, upon striking first and striking surely. Why is he so confident? I do not know. Therefore, I am afraid. Again a cold shudder ran icily through me, a piece of coal dropped lower into the dying fire, and my heart leapt wildly. Then, in a flash, I remembered something. Smith, I cried, that letter! We have not looked at the letter! Nail and Smith laid his pipe upon the mantelpiece, and smiled grimly. From his pocket he took out a square piece of paper, and thrust it close under my eyes. I remembered it as I passed to a borrowed garment, which bears no maker's name, on my way to the bedroom for matches, he said. The paper was covered with Chinese characters. What does it mean, I demanded breathlessly. Smith uttered a short, mirthless laugh. It states that an attempt of a particularly dangerous nature is to be made upon my life to-night. And it recommends me to guard the door, and advises that you watch the window overlooking the court, and keep your pistol ready for instant employment. He stared at me oddly. How should you react in the circumstances, Petrie? I should strongly distrust such advice. What else could we do? There are several alternatives, but I prefer to follow the advice of Kai Ming. The clock of St. Paul's chime the half hour, half past two. End of Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Of the Hand of Fu Man Chu This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Hand of Fu Man Chu by Sax Romer Chapter 29 Lama Sorcery From my post in the chair by the window I could see two sides of the court below, that immediately opposite, with the entrance to some chambers situated there, and that on the right, with the cloister-esque arches beyond which lay a maze of old world passages and stairs, whereby one who knew the torturous navigation might come ultimately to the embankment. It was this side of the court which lay in deepest shadow. By altering my position quite slightly I could command a view of the arched entrance on the left, with its pale lamp at an iron bracket above, and of the high blank wall whose otherwise unbroken expanse it interrupted. All was very still. Only on occasions the passing of a vehicle along Fleet Street would break the silence. The nature of the danger that threatened I was wholly unable to surmise. Since my pistol on the table beside me I sat on guard at the window, and Smith, also armed, watched the outer door. It was not apparent by what agency the shadow enemy could hope to come at us. Something strange I had detected in Nalen Smith's manner, however, which had induced me to believe that he suspected, if he did not know, what form of menace hung over us in the darkness. One thing in particular was puzzling me extremely. If Smith doubted the good faith of the sender of the message, why had he acted upon it? Thus my mind worked in endless and profitless cycles, whilst my eyes were ever searching the shadows below me. And, as I watched, wondering vaguely why Smith at his post was so silent, presently I became aware of the presence of a slim figure over by the arches on the right. This discovery did not come suddenly, nor did it surprise me. I merely observed, without being conscious of any great interest in the matter, that someone was standing in the court below, looking up at me where I sat. I cannot hope to explain my state of mind at that moment, to render understandable by contrast with the cold fear which had visited me so recently, the utter apathy of my mental attitude. To this day I cannot recapture the mood, and for a very good reason, though one that was not apparent to me at the time. It was the eurasian girl, Zarmie, who was standing there, looking up at the window. Silently I watched her. Why was I silent? Why did I not warn Smith of the presence of one of Dr. Fu Manchu's servants? I cannot explain, although later the strangeness of my behaviour may become in some measure understandable. Zarmie raised her hand, beckoning to me, then stepped back, revealing the presence of a companion. Here the two masked by the dense shadows that lay under the arches. This second watcher moved slowly forward, and I perceived him to be none other than the Mandarin Kai Ming. This I noted with interest, but with a sort of impersonal interest, as I might have watched the entrance of a character upon the stage of a theatre. Despite the feeble light I could see his benign countenance very clearly, but far from being excited a dreamy contentment possessed me. I actually found myself hoping that Smith would not intrude upon my reverie. What a fascinating pageant it had been, the Fu Manchu drama, from the moment that I had first set eyes upon the Yellow Doctor. Again I seemed to be enacting my part in that scene, two years ago and more, when I had burst into the bare room above Shen Yan's opium den, and had stood face to face with Dr. Fu Manchu. He wore a plain yellow robe, its hue almost identical with that of his gaunt hairless face, his elbows rested upon the dirty table, and his pointed chin upon his long bony hands. Into those uncanny eyes I stared, those eyes long, narrow, and slightly oblique, their brilliant cat-like greenness sometimes horribly filmed, like the eyes of some grotesque bird. Thus it began, and from this point I was carried on, step by step, through every episode, great and small. It was such a retrospect as passes through the mind of one drowning. With a vividness that was terrible yet exquisite I saw Karamina my lost love. I saw her first wrapped in a hooded opera cloak, with her flower-like face and glorious dark eyes raised to me. I saw her in the gauzy eastern raiment of a slave girl, and I saw her in the dress of a gypsy. Through moments sweet and bitter I lived again, through hours of suspense and days of ceaseless watching, through the long months of that first summer when my unhappy love came to me, and on and on, internably on. For years I lived again beneath that ghastly yellow cloud. I searched throughout the land of Egypt for Karamina, and knew once more the sorrow of losing her. Time ceased to exist for me. Then, at the end of these strenuous years, I came at last to my meeting with Kaiming in the room with a golden door. At this point my visionary adventures took a new turn. I sat again upon the red-covered couch and listened half stupefied to the placid speech of the Mandarin. Again I came under the spell of his singular personality, and again, closing my eyes, I consented to be led from the room. But, having crossed the threshold, a sudden awful doubt passed through my mind, arrow-like. The hand that held my arm was bony and clawish. I could detect the presence of incredibly long fingernails, nails long as those of some buried vampire of the Black Ages. Choking down a cry of horror, I opened my eyes, heedless of the promise given but a few moments earlier, and looked into the face of my guide. It was Dr. Fu Manchu. Never, dreaming or waking, have I known a sensation identical with that which now clutched my heart. I thought that it must be death. For ages, untold ages, eons longer than the world has known, I looked into that still, awful face into those unnatural green eyes. I jerked my hand free from the Chinaman's clutch and sprang back. As I did so, I became miraculously translated from the threshold of the room with a golden door to our chambers in the court adjoining Fleet Street. I came into full possession of my faculties, or believed so at the time. I realized that I had nodded at my post, that I had dreamed a strange dream, but I realized something else. A ghoulish presence was in the room. Snatching up my pistol from the table I turned, like some evil gin of Arabian lore, Dr. Fu Manchu, surrounded by a slight mist, stood looking at me. Instantly I raised the pistol, levelled it steadily at the high dome-like brow and fired. There could be no possibility of missing at such short range, no possibility whatever. And in the very instant of pulling the trigger, the mist cleared, the lineaments of Dr. Fu Manchu melted magically. This was not the Chinese doctor who stood before me, at whose skull I still was pointing the deadly little weapon into whose brain I had fired the bullet. It was Nailand Smith. Kaiming, by means of the unholy arts of the Lamas of the Rash-Sharan, had caused me to murder my best friend. Smith, I whispered huskily, God forgive me, what have I done? What have I done? I stepped forward to support him ere he fell, but utter oblivion closed down upon me, and I knew no more. He'll do quite well now, said a voice that seemed to come from a vast distance, the effects of the drug will have entirely worn off when he wakes, except that there may be nausea, possibly some muscular pain for a time. I opened my eyes, they were throbbing agonizingly. I lay in bed, and beside me stood Moodock McCabe, the famous toxicological expert from Charing Cross Hospital, and Nailand Smith. Oh, that's better, cried McCabe cheerily. Yeah, drink this. I drank from the glass which he raised to my lips. I was too weak for speech, too weak for wonder. Nailand Smith, his face gray and drawn in the cold light of early morning, watched me anxiously. McCabe, in a matter-of-fact way, that acted upon me like a welcome tonic, put several purely medical questions, which at first by dint of great effort, but with ever-increasing ease, I answered. Yes, he said musingly at last. Of course it is all but impossible to speak with certainty, but I am disposed to think that you have been drugged with some preparation of hashish. The most likely is that known in eastern countries as Magon or Barsh, composed of equal parts of cannabis indica and opium, with hellebore and other constituents, which very according to the purpose which the Magon is intended to serve, this renders the subject particularly open to subjective hallucination and a pliable instrument in the hands of a hypnotic operator, for instance. You see, old man, cried Smith eagerly, you see, that I shook my head weakly. I shot you, I said. It is impossible that I could have missed. Mr. Smith has placed me in possession of the facts, interrupted McCabe, and I can outline with reasonable certainty what took place. Of course it is all very amazing, utterly fantastic in fact, but I have met with almost parallel cases in Egypt and India and elsewhere in the east. Never in London, I'll confess. You see, Dr. Petrie, you are taken into the presence of a very accomplished hypnotist, having been previously prepared by a stiff administration of Magon. You are doubtless familiar with the remarkable experiments in psychotherapeutics conducted at the Saupetrie in Paris, and you would readily understand me when I say that, prior to your recovering consciousness in the presence of the Mandarin Kaiming, you had received your hypnotic instructions. These were to be put into execution either at a certain time, duly impressed upon your drugged mind, or at a given signal. It was a signal, Snapsmith. Kaiming stood in the court below and looked up at the window I objected. In that event, Snapsmith, he would have spoken softly through the letterbox of the door. You immediately resumed your interrupted trance, continued McCabe, and by hypnotic suggestion impressed upon you earlier in the evening, you were ingeniously led up to a point at which, under what delusion I know not, you fired at Mr. Smith. I had the privilege of studying an almost parallel case in Simla, where an officer was fatally stabbed by his Gitmatgar, a most faithful servant, acting under the hypnotic prompting of a certain Fakir whom the officer had been unwise enough to chastise. The Fakir paid for the crime of his life, I may add. The Gitmatgar shot him ten minutes later. I had no chance at Kaiming. Snapsmith, he vanished like a shadow, but has played his big guard and lost. Henceforth he is a hunted man, and he knows it. Oh! he cried, seeing me watching him in bewilderment. I suspected some lama trickery old man, and I kept closely to the arrangements proposed by the Mandarin, but kept you under careful observation. But, Smith, I shot you. It was impossible to miss. I agree. But do you recall the report? The report? I was too dazed, too horrified by the discovery of what I had done. There was no report, Petrie. I am not entirely a stranger to Indo-Chinese jugglery, and you had a very strange look in your eyes. Therefore I took the precaution of unloading your browning. End of Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Medusa Legal Business Connected with the estate of a distant relative, deceased, necessitated my sudden departure from London, within twenty-four hours of the events just narrated, and at a time when London was for me the centre of the universe. The business being terminated, in a manner financially satisfactory to myself, I discovered that with luck I could just catch the fast train back. Amid a perfect whirl of hotel porters and taxi drivers worthy of Naelyn Smith, I departed for the station to arrive at the entrance to the platform at the exact moment when the guard raised his green flag. Too light, sir. Stand back if you please. The ticket collector at the barrier thrust at his arm to stay me. The London Express was moving from the platform, but my determination to travel by that train and no other overrode all obstacles. If I missed it I should be forced to wait until the following morning. I leapt past the barrier, completely taking the man by surprise, and went racing up the platform. Many arms were outstretched to detain me, and the grey-bearded guard stood fully in my path. But I dodged them all, collided with and upset a gigantic negro who wore a chauffeur's uniform, and found myself level with a first-class compartment. The window was open. Amid a chorus of excited voices I tossed my bag in at the window, leapt up the footboard and turned the handle. Although the entrance to the tunnel was perilously near now, I managed to wrench the door open and to swing myself into the carriage. Then by means of the strap I reclosed the door in the nick of time and sank, panting upon the seat. I had a vague impression that the black chauffeur, having recovered himself, had raced after me to the uttermost point of the platform. But my end achieved I was callously indifferent to the outrageous means there too, which I had seen fit to employ. The express dashed into the tunnel, I uttered a great sigh of relief. With Caramena in the hands of the Seafan, this journey to the north had indeed been undertaken with the utmost reluctance. Nailen Smith had written to me once during my brief absence, and his letter had inspired a yet keener desire to be back and at the grips with the yellow group, for he had hinted broadly that a tangible clue to the whereabouts of the Seafan headquarters had at last been secured. Now I learnt that I had a travelling companion, a woman. She was seated in the further opposite corner, wore a long loose motorcoat, which could not altogether conceal the fine lines of her life figure, and a thick veil hid her face. A motive for the excited behaviour of the negro chauffeur suggested itself to my mind a label engaged was pasted on the window. I glanced across the compartment, through the closely woven veil the woman was watching me, an apology clearly was called for. Madam, I said, I hope you will forgive this unfortunate intrusion, but it was vitally important that I should not miss the London train. She bowed very slightly, very coldly, and turned her head aside. The rebuff was as unmistakable as my offence was irredeemable. Nor did I feel justified in resenting it. Therefore, endeavouring to dismiss the matter from my mind, I placed my bag upon the rack, and unfolding the newspaper with which I was provided, tried to interest myself in the doings of the world at large. My attempt proved not altogether successful. Strive how I would my thoughts persistently reverted to the Seafan. The evil, secret society who held in their power, one dearer to me than all the rest of the world. To Dr. Fu Manchu, the genius who darkly controlled my destiny. And to Nalen Smith, the barrier between the white races and the devouring tide of the yellow. Sighing again involuntarily, I glanced up, to meet the gaze of a pair of wonderful eyes. Never, in my experience, had I seen their like. The dark eyes of Karamina were wonderful and beautiful, the eyes of Dr. Fu Manchu sinister and wholly unforgettable. But the eyes of this woman were incredible. Their glance was all but insupportable. They were the eyes of a Medusa. Since I had met in the not distant past, the soft gaze of Kai Ming, the Mandarin whose phenomenal hypnotic powers rendered him capable of transcending the achievements of the celebrated Cagliostro, I knew much of the power of the human eye. But these were unlike any human eyes I had ever known. Long, almond-shaped, bordered by heavy jet-black lashes, arched over by finely penciled brows, their strange brilliancy, as of a fire within, was utterly uncanny. They were the eyes of some beautiful wild creature rather than those of a woman. Their possessor had now thrown back her motor veil, revealing a face orientally dark and perfectly oval, with a clustering mass of dull gold hair, small, aquiline nose, and full red lips. Her weird eyes met mine for an instant, and then the long lashes drooped quickly as she lent back against the cushions, with a graceful languor suggestive of the east rather than of the west. Her long coat had fallen partly open, and I saw with surprise that it was lined with leopard skin. One hand was ungloved and lay on the armrest, a slim hand of the hue of old ivory, with a strange ancient ring upon the index finger. This woman obviously was not a European, and I experienced great difficulty in determining with what Asiatic nation she could claim kinship. In point of fact, I had never seen another who remotely resembled her. She was a fit employer for the gigantic Negro with whom I had collided on the platform. I tried to laugh at myself, staring from the window at the moon-bathed landscape, but the strange personality of my solitary companion would not be denied, and I looked quickly in her direction. In time to detect her glancing away. In time to experience the uncanny fascination of her gaze. The long, slim hand attracted my attention again, and the green stone and the ring affording a startling contrast against the dull cream of the skin. Whether the woman's personality or a vague perfume of which I became aware were responsible, I found myself thinking of a flowerbedect shrine, where from arose the smoke of incense to some pagan god. In vain I told myself that my frame of mind was contemptible, and I should be ashamed of such weakness. Station after station was left behind, as the express sped through moonlit England towards the smoky metropolis. Assured that I was being furtively watched, I became more and more uneasy. It was with a distinct sense of effort that I withheld my gaze, forcing myself to look out of the window. When, having reasoned against the mad ideas that sought to obsess me, I glanced again across the compartment I perceived with inexpressible relief that my companion had lowered her veil. She kept it lowered throughout the remainder of the journey, yet during the hour that ensued I continued to experience sensations of which I had never since been able to think without a thrill of fear. It seemed that I had thrust myself not into a commonplace railway compartment, but into a Cumaean gavern. If only I could have addressed this utterly mysterious stranger, have uttered some word of commonplace, I felt that the spell might have been broken. But for some occult reason, in no way associated with my first rebuff, I found myself tongue-tied. I sustained for an hour the longest I had ever known, a silent watch and word over my reason. I seemed to be repelling, fighting against some subtle power that sought to flood my brain, swamp my individuality, and enslave me to another's will. In what degree this was actual, and in what due to a mind overraught from endless conflict with a yellow group, I know not to this day, but you who read these records of our giant struggle with Fu Manchu and his satellites shall presently judge for yourselves. When it last the breaks were applied, and the pillars and platforms of the great terminus glided into view, how welcome was the smoky glare, how welcome the muffled roar of busy London! A huge negro, the double of the man I had overthrown, opened the door of the compartment, bestowing upon me a glance in which enmity and amazement were oddly blended, and the woman, drawing the cloak about her graceful figure, stood up composedly. She reached for a small leather case on the rack, and her loose sleeve fell back to reveal a bare arm, soft, perfectly moulded, of the even hue of old ivory. Just below the elbow a strange-looking snake-bangle clasped the warm flesh. The eyes dull green seemed to hold a slumbering fire, a spark, a spark of living light. Then she was gone. I think heaven, I muttered, and felt like another dante emerging from the Hades. As I passed out of the station I had a fleeting glimpse of a grey figure stepping into a big car driven by a black chauffeur. CHAPTER 31 THE MARMA SET Half-past-twelve was striking as I came out of the terminus, buttoning up my overcoat, and, pulling my soft hat firmly down upon my head, started to walk to Hyde Park Corner. I had declined the services of the several taxi-drivers who had accosted me, and had determined to walk apart of the distant homeward in order to check the fever of excitement which consumed me. Already I was ashamed of the strange fears which had been mine during the journey, but I wanted to reflect, to conquer my mood, and the midnight solitude of the land of squares which lay between me and Hyde Park appealed quite irresistibly. There is distinct pleasure to be derived from a solitary walk through London, in the small hours of an April morning, provided one is so situated as to be capable of enjoying it, to appreciate the solitude and mystery of the sleeping city, a certain sense of prosperity, a knowledge that one is immune from the necessity of being abroad at that hour, is requisite. The tramp, the midnight policeman, and the coffee-store keeper know more of London by night than most people, but of the romance of the dark hours they know little. Romance succumbs before necessity. I had good reason to be keenly alive to the aroma of mystery which pervades the most commonplace thoroughfare after the hum of the traffic has subsided, when the rare pedestrian and the rarer cab alone traversed the deserted highway. With more intimate care seeking to claim my mind, it was good to tramp along the echoing, empty streets, and to indulge in imaginative speculation regarding the strange things that night must shroud in every big city. I have known the solitude of deserts, but the solitude of London is equally fascinating. He whose business or pleasure had led him to traverse the route which was mine on this memorable night, must have observed how each of the squares composing that residential chain which links the outer with the inner society has a popular and exclusive side. The angle used by vehicular traffic in crossing the square from corner to corner invariably is rich in a crop of blackboard bearing house agents' announcements. In the shadow of such a board I paused, taking out my case and leisurely selecting a cigar, so many of the houses in the south-west angle were unoccupied, that I found myself taking quite an interest in one a little way ahead, from the hall door and from the long conservatory over the porch light streamed out. Accepting these illuminations there was no light elsewhere in the square to show which houses were inhabited and which vacant. I might have stood in a street of Pompeii or Thebes, a street of the dead past. I permitted my imagination to dwell upon this idea as I fumbled for matches and gazed about me. I wondered if a day would come when some savant of a future land, in a future age, should stand where I stood and endeavour to reconstruct from the crumbling ruins this typical London square. A slight breeze set the hatchet board creaking above my head, as I held my gloved hands above the pine vesta. At that moment someone or something whistled close beside me. I turned in a flash, dropping the match upon the pavement. There was no lamp near the spot where at I stood, and a gateway and porch of the deserted residence seemed to be empty. I stood there peering in the direction from which the mysterious whistle had come. The drone of a taxi cab approaching from the north increased in volume, as the vehicle came spinning around the angle of the square, passed me and went a droning on its way. I watched it swing around the distant corner, and in the new stillness the whistle was repeated. This time the sound chilled me. The whistle was pitched in a curious inhuman key, and it possessed a mocking note that was strangely uncanny. Listening intently and peering towards the porch of the empty house, I struck a second batch, pushed the iron gate open and made for the steps, sheltering the feeble flame with upraised hand. As I did so, the whistle was again repeated, but from some spot further away, to the left of the porch, and from low down upon the ground. Just as I glimpsed something moving under the lee of the porch, the match was blown out, for I was hampered by the handbag which I carried. Thus reminded of its presence, however, I recollected that my pocket lamp was in it. Quickly opening the bag, I took out the lamp, and passing around the corner of the steps, directed a ray of light into the narrow passage which communicated with the rear of the building. Halfway along the passage, looking back at me over its shoulder and whistling angrily, was a little marmoset. I pulled up as sharply as though the point of a sword had been held at my throat. One marmoset is sufficiently like another to deceive the ordinary observer, but unless I was permitting a not unnatural prejudice to influence my opinion, this particular specimen was the pet of Dr. Fu Manchu. Excitement not untinged with fear began to grow up within me. Hyde Park was no far cry. This was near to the heart of social London, yet somewhere close at hand it might be, watching me as I stood, looked perhaps the great and evil being who dreamed of overthrowing the entire white race. With a grotesque grimace and a final chattering whistle, the little creature leapt away out of the beam of light cast by my lamp. Its sudden disappearance brought me to my senses and reminded me of my plain duty. I set off along the passage briskly, arrived at a small square yard, and was just in time to see the ape leap into a well-like opening before a basement window. I stepped to the brink, directing the light down into the well. I saw a collection of rotten leaves, waste paper, and miscellaneous rubbish, but the marmoset was not visible. Then I perceived that practically all the glass in the window had been broken. A sound of shrill chattering reached me from the blackness of the underground apartment. Again I hesitated. What did the darkness mask? The note of a distant motor-horn rose clearly above the vague throbbing which is the only silence known to the town-dweller. Gripping the unlighted cigar between my teeth, I placed my bag upon the ground and dropped into the well before the broken window. To raise the sash was a simple matter, and, having accomplished it, I inspected the room within. The light showed a large kitchen with torn wallpaper and decorator's litter strewn about the floor, a whitewash pail in one corner and nothing else. I climbed in, and, taking from my pocket the browning pistol without which I never travelled since the return of the dreadful Chinaman to England, I crossed to the door, which was a jar, and looked out into the passage beyond. Stifling in exclamation I fell back a step. Two gleaming eyes stared straightly into mine. The next moment I had forced a laugh to my lips, as the marmoset turned and went gambling up the stairs. The house was profoundly silent. I crossed the passage and followed the creature which now was proceeding, I thought, with more of a set purpose. Out into a spacious and deserted hallway it led me, where my cautious footsteps echoed eerily, and ghostly faces seemed to peer down upon me from the galleries above. I should have liked to have unbarred the street door, in order to have opened a safe line of retreat in the event of its being required, but the marmoset suddenly sprang up the main stairway at a great speed, and went racing around the gallery overhead toward the front of the house. Determined, if possible, to keep the creature in view, I started in pursuit. Up the uncarpeted stairs I went, and, from the rail of the landing, looked down into the blackness of the hallway apprehensively. Nothing stirred below. The marmoset had disappeared between the half-opened lease of a large folding door. Casting the beam of light ahead of me, I followed. I found myself in a long lofty apartment, evidently a drawing-room. Of the quarry I could detect no sign, but the only other door of the room was closed, therefore, since the creature had entered it must, I argued, undoubtedly be concealed somewhere in the apartment. Flashing a light about to right and left I presently perceived that a conservatory, no doubt facing on the square, ran parallel with one side of the room. French windows gave access to either end of it, and it was through one of these, which was slightly opened, that the questioning ray had intruded. I stepped into the conservatory. Lenin blinds covered the windows, but a faint light from outside found access to the bare, tiled apartment. Ten paces to my right, from an aperture once closed by a square wooden panel that now lay upon the floor, the marmoset was grimacing at me. Realizing that the ray of my lamp must be visible through the blinds from outside, I extinguished it, and, a moving silhouette against a faintly luminous square, I could clearly distinguish the marmoset watching me. There was a light in the room beyond. The marmoset disappeared, and I became aware of a faint incense-like perfume. Where had I met with it before? Nothing disturbed the silence of the empty house wherein I stood, yet I hesitated for several seconds to pursue the chase further. The realization came to me that the hole in the wall communicated with the conservatory of the corner house in the square, the house with the lighted windows. Determined to see the thing through, I discarded my overcoat and crawled through the gap. The smell of burning perfume became almost overpowering, as I stood upright, to find myself almost touching curtains of some semi-transparent golden fabric draped in the door between the conservatory and the drawing-room. Cautiously, inch by inch, I approached my eyes to the slight gap in the draperies, as, from somewhere in the house below, sounded the clanger of a brazen gong. Seven times its ominous note boomed out. I shrank back into my sanctuary. The incense seemed to be stifling me. End of CHAPTER XXXII THE HAND OF FUMAN CHU BY SAXROMER CHAPTER XXXII SHRIEIN OF THE SEVEN LAMPS Never can I forget that nightmare apartment, that effreets hall. It was identical in shape with the room of the adjoining house through which I had come, but its walls were draped in somber black, and a dead black carpet covered the entire floor. A golden curtain, similar to that which concealed me, broke the somber expanse of the end wall to my right, and the door directly opposite by hiding-place was closed. Across the golden curtain, wrought in glittering black, were seven characters, apparently Chinese. Before it, supported upon seven ebony pedestals, burned seven golden lamps. Whilst, dotted about the black carpet, were seven gold-lacquard stools, each having a black cushion set before it. There was no sign of the marmoset. The incredible room of black and gold was quite empty, with a sort of stark emptiness that seemed to oppress my soul. Close upon the booming of the gong followed a sound of many footsteps, and a buzz of subdued conversation. Keeping well back in the welcome shadow, I watched with bated breath the opening of the door immediately opposite. The outer sides of its leaves proved to be of gold, and one glimpse of the room beyond awoke a latent memory and gave it positive form. I had been in this house before. It was in that room with the golden door that I had had my memorable interview with the Mandarin Kaiming. My excitement grew more and more intense. Singly, and in small groups, a number of orientals came in. All wore European or semi-European garments, but I was unable to identify two for Chinaman, two for Hindus, and three for Burmans. Other Asiatics were there also, whose exact place among the eastern races I could not determine. There was at least one Egyptian, and there were several Eurasians. No women were present. Standing grouped just within the open door, the gathering of orientals kept up a ceaseless buzz of subdued conversation. Then, abruptly, stark silence fell, and through a lane of bowed heads Kaiming, the famous Chinese diplomat, entered, smiling blandly, and took his seat upon one of the seven golden stools. He wore the picturesque yellow robe trimmed with martin fur, which I had seen once before, and he placed his pearl encircled cap, surmounted by the coral ball denoting his rank, upon the black cushion beside him. Almost immediately afterwards entered a second and even more striking figure. It was that of a lama monk. He was received with the same marks of deference which had been accorded to the mandarin, and he seated himself upon another of the golden stools. Silence, a moment of hushed expectancy, and yellow-robed immobile, his wonderful evil face emaciated by illness, but his long magnetic eyes blazing greenly, as though not a soul but an elemental spirit dwelt within that gaunt high-shouldered body. Dr. Fu Manchu entered, slowly, leaning upon a heavy stick. The reality seemed to be slipping from me. I could not believe that I looked upon a material world. This had been a night of wonders, having no place in the life of a sane modern man, but belonging to the days of the jinn and the Arabian necromancers. Fu Manchu was greeted by a universal raising of hands, but in complete silence. He also wore a cap surmounted by a coral ball, and this he placed upon one of the black cushions set before a golden stool. Then, resting heavily upon his stick, he began to speak in French. As one listens to a green voice, I listened to that, alternately guttural and sibilant of the terrible Chinese doctor. He was defending himself. With what he was charged by his sinister brethren I knew not, nor could I gather from his words, but that he was rendering a count of his stewardship became unmistakable. Scarce crediting my senses, I heard him unfold to his listeners details of crimes successfully perpetrated, and with the results of some of these I was but too familiar. Other there were in the ghastly catalogue which had been accomplished secretly. Then my blood froze with horror. My own name was mentioned, and that of Naylon Smith. We too stood in the way of the coming of one whom he called the Lady of the Seafan in the way of Asiatic supremacy. A fantastic legend once mentioned to me by Smith of some woman cherished in a secret fastness of Hindustan who was destined one day to rule the world, now appeared, to my benumbed senses, to be the unquestioned creed of the murderous cosmopolitan group known as the Seafan. At every mention of her name all heads were bowed in reverence. Dr. Fu Manchu spoke without the slightest trace of excitement. He assured his auditors of his fidelity to their cause, and proposed to prove to them that he enjoyed the complete confidence of the Lady of the Seafan, and with every moment that passed the giant intellect of the speaker became more and more apparent. Years ago Naylon Smith had assured me that Dr. Fu Manchu was a linguist who spoke with almost equal facility in any of the civilized languages and in most of the barbaric. Now the truth of this was demonstrated. For, following some passage which might be susceptible of misconstruction, Fu Manchu would turn slightly and elucidate his remarks, addressing a Chinaman in Chinese, a Hindu in Hindustani, or an Egyptian in Arabic. His auditors were swayed by the magnetic personality of the speaker as reads by a breeze, and now I became aware of a curious circumstance. Either because they and I viewed the character of this great and evil man from a widely dissimilar aspect, or because my presence being unknown to him I remained outside the radius of his power. It seemed to me that these members of the evidently vast organization known as the Seafan were dupes to a man of the Chinese orator. It seemed to me that he used them as an instrument, playing upon their obvious fanaticism string by string as a player upon an eastern harp, and all the time weaving harmonies to suit some giant incredible scheme of his own. A scheme over and beyond any of which they had dreamed, in the fruition whereof they had no part of the true nature and composition of which they had no comprehension. Not since the day of the first warm emperor, said Fu Manchu sibilantly, has our Lady of the Seafan, to look upon whom unveiled his death, crossed the sacred borders. Today I am a man so primely happy and honored above my deserts, you shall all partake with me of that happiness, that honor. Again the gong sounded seven times, and a sort of magnetic thrill seemed to pass throughout the room. There followed a faint musical sound like the tinkle of a silver bell. All heads were lowered, but all eyes upturned to the golden curtain, literally holding my breath in those moments of intense expectancy. I watched the draperies parted from the centre, and pulled aside by unseen agency. A black-covered dais was revealed bearing an ebony chair, and seated in the chair enveloped from head to feet in a shimmering white veil was a woman. A sound like a great sigh rose from the gathering. The woman rose slowly to her feet and raised her arms which were exquisitely formed, and of the uniform hue of old ivory, so that the veil fell back from her shoulders, revealing the green snake-bangle which she wore. She extended her long, slim hands as if in benediction. The silver bell sounded, and the curtain dropped again, entirely obscuring the dais. Frankly, I thought myself mad. For this lady of the Seafan was none other than my mysterious travelling companion. This was some solemn farce with which Fumanchou sought to impress his fanatical dupes. And he had succeeded. They were inspired, their eyes blazed. Here were men capable of any crime in the name of the Seafan. Every face within my ken I had studied individually, and now slowly and cautiously I changed my position, so that a group of three members standing immediately to the right of the door came into view. One of them, a tall, spare, and closely bearded man whom I took for some kind of Hindu, had removed his gaze from the dais and was glancing furtively all about him. Once he looked in my direction and my heart leapt high, then seemed to stop its pulsing. An overpowering consciousness of my danger came to me, a dim envisaging of what appalling fate would be mine in the event of discovery. As those piercing eyes were turned away again I drew back, step by step. Dropping upon my knees I began to feel for the gap in the conservatory wall. The desire to depart from the house of the Seafan was become urgent. Once safely away I could take the necessary steps to ensure the apprehension of the entire group. What a triumph would be mine! I found the opening without much difficulty and crept through into the empty house. The vague light which penetrated the linen blind served to show me the length of the empty tiled apartment. I had actually reached the French window giving access to the drawing-room when the scurl of a police whistle split the stillness and the sound came from the house which I had just quitted. To write that I was amazed were to achieve the banal. Rigid with wonderment I stood and clutched at the open window. So I was standing, a man of stone, when the voice, the high-pitched, imperious, unmistakable voice of Naelyn Smith, followed sharply upon the scurl of the whistle. Watch those French windows, Weymouth! I can hold the door! Like a lightning flash it came to me that the tall Hindu had been none other than Smith disguised. From the square outside came a sudden turmoil, a sound of racing feet of smashing glass, of doors burst forcibly open. Palpably the place was surrounded. This was an organised raid. Irresolute I stood there in the semi-gloom, inactive from a maze of it all, whilst sounds of a tremendous struggle proceeded from the square gap in the petition. Lights! rose a cry in Smith's voice again. They have cut the wires. At that I came to my senses, plunging my hand into my pocket, I snatched out the electric lamp and stepped back quickly into the utter gloom of the room behind me. Someone was crawling through the aperture into the conservatory. As I watched I saw him in the dim light, stooped to replace the movable panel. Then, tapping upon the tiled floor as he walked, the fugitive approached me. He was but three paces from the French window when I pressed the button of my lamp and directed its ray fully upon his face. Hands up! I said breathlessly, I have you covered, Dr. Fumanchou. End of Chapter 32 Chapter 33 of the Hand of Fumanchou Chapter 33 An Anti-Climax One hour later I stood in the entrance-hall of our chambers in the court adjoining Fleet Street. Someone who had come racing up the stairs now had inserted a key in the lock, opened, swung the door, and Naelyn Smith entered in a perfect whirl of excitement. Petrie, Petrie, he cried, and seized both my hands. You have missed a night of night's manna, life, we have the whole gang, the great Kai Ming included. His eyes were blazing. Weymouth has made no fewer than twenty-five arrests, some of the prisoners being well-known orientals. It will be the devil's own work to keep it all quiet, but Scotland Yard has already advised the press. Congratulations, old man, I said, and looked him squarely in the eyes. Something there must have been in my glance at variance with the spoken words. His expression changed. He grasped my shoulder. She was not there, he said. But please, God will find her now. It's only a question of time. But even as he spoke, the old haunted look was creeping back into the lean face. He gave me a rapid glance then. I might as well make a clean breast of it, he rapped. Fumanchou escaped. Furthermore, when we got lights, the woman had vanished to two. The woman? There was a woman at this strange gathering, Petrie. Heaven only knows who she really is. According to Fumanchou, she is that woman of mystery, concerning whose existence strange stories are current in the East, the future empress of the Universal Empire. But, of course, I declined to accept the story, Petrie. If ever the Yellow Races overran Europe, I am in no doubt respecting the identity of the person who would ascend the throne of the world. Nor I, Smith, I cried excitedly, Good God, he holds them all on the palm of his hand. He has welded together the fanatics of every creed of the East into a giant weapon for his personal use. Small wonder that he is so formidable. But, Smith, who is that woman? Petrie, he said slowly, and I knew I had betrayed my secret. Petrie, where did you learn all this? I returned his steady gaze. I was present at the meeting of the seafan. I replied steadily. What? What? You were present? I was present. Listen, and I will explain. Standing there in the hallway, I related, as briefly as possible, the astounding events of the night, as I told of the woman in the train. That confirms my impression that Fumanchou was imposing upon the others, he snapped. I cannot conceive of a woman recluse from some lamerassery surrounded by silent attendants and trained for her exalted destiny in the way that the legendary veiled woman of Tibet is said to be trained, travelling alone in an English railway carriage. Did you observe, Petrie, if her eyes were oblique at all? They did not strike me as being oblique, why do you ask? Because I strongly suspect that we have to do with none other than Fumanchou's daughter, but go on. By Heaven, Smith, you may be right. I had no idea that a Chinese woman could possess such features. She may not have a Chinese mother. Furthermore, there are pretty women in China as well as in other countries. Also, there are haired eyes and cosmetics. But for Heaven's sake, go on. I continued my all but incredible narrative, came to the point where I discovered the strange marmoset and entered the empty house, without provoking any comment from my listener. He stared at me with something very like surprised admiration when I related how I had become an unseen spectator of that singular meeting. And I thought I had achieved the triumph of my life in gaining admission and smuggling Weymouth and Carter into the roof, armed with hooks and rope ladders, he murmured. Now I came to the moment when, having withdrawn into the empty house, I had heard the police whistle and had heard Smith's voice. I came to the moment when I had found myself face-to-face with Dr. Fumanchou. Naelyn Smith's eyes were on fire now. He literally quivered with excitement then. Sh! What's that? he whispered, and grasped my arm. I heard something moving the sitting-room, Petrie. It was a coal dropping from the grate, perhaps, I said, and rapidly continued my story, telling how, with my pistol to his head, I had forced the Chinese doctor to descend into the hallway of the empty house. Yes, yes, snapped Smith. For heaven's sake, go on, man! What have you done with him? Where is he? I clearly detected a movement myself immediately behind the half-open door of the sitting-room. Smith started and stared intently across my shoulder at the doorway, and his gaze shifted and became fixed upon my face. He bought his life from me, Smith. Never can I forget the change that came over my friends' tanned features at those words. Never can I forget the pang that I suffered to see it. The fire died out of his eyes, and he seemed to grow old and weary in a moment. None too steadily I went on. He offered a price that I could not resist, Smith. Try to forgive me, if you can. I know that I have done a dastardly thing, but perhaps a day may come in your life when you will understand. He descended with me to a locked cellar under the empty house, in which someone was locked. Had I arrested Fu Manju, this poor captive must have died there of starvation, for no one would ever have suspected that the place had an occupant. The door of the sitting-room was thrown open, and wearing my great coat over the bizarre costume in which I had found her, with her bare ankles and little red slippers peeping grotesquely from below, and her wonderful cloud of hair rippling over the turned-up collar. Karameena came out. Her great dark eyes were raised to Naelyn Smiths, with such an appeal in them, an appeal for me, that a motion took me by the throat and had me speechless. I could not look at either of them. I turned aside and stared into the lighted sitting-room. How long I stood so, God knows, and I never shall, but suddenly I found my hand seized in a vice-like grip. I looked around, and Smith, holding my fingers fast in that iron grasp, had his left arm about Karameena's shoulders, and his gray eyes were strangely soft, whilst hers were hidden behind her upraised hands. Good old Petrie, said Smith Horsely, wake up, man. We have to get her to a hotel before the old clothes remember. I understand, old man. That day came in my life long years ago. End of CHAPTER XXXIV This is a singular situation in which we find ourselves, I said, and one that I am bound would admit I don't appreciate. Naelyn Smith stretched his long legs and lay back in his chair. The sudden illness of solilo was certainly very disturbing, he replied, and had there been any possibility of returning to London to-night, I should certainly have availed myself of it, Petrie, and I show your misgivings. We are intruders at a time like this. He stared at me keenly, blowing a wreath of smoke from his lips, and then directing his attention to the cone of ash which crowned his cigar. I glanced, and not for the first time, towards the quaint old doorway which gave access to a certain corridor. Then, apart from the feeling that we intrude, I continued slowly, there is a certain sense of unrest. Yes, SNAT Smith, sitting suddenly upright. Yes, you experience this? Good. You are happily sensitive to this type of impression, Petrie, and therefore quite as useful to me as a cat is useful to a psychical investigator. He laughed in his quick, breezy fashion. You will appreciate my meaning, he added, therefore I offer no excuse for the analogy. Of course, the circumstances, as we know them, may be responsible for this consciousness of unrest. We are neither of us likely to forget the attempt upon the life of Sir Lionel Barton two years ago or more. Our attitude towards sudden illness is scarcely that of impartial observers. I suppose not, I admitted, glancing yet again at the still vacant doorway by the foot of the stairs, which now the twilight was draping in mysterious shadows. Indeed, our position was a curious one. A welcome invitation from our old friend Sir Lionel Barton, a world-famous explorer, had come at a time when a spell of repose, a glimpse of sea and awakening countryside, and a breath of fair, untainted air were very desirable. The position of Karamina who accompanied us was sufficiently unconventional already, but the presence of Mrs. Orem, the dignified housekeeper, had rendered possible her visit to this bachelor establishment. In fact it was largely in the interest of the girl's health that we had accepted. On our arrival at Greywater Park we had learnt that our host had been stricken down an hour earlier by sudden illness. The exact nature of his seizure I had thus far been unable to learn. But a local doctor who had left the park barely ten minutes before our advent had strictly forbidden visitors to the sick room. Sir Lionel's man, Kennedy, who had served him in many strange spots in the world, was in attendance. So much we had gathered from Homopoulos, the Greek butler, Sir Lionel's household had ever been eccentric. Furthermore we learned that there was no London train that night and no accommodation in the neighbouring village. Sir Lionel urgently requests you to remain. The butler had assured us in his flawless monotonous English. He trusts that you will not be dull and hopes to be able to see you to-morrow and to make plans for your entertainment. A ghostly grey shape blighted across the darkened hall and was gone. I started involuntarily. Then remote fearsome came muted howling to echo through the ancient apartments of Greywater Park. Nailin Smith laughed. That was the civet cat-petry, he said. I was startled for a moment, until the lamentations of the leopard family reminded me of the fact that Sir Lionel had transferred his menagerie to Greywater. Truly this was a singular household. In turn Greywater Park had been a fortress, a monastery, and a manor house. Now in the extensive crypt below the former chapel, in an atmosphere artificially raised to a suitably stuffy temperature, were housed the strange pets brought by our eccentric host from distant lands. In one cage was an African lioness, a beautiful and powerful beast, docile as a cat. Housed under other arches were two surly hyenas, goats from the white Nile, and an antelope of Caudafan. In a stable opening upon the gardens were a pair of beautiful desert gazelles, and a near to them two cranes and a marabout. The leopards, whose howling now disturbed the night were in a large cell-like cage immediately below the spot whereof old the chapel altar had stood. And here were we an odd party in odd environment. I sought to make out the time by my watch, but the growing dusk rendered it impossible. Then, unheralded by any sound, Caramena entered by the door which during the past twenty minutes had been the focus of my gaze. The gathering darkness precluded the possibility of my observing with certainty, but I think a soft blush stole to her cheeks as those glorious dark eyes rested upon me. The beauty of Caramena was not of the type which is enhanced by artificial lighting, it was the beauty of the palm and the pomegranate blossom, the beauty which flowers beneath merciless suns, which expands like the lotus under the skies of the east. But there in the dusk as she came towards me, she looked exquisitely lovely and graceful with the grace of the desert gazelles which I had seen earlier in the evening. I cannot describe her dress, I only know that she seemed very wonderful, so wonderful that a pang almost of terror smote my heart because such sweetness should belong to me. And then from the shadows masking the other side of the old hall emerged the black figure of Homopulo and our odd trio obediently paced into the sombre dining-room. A large lamp burned in the centre of the table, a shaded candle was placed before each diner, and the subdued light made play about the snowy napery and fine old silver without dispersing the gloom about us. Indeed, if anything, it seemed to render it more remarkable, and the table became a lighted oasis in the desert of the huge apartment. One could barely discern the suits of armour and trophies which ornamented the panelled walls, and I never failed to start nervously when the butler appeared, sombre and silent at my elbow. So Lionel Barton's penchant for strange visitors, of which we had had experience in the past, was exemplified in the person of Homopulo. I gathered that the butler, who I must admit seemed thoroughly to comprehend his duties, had entered the services of Sir Lionel during the time that the latter was pursuing his celebrated excavations upon the traditional site of the Daedalyn Labyrinth in Crete. It was during this expedition that the death of a distant relative had made him master of Greywater Park, and the event seemingly had inspired the eccentric baronet to engage a suitable fact totem. His usual retinue of melee footmen, Hindu grooms, and Chinese cooks, was missing apparently, and the rest of the household, including the charming old housekeeper, had been at the park for periods varying from five to five and twenty years. I must admit that I welcomed the fact. My tastes are essentially insular. But the untimely illness of our host had cast a shadow upon the party. I found myself speaking in a church whisper, whilst Karamina was quite silent. That curious dinner-party in the shadow desert of the huge apartment apparently recurs in my memories of those days, because of the uncanny happening which terminated it. Naylid Smith, who palpably had been as ill at ease as myself, and who had not escaped the contagious habit of speaking in a hushed whisper, suddenly began, in a loud and cheery manner, to tell us something of the history of Greywater Park, which in his methodical way he had looked up. It was a desperate revolt on the part of his strenuous spirit against the phantom of gloom which threatened to obsess us all. Parts of the house, it appeared, were a very great age, although successive owners had added portions. There were fascinating traditions connected with the place. Secret rooms walled up since the Middle Ages. A private stair whose entrance, though undiscoverable, was said to be somewhere in the orchard to the west of the ancient Chapel. It had been built by an ancestor of Sir Lionel, who had flourished in the reign of the Eighth Henry. At this point in his reminiscences, Smith had an astonishing memory where Reckondite Fax were concerned. There came an interruption. The smooth voice of the butler almost made me leap from my chair, as he spoke out of the shadows immediately behind me. The forty-five ports, sir, he said, and proceeded to place a crusted bottle upon the table. So Lionel desires me to say that he is with you in spirit and that he proposes the health of Dr. Petrie and his fiancee, whom he hopes to have the pleasure of meeting in the morning. Truly it was a singular situation, and I am unlikely ever to forget the scene, as the three of us solemnly rose to our feet and drank our hosts toast, thus proposed by proxy, under the eye of Homopulo, who stood a shadowy figure in the background. The ceremony solemnly performed, and the gloomy butler having departed with a suitable message to Sir Lionel. I was about to tell you, resumed Naelyn Smith, with a gayety palpably forced, of the traditional ghost of Greywater Park. He is a black-clad priest, said to be the Spanish chaplain of the owner of the park in the early days of the Reformation. Owing to some little misunderstanding with His Majesty's commissioners, this unfortunate churchman met with an untimely death, and his shade is said to haunt the secret room, the sight of which is unknown, and to clamour upon the door and upon the walls of the private stair. I thought the subject rather ill-chosen, but recognised that my friend was talking more or less at random and in desperation, indeed failing his reminiscences of Greywater Park. I think the demon of silence must have conquered us completely. Presumably, I said, unconsciously speaking, as though I feared the sound of my own voice. This Spanish priest was confined at some time in the famous hidden chamber. He was supposed to know the secret of a horde of church property, and tradition has it that he was put to the question in some gloomy dungeon. He ceased abruptly. In fact, the effect was that which must have resulted had the speaker being suddenly stricken down, that the deadly silence which ensued was instantly interrupted. My heart seemed to be clutched as though by fingers of ice, a stark and supernatural horror held me riveted in my chair. For as though Nalyn Smith's words had been heard by the ghostly inhabitant of Greywater Park, as though the tortured priest sought once more release from his age-long sufferings, there came echoing, hollowly and remotely, as if from a subterranean cave, the sound of knocking. From whence it actually proceeded I was wholly unable to determine. At one time it seemed to surround us, as though not one but a hundred prisoners were beating upon the paneled walls of the huge ancient apartment. Faintly, so faintly that I could not be sure if I heard a right, there came to a stifled cry. Louder grew the frantic beating and louder, then it ceased abruptly. Merciful God, I whispered, what is it? What is it? End of Chapter 34 Chapter 35 of The Hand of Fu Manchu This Libra Vox recording is in the public domain. The Hand of Fu Manchu by Sax Romer Chapter 35 The East Tower With a cigarette between my lips I sat at the open window, looking out upon the skeleton trees of the orchard, for the buds of early spring were only just beginning to proclaim themselves. The idea of sleep was far from my mind. The attractive modern furniture of the room could not deprive the paneled walls of the musty antiquity which was their birthright. This solitary window, deeply set and overlooking the orchard upon which the secret stair was said to open, struck a note of more remote antiquity, casting back beyond the carousing days of the Stuart Monarchs to the troublesome times of the Middle Ages. An air of ghostly evil had seemed to arise like a miasma within the house from the moment that we had been disturbed by the unaccountable wrapping. It was at a late hour that we had separated, and none of us, I think, welcomed the breaking up of our little party. Mrs. Orem, the housekeeper, had been closely questioned by Smith, for Homopulo, as a newcomer, could not be expected to know anything of the history of Greywater Park. The old lady admitted the existence of the tradition which Naylen Smith had in some way unearthed, but assured us that never in her life had the uneasy spirit declared himself ignorant, or, like the excellent retainer that she was, professed to be ignorant of the location of the historic chamber and staircase. As for Homopulo, hitherto so irreproachably imperturbable, I had rarely seen a man in such a state of passive panic. His dark face was blanched to the hue of dirty parchment, and his forehead due with cold perspiration. I mentally predicted an early resignation in the household of Sir Lionel Barton. Homopulo might be an excellent butler, that his superstitious Greek nature was clearly incapable of sustaining existence beneath the same roof with a family ghost, poory though the spectre's antiquity might be. Where the skeleton shadows of the fruit trees lay beneath me on the fresh green turf, my fancy persistently fashioned a black clad figure flitting from tree to tree. Sleep indeed was impossible. Once I thought I detected the howling of the distant leopards. Somewhere on the floor above me, Naylen Smith I knew at that moment would be restlessly pacing his room, the exact situation of which I could not identify, because of the quaint rambling passages whereby one approached it. It was in regard to Karamina, however, that my misgivings were the keenest. Already her position had been strange enough in those unfamiliar surroundings, but what tremors must have been hers now in the still watches of the night, following the ghostly manifestations which had so dramatically interrupted Naylen Smith's story, I dared not imagine. She had been allocated an apartment somewhere upon the ground floor, and the Mrs. Orem, whose motherly interest in the girl had touched me deeply, had gone with her to her room, where no doubt her presence had done much to restore the girl's courage. Greywater Park stood upon a well-wooded slope, and, to the south-west, starting above the trees almost like a giant Spanish priest, showed a solitary tower. With a vague and indefinite interest I watched it. It was Monkswell, an uninhabited place belonging to Sir Lionel's estate, and dating in part to the days of King John. Flicking the ash from my cigarette, I studied the ancient tower, wondering idly what deeds had had their setting within its shadows, since the Angevan monarch, in whose reign it saw the light, had signed the Magna Carta. This was a perfect night, and very still. Nothing stirred, within or without Grey Park, yet I was conscious of her definite disquietude, which I could only suppose to be ascribable to the weird events of the evening, but which seemed rather to increase than to diminish. I tossed the end of my cigarette out into the darkness, determined to turn in, although I had never felt more why awake in my life. One parting glance I cast into the skeleton orchard, and was on the point of standing up when, although no breeze stirred, a shower of ivy leaves rained down upon my head. Brushing them away irritably I looked up, and a second shower dropped fully upon my face, and filled my eyes with dust. I drew back, checking an exclamation. What with the depth of the embrasure, due to the great thickness of the wall, and the leafy tangle above the window, I could see for no great distance, up the face of the building, but a faint sound of rustling and stumbling which proceeded from somewhere above me proclaimed that some one, or some thing, was climbing either up or down the wall of the corner-tower in which I was housed. Partially removing the dust from my smarting eyes I returned to the embrasure, and stepping from the chair onto the deep ledge I grasped the corner of the quaint diamond-pained window which I had opened to its fullest extent and craned forth. Now I could see the ivy-grown battlements surrounding the tower, the east wing in which my room was separated was the oldest part of Greywater Park. Sharply outlined against the cloudless sky they showed, and the black silhouette of a man's head and shoulders lent over directly above me, I drew back sharply. The climber, I thought, had not seen me, although he was evidently peering down at my window. What did it mean? As I crouched in the embrasure a sudden giddiness assailed me which at first I ascribed to a sympathetic nervous action due to having seen the man poised there at that dizzy height, but it increased. I swayed forward and clutched at the wall to save myself. A deadly nausea overcame me, and a deadly doubt leapt to my mind. In the past Sir Lionel Barton had had spies in his household. What if the dark-faced Greek homopooler were another of these? I thought of the forty-five port of the ghostly wrapping, and I thought of the man who crouched upon the roof of the tower above my open window. My symptoms now were unmistakable. My head throbbed, and my vision grew imperfect. There had to be an opiate in the wine. I almost fell back into the room, supporting myself by means of the chair, the chest of drawers, and finally the bed rail. I got to my grip, and with weakening fingers extracted the little medicine chest, which was invariably my travelling companion. Grimly pitting my will against the drug, but still trembling weakly from the result of the treatment, internal and subcutaneous, which I had adopted, I staggered to the door out into the corridor and up the narrow winding stairs to Smith's room. I carried an electric pocket-lamp, and by its light I found my way to the triangular, panelled, landing. I tried the handle, and as I had expected the door was locked. I beat upon it with my fist. Smith! I cried. Smith! There was no reply. Again I clamoured, awakening ancient echoes within the rooms and all about me, but nothing moved and no answering voice rewarded my efforts. The other rooms were seemingly unoccupied, and Smith was drugged. My senses in disorder and a mist dancing before my eyes I went stumbling down into the lower corridor. At the door of my own room I paused. A new fact had suddenly been revealed to me. A fact which the mazy windings of the corridors had hitherto led me to overlook. Smith's room was also in the East Tower, and must be directly above mine. My God! I whispered, thinking of the climber. He has been murdered! I staggered into my room and clutched at the bed rail to support myself. For my legs threatened to collapse beneath me. How should I act? That we were victims of a cunning plot that the deathful sea-fan had at last wreaked its vengeance upon Naylen Smith I could not doubt. My brain reeled and a weakness, mental and physical, threatened to conquer me completely. Indeed, I think I must have succumbed. Sapped as my strength had been by the drug administered to me, if the sound of a creaking stare had not arrested my attention and by the menace which it conveyed afforded a new stimulus. Someone was creeping down from the landing above, coming to my room. The creatures of the yellow doctor, having dispatched Naylen Smith, were approaching stealthily, stare by stare, to deal with me. From my grip I took out the browning pistol. The Chinese doctor's servant should have a warm reception. I burned to avenge my friend, who I was persuaded lay murdered in the room above. I partially closed the door and took up a post immediately behind it. Nearer came the stealthy footsteps. Nearer. Now the one who approached had turned the angle of the passage. Within sight of my door he seemed to stop. A shaft of white light crept through the opening across the floor and onto the wall beyond. A moment it remained so, then was gone. The room became plunged in darkness. Gripping the browning with nervous fingers I waited, listening intently. But the silence remained unbroken. My gaze set upon the spot where the head of this midnight visitant might be expected to appear. I almost held my breath during the ensuing moments of frightful suspense. The door was opening slowly, slowly, by almost imperceptible degrees. I held the pistol pointed rigidly before me and my gaze remained fixed intently on the dimly seen opening. I suppose I acted as ninety-nine men out of a hundred would have done in like case. Nothing appeared. Then a voice. A voice that seemed to come from somewhere under the floor snapped. Good God, it's Petrie. I dropped my gaze instantly and there, looking up at me from the floor at my feet, I vaguely discerned the outline of a human head. Smith, I whispered. Nail and Smith, for indeed it was none other, stood up and entered the room. Thank God you're a safe old man, he said. But in waiting for one who is stealthily entering a room, don't, as you love me, take it for granted that he will enter upright. I could have shot you from the floor with ease. But mercifully, even in the darkness, I recognized your Arab slippers. Smith, I said, my heart beating wildly. I thought you were drunk. Murdered. The port contained an opiate. I guessed as much, snapped Smith. But despite the excellent tuition of Dr. Fu Manchu, I am still childishly trustful, and the fact that I did not partake of the crusted forty-five was not due to any suspicions which I entertained at that time. But Smith, I saw you drink some port. I regret to contradict you, Petrie, but you must be aware that the state of my liver, due to a long residence in Burma, does not permit me to indulge in the luxury of port. My share of the forty-five now reposes amid the moss and the tulip bowl which you may remember decorated the dining-table. Not desiring to appear cheerlish by means of a simple feat of ledgerman, I drank your health and future happiness in Claret. For God's sake, what is going on, Smith? Someone climbed from your window. I climbed from my window. What? I said, days and late, would you? But what does it all mean? Caramina. It is for her I fear, Petrie, now. We have not a moment to waste, he made for the door. So Lionel must be warned at all cost, I cried. Impossible, snapped Smith. What do you mean? So Lionel has disappeared. End of chapter thirty-five.