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Title: The Hand Of Fu-Manchu
       Being a New Phase in the Activities of Fu-Manchu, the Devil Doctor


Author: Sax Rohmer



Release Date: March 10, 2006  [eBook #17959]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1


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THE HAND OF FU-MANCHU

Being a New Phase in the Activities of Fu-Manchu, the Devil Doctor

by

SAX ROHMER







THE HAND OF FU MANCHU



CHAPTER I

THE TRAVELER FROM TIBET


"Who's there?" I called sharply.

I turned and looked across the room. The window had been widely opened
when I entered, and a faint fog haze hung in the apartment, seeming to
veil the light of the shaded lamp. I watched the closed door intently,
expecting every moment to see the knob turn. But nothing happened.

"Who's there?" I cried again, and, crossing the room, I threw open the
door.

The long corridor without, lighted only by one inhospitable lamp at a
remote end, showed choked and yellowed with this same fog so
characteristic of London in November. But nothing moved to right nor
left of me. The New Louvre Hotel was in some respects yet incomplete,
and the long passage in which I stood, despite its marble facings, had
no air of comfort or good cheer; palatial it was, but inhospitable.

I returned to the room, reclosing the door behind me, then for some
five minutes or more I stood listening for a repetition of that
mysterious sound, as of something that both dragged and tapped, which
already had arrested my attention. My vigilance went unrewarded. I
had closed the window to exclude the yellow mist, but subconsciously I
was aware of its encircling presence, walling me in, and now I found
myself in such a silence as I had known in deserts but could scarce
have deemed possible in fog-bound London, in the heart of the world's
metropolis, with the traffic of the Strand below me upon one side and
the restless life of the river upon the other.

It was easy to conclude that I had been mistaken, that my nervous
system was somewhat overwrought as a result of my hurried return from
Cairo--from Cairo where I had left behind me many a fondly cherished
hope. I addressed myself again to the task of unpacking my
steamer-trunk and was so engaged when again a sound in the corridor
outside brought me upright with a jerk.

A quick footstep approached the door, and there came a muffled rapping
upon the panel.

This time I asked no question, but leapt across the room and threw the
door open. Nayland Smith stood before me, muffled up in a heavy
traveling coat, and with his hat pulled down over his brows.

"At last!" I cried, as my friend stepped in and quickly reclosed the
door.

Smith threw his hat upon the settee, stripped off the great-coat, and
pulling out his pipe began to load it in feverish haste.

"Well," I said, standing amid the litter cast out from the trunk, and
watching him eagerly, "what's afoot?"

Nayland Smith lighted his pipe, carelessly dropping the match-end upon
the floor at his feet.

"God knows what _is_ afoot this time, Petrie!" he replied. "You and I
have lived no commonplace lives; Dr. Fu-Manchu has seen to that; but
if I am to believe what the Chief has told me to-day, even stranger
things are ahead of us!"

I stared at him wonder-stricken.

"That is almost incredible," I said; "terror can have no darker
meaning than that which Dr. Fu-Manchu gave to it. Fu-Manchu is dead,
so what have we to fear?"

"We have to fear," replied Smith, throwing himself into a corner of
the settee, "the Si-Fan!"

I continued to stare, uncomprehendingly.

"The Si-Fan----"

"I always knew and you always knew," interrupted Smith in his short,
decisive manner, "that Fu-Manchu, genius that he was, remained
nevertheless the servant of another or others. He was not the head of
that organization which dealt in wholesale murder, which aimed at
upsetting the balance of the world. I even knew the name of one, a
certain mandarin, and member of the Sublime Order of the White Peacock,
who was his immediate superior. I had never dared to guess at the
identity of what I may term the Head Center."

He ceased speaking, and sat gripping his pipe grimly between his teeth,
whilst I stood staring at him almost fatuously. Then--

"Evidently you have much to tell me," I said, with forced calm.

I drew up a chair beside the settee and was about to sit down.

"Suppose you bolt the door," jerked my friend.

I nodded, entirely comprehending, crossed the room and shot the little
nickel bolt into its socket.

"Now," said Smith as I took my seat, "the story is a fragmentary one
in which there are many gaps. Let us see what we know. It seems that
the despatch which led to my sudden recall (and incidentally yours)
from Egypt to London and which only reached me as I was on the point
of embarking at Suez for Rangoon, was prompted by the arrival here of
Sir Gregory Hale, whilom attaché at the British Embassy, Peking. So
much, you will remember, was conveyed in my instructions."

"Quite so."

"Furthermore, I was instructed, you'll remember, to put up at the New
Louvre Hotel; therefore you came here and engaged this suite whilst I
reported to the chief. A stranger business is before us, Petrie, I
verily believe, than any we have known hitherto. In the first place,
Sir Gregory Hale is here----"

"Here?"

"In the New Louvre Hotel. I ascertained on the way up, but not by
direct inquiry, that he occupies a suite similar to this, and
incidentally on the same floor."

"His report to the India Office, whatever its nature, must have been
a sensational one."

"He has made no report to the India Office."

"What! made no report?"

"He has not entered any office whatever, nor will he receive any
representative. He's been playing at Robinson Crusoe in a private
suite here for close upon a fortnight--_id est_ since the time of his
arrival in London!"

I suppose my growing perplexity was plainly visible, for Smith
suddenly burst out with his short, boyish laugh.

"Oh! I told you it was a strange business," he cried.

"Is he mad?"

Nayland Smith's gaiety left him; he became suddenly stern and grim.

"Either mad, Petrie, stark raving mad, or the savior of the Indian
Empire--perhaps of all Western civilization. Listen. Sir Gregory Hale,
whom I know slightly and who honors me, apparently, with a belief that
I am the only man in Europe worthy of his confidence, resigned his
appointment at Peking some time ago, and set out upon a private
expedition to the Mongolian frontier with the avowed intention of
visiting some place in the Gobi Desert. From the time that he actually
crossed the frontier he disappeared for nearly six months, to reappear
again suddenly and dramatically in London. He buried himself in this
hotel, refusing all visitors and only advising the authorities of his
return by telephone. He demanded that _I_ should be sent to see him;
and--despite his eccentric methods--so great is the Chief's faith in
Sir Gregory's knowledge of matters Far Eastern, that behold, here I am."

He broke off abruptly and sat in an attitude of tense listening. Then--

"Do you hear anything, Petrie?" he rapped.

"A sort of tapping?" I inquired, listening intently myself the while.

Smith nodded his head rapidly.

We both listened for some time, Smith with his head bent slightly
forward and his pipe held in his hands; I with my gaze upon the bolted
door. A faint mist still hung in the room, and once I thought I
detected a slight sound from the bedroom beyond, which was in darkness.
Smith noted me turn my head, and for a moment the pair of us stared
into the gap of the doorway. But the silence was complete.

"You have told me neither much nor little, Smith," I said, resuming
for some reason, in a hushed voice. "Who or what is this Si-Fan at
whose existence you hint?"

Nayland Smith smiled grimly.

"Possibly the real and hitherto unsolved riddle of Tibet, Petrie," he
replied--"a mystery concealed from the world behind the veil of
Lamaism." He stood up abruptly, glancing at a scrap of paper which he
took from his pocket--"Suite Number 14a," he said. "Come along! We have
not a moment to waste. Let us make our presence known to Sir Gregory--
the man who has dared to raise that veil."




CHAPTER II

THE MAN WITH THE LIMP


"Lock the door!" said Smith significantly, as we stepped into the
corridor.

I did so and had turned to join my friend when, to the accompaniment
of a sort of hysterical muttering, a door further along, and on the
opposite side of the corridor, was suddenly thrown open, and a man
whose face showed ghastly white in the light of the solitary lamp
beyond, literally hurled himself out. He perceived Smith and myself
immediately. Throwing one glance back over his shoulder he came
tottering forward to meet us.

"My God! I can't stand it any longer!" he babbled, and threw himself
upon Smith, who was foremost, clutching pitifully at him for support.
"Come and see him, sir--for Heaven's sake come in! I think he's dying;
and he's going mad. I never disobeyed an order in my life before, but
I can't help myself--I can't help myself!"

"Brace up!" I cried, seizing him by the shoulders as, still clutching
at Nayland Smith, he turned his ghastly face to me. "Who are you, and
what's your trouble?"

"I'm Beeton, Sir Gregory Hale's man."

Smith started visibly, and his gaunt, tanned face seemed to me to have
grown perceptively paler.

"Come on, Petrie!" he snapped. "There's some devilry here."

Thrusting Beeton aside he rushed in at the open door--upon which, as I
followed him, I had time to note the number, 14a. It communicated with
a suite of rooms almost identical with our own. The sitting-room was
empty and in the utmost disorder, but from the direction of the
principal bedroom came a most horrible mumbling and gurgling sound--a
sound utterly indescribable. For one instant we hesitated at the
threshold--hesitated to face the horror beyond; then almost side by
side we came into the bedroom....

Only one of the two lamps was alight--that above the bed; and on the
bed a man lay writhing. He was incredibly gaunt, so that the suit of
tropical twill which he wore hung upon him in folds, showing if such
evidence were necessary, how terribly he was fallen away from his
constitutional habit. He wore a beard of at least ten days' growth,
which served to accentuate the cavitous hollowness of his face. His
eyes seemed starting from their sockets as he lay upon his back
uttering inarticulate sounds and plucking with skinny fingers at his
lips.

Smith bent forward peering into the wasted face; and then started back
with a suppressed cry.

"Merciful God! can it be Hale?" he muttered. "What does it mean? what
does it mean?"

I ran to the opposite side of the bed, and placing my arms under the
writhing man, raised him and propped a pillow at his back. He
continued to babble, rolling his eyes from side to side hideously;
then by degrees they seemed to become less glazed, and a light of
returning sanity entered them. They became fixed; and they were fixed
upon Nayland Smith, who bending over the bed, was watching Sir Gregory
(for Sir Gregory I concluded this pitiable wreck to be) with an
expression upon his face compound of many emotions.

"A glass of water," I said, catching the glance of the man Beeton,
who stood trembling at the open doorway.

Spilling a liberal quantity upon the carpet, Beeton ultimately
succeeded in conveying the glass to me. Hale, never taking his gaze
from Smith, gulped a little of the water and then thrust my hand away.
As I turned to place the tumbler upon a small table the resumed the
wordless babbling, and now, with his index finger, pointed to his
mouth.

"He has lost the power of speech!" whispered Smith.

"He was stricken dumb, gentlemen, ten minutes ago," said Beeton in a
trembling voice. "He dropped off to sleep out there on the floor, and
I brought him in here and laid him on the bed. When he woke up he was
like that!"

The man on the bed ceased his inchoate babbling and now, gulping
noisily, began to make quick nervous movements with his hands.

"He wants to write something," said Smith in a low voice. "Quick! hold
him up!" He thrust his notebook, open at a blank page, before the man
whose movement were numbered, and placed a pencil in the shaking
right hand.

Faintly and unevenly Sir Gregory commenced to write--whilst I
supported him. Across the bent shoulders Smith silently questioned me,
and my reply was a negative shake of the head.

The lamp above the bed was swaying as if in a heavy draught; I
remembered that it had been swaying as we entered. There was no fog in
the room, but already from the bleak corridor outside it was entering;
murky, yellow clouds steaming in at the open door. Save for the gulping
of the dying man, and the sobbing breaths of Beeton, there was no
sound. Six irregular lines Sir Gregory Hale scrawled upon the page;
then suddenly his body became a dead weight in my arms. Gently I laid
him back upon the pillows, gently his finger from the notebook, and,
my head almost touching Smith's as we both craned forward over the
page, read, with great difficulty, the following:--

  "Guard my diary.... Tibetan frontier ... Key of India. Beware man ...
  with the limp. Yellow ... rising.   Watch Tibet ... the _Si-Fan_...."

From somewhere outside the room, whether above or below I could not be
sure, came a faint, dragging sound, accompanied by a _tap--tap--tap_....



CHAPTER III

"SAKYA MUNI"


The faint disturbance faded into silence again. Across the dead man's
body I met Smith's gaze. Faint wreaths of fog floated in from the
outer room. Beeton clutched the foot of the bed, and the structure
shook in sympathy with his wild trembling. That was the only sound
now; there was absolutely nothing physical so far as my memory serves
to signalize the coming of the brown man.

Yet, stealthy as his approach had been, something must have warned us.
For suddenly, with one accord, we three turned upon the bed, and
stared out into the room from which the fog wreaths floated in.

Beeton stood nearest to the door, but, although he turned, he did not
go out, but with a smothered cry crouched back against the bed. Smith
it was who moved first, then I followed, and close upon his heels
burst into the disordered sitting-room. The outer door had been closed
but not bolted, and what with the tinted light, diffused through the
silken Japanese shade, and the presence of fog in the room, I was
almost tempted to believe myself the victim of a delusion. What I saw
or thought I saw was this:--

A tall screen stood immediately inside the door, and around its end,
like some materialization of the choking mist, glided a lithe, yellow
figure, a slim, crouching figure, wearing a sort of loose robe. An
impression I had of jet-black hair, protruding from beneath a little
cap, of finely chiseled features and great, luminous eyes, then, with
no sound to tell of a door opened or shut, the apparition was gone.

"You saw him, Petrie!--you saw him!" cried Smith.

In three bounds he was across the room, had tossed the screen aside
and thrown open the door. Out he sprang into the yellow haze of the
corridor, tripped, and, uttering a cry of pain, fell sprawling upon
the marble floor. Hot with apprehension I joined him, but he looked
up with a wry smile and began furiously rubbing his left shin.

"A queer trick, Petrie," he said, rising to his feet; "but
nevertheless effective."

He pointed to the object which had occasioned his fall. It was a small
metal chest, evidently of very considerable weight, and it stood
immediately outside the door of Number 14a.

"That was what he came for, sir! That was what he came for! You were
too quick for him!"

Beeton stood behind us, his horror-bright eyes fixed upon the box.

"Eh?" rapped Smith, turning upon him.

"That's what Sir Gregory brought to England," the man ran on almost
hysterically; "that's what he's been guarding this past two weeks,
night and day, crouching over it with a loaded pistol. That's what
cost him his life, sir. He's had no peace, day or night, since he
got it...."

We were inside the room again now, Smith bearing the coffer in his
arms, and still the man ran on:

"He's never slept for more than an hour at a time, that I know of, for
weeks past. Since the day we came here he hasn't spoken to another
living soul, and he's lain there on the floor at night with his head
on that brass box, and sat watching over it all day."

"'Beeton!' he'd cry out, perhaps in the middle of the night--'Beeton--
do you hear that damned woman!' But although I'd begun to think I
could hear something, I believe it was the constant strain working on
my nerves and nothing else at all.

"Then he was always listening out for some one he called 'the man with
the limp.' Five and six times a night he'd have me up to listen with
him. 'There he goes, Beeton!' he'd whisper, crouching with his ear
pressed flat to the door. 'Do you hear him dragging himself along?'

"God knows how I've stood it as I have; for I've known no peace since
we left China. Once we got here I thought it would be better, but it's
been worse.

"Gentlemen have come (from the India Office, I believe), but he would
not see them. Said he would see no one but Mr. Nayland Smith. He had
never lain in his bed until to-night, but what with taking no proper
food nor sleep, and some secret trouble that was killing him by inches,
he collapsed altogether a while ago, and I carried him in and laid him
on the bed as I told you. Now he's dead--now he's dead."

Beeton leant up against the mantelpiece and buried his face in his
hands, whilst his shoulders shook convulsively. He had evidently been
greatly attached to his master, and I found something very pathetic in
this breakdown of a physically strong man. Smith laid his hands upon
his shoulders.

"You have passed through a very trying ordeal," he said, "and no man
could have done his duty better; but forces beyond your control have
proved too strong for you. I am Nayland Smith."

The man spun around with a surprising expression of relief upon his
pale face.

"So that whatever can be done," continued my friend, "to carry out
your master's wishes, will be done now. Rely upon it. Go into your
room and lie down until we call you."

"Thank you, sir, and thank God you are here," said Beeton dazedly, and
with one hand raised to his head he went, obediently, to the smaller
bedroom and disappeared within.

"Now, Petrie," rapped Smith, glancing around the littered floor,
"since I am empowered to deal with this matter as I see fit, and since
you are a medical man, we can devote the next half-hour, at any rate,
to a strictly confidential inquiry into this most perplexing case. I
propose that you examine the body for any evidences that may assist
you determining the cause of death, whilst I make a few inquiries here."

I nodded, without speaking, and went into the bedroom. It contained not
one solitary item of the dead man's belongings, and in every way bore
out Beeton's statement that Sir Gregory had never inhabited it. I bent
over Hale, as he lay fully dressed upon the bed.

Saving the singularity of the symptom which had immediately preceded
death--viz., the paralysis of the muscles of articulation--I should
have felt disposed to ascribe his end to sheer inanition; and a
cursory examination brought to light nothing contradictory to that
view. Not being prepared to proceed further in the matter at the moment
I was about to rejoin Smith, whom I could hear rummaging about amongst
the litter of the outer room, when I made a curious discovery.

Lying in a fold of the disordered bed linen were a few petals of some
kind of blossom, three of them still attached to a fragment of slender
stalk.

I collected the tiny petals, mechanically, and held them in the palm
of my hand studying them for some moments before the mystery of their
presence there became fully appreciable to me. Then I began to wonder.
The petals (which I was disposed to class as belonging to some species
of _Curcas_ or Physic Nut), though bruised, were fresh, and therefore
could not have been in the room for many hours. How had they been
introduced, and by whom? Above all, what could their presence there
at that time portend?

"Smith," I called, and walked towards the door carrying the mysterious
fragments in my palm. "Look what I have found upon the bed."

Nayland Smith, who was bending over an open despatch case which he had
placed upon a chair, turned--and his glance fell upon the petals and
tiny piece of stem.

I think I have never seen so sudden a change of expression take place
in the face of any man. Even in that imperfect light I saw him blanch.
I saw a hard glitter come into his eyes. He spoke, evenly, but hoarsely:

"Put those things down----there, on the table; anywhere."

I obeyed him without demur; for something in his manner had chilled me
with foreboding.

"You did not break that stalk?"

"No. I found it as you see it."

"Have you smelled the petals?"

I shook my head. Thereupon, having his eyes fixed upon me with the
strangest expression in their gray depths, Nayland Smith said a
singular thing.

"Pronounce, slowly, the words _Sākya Mūni,_'" he directed.

I stared at him, scarce crediting my senses; but----

"I mean it!" he rapped. "Do as I tell you."

"Sākya Mūni," I said, in ever increasing wonder.

Smith laughed unmirthfully.

"Go into the bathroom and thoroughly wash your hands," was his next
order. "Renew the water at least three times." As I turned to fulfill
his instructions, for I doubted no longer his deadly earnestness:
"Beeton!" he called.

Beeton, very white-faced and shaky, came out from the bedroom as I
entered the bathroom, and whist I proceeded carefully to cleanse my
hands I heard Smith interrogating him.

"Have any flowers been brought into the room today, Beeton?"

"Flowers, sir? Certainly not. Nothing has ever been brought in here
but what I have brought myself."

"You are certain of that?"

"Positive."

"Who brought up the meals, then?"

"If you'll look into my room here, sir, you'll see that I have enough
tinned and bottled stuff to last us for weeks. Sir Gregory sent me out
to buy it on the day we arrived. No one else had left or entered these
rooms until you came to-night."

I returned to find Nayland Smith standing tugging at the lobe of his
left ear in evident perplexity. He turned to me.

"I find my hands over full," he said. "Will you oblige me by
telephoning for Inspector Weymouth? Also, I should be glad if you
would ask M. Samarkan, the manager, to see me here immediately."

As I was about to quit the room--

"Not a word of our suspicions to M. Samarkan," he added; "not a word
about the brass box."

I was far along the corridor ere I remembered that which, remembered
earlier, had saved me the journey. There was a telephone in every suite.
However, I was not indisposed to avail myself of an opportunity for a
few moments' undisturbed reflection, and, avoiding the lift, I
descended by the broad, marble staircase.

To what strange adventure were we committed? What did the brass coffer
contain which Sir Gregory had guarded night and day? Something
associated in some way with Tibet, something which he believed to be
"the key of India" and which had brought in its train, presumably,
the sinister "man with a limp."

Who was the "man with the limp"? What was the Si-Fan? Lastly, by what
conceivable means could the flower, which my friend evidently regarded
with extreme horror, have been introduced into Hale's room, and why
had I been required to pronounce the words "Sākya Mūni"?

So ran my reflections--at random and to no clear end; and, as is often
the case in such circumstances, my steps bore them company; so that
all at once I became aware that instead of having gained the lobby of
the hotel, I had taken some wrong turning and was in a part of the
building entirely unfamiliar to me.

A long corridor of the inevitable white marble extended far behind me.
I had evidently traversed it. Before me was a heavily curtained archway.
Irritably, I pulled the curtain aside, learnt that it masked a
glass-paneled door, opened this door--and found myself in a small
court, dimly lighted and redolent of some pungent, incense-like perfume.

One step forward I took, then pulled up abruptly. A sound had come to
my ears. From a second curtained doorway, close to my right hand, it
came--a sound of muffled _tapping_, together with that of something
which dragged upon the floor.

Within my brain the words seemed audibly to form: "The man with
the limp!"

I sprang to the door; I had my hand upon the drapery ... when a woman
stepped out, barring the way!

No impression, not even a vague one, did I form of her costume, save
that she wore a green silk shawl, embroidered with raised white
figures of birds, thrown over her head and shoulders and draped in
such fashion that part of her face was concealed. I was transfixed
by the vindictive glare of her eyes, of her huge dark eyes.

They were ablaze with anger--but it was not this expression within
them which struck me so forcibly as the fact that they were in some
way familiar.

Motionless, we faced one another. Then--

"You go away," said the woman--at the same time extending her arms
across the doorway as barriers to my progress.

Her voice had a husky intonation; her hands and arms, which were bare
and of old ivory hue, were laden with barbaric jewelry, much of it
tawdry silverware of the bazaars. Clearly she was a half-caste of some
kind, probably a Eurasian.

I hesitated. The sounds of dragging and tapping had ceased. But the
presence of this grotesque Oriental figure only increased my anxiety
to pass the doorway. I looked steadily into the black eyes; they looked
into mine unflinchingly.

"You go away, please," repeated the woman, raising her right hand and
pointing to the door whereby I had entered. "These private rooms. What
you doing here?"

Her words, despite her broken English, served to recall to me the fact
that I was, beyond doubt, a trespasser! By what right did I presume to
force my way into other people's apartments?

"There is some one in there whom I must see," I said, realizing,
however, that my chance of doing so was poor.

"You see nobody," she snapped back uncompromisingly. "You go away!"

She took a step towards me, continuing to point to the door. Where had
I previously encountered the glance of those splendid, savage eyes?

So engaged was I with this taunting, partial memory, and so sure, if
the woman would but uncover her face, of instantly recognizing her,
that still I hesitated. Whereupon, glancing rapidly over her shoulder
into whatever place lay beyond the curtained doorway, she suddenly
stepped back and vanished, drawing the curtains to with an angry jerk.

I heard her retiring footsteps; then came a loud bang. If her object
in intercepting me had been to cover the slow retreat of some one she
had succeeded.

Recognizing that I had cut a truly sorry figure in the encounter, I
retraced my steps.

By what route I ultimately regained the main staircase I have no idea;
for my mind was busy with that taunting memory of the two dark eyes
looking out from the folds of the green embroidered shawl. Where, and
when, had I met their glance before?

To that problem I sought an answer in vain.

The message despatched to New Scotland Yard, I found M. Samarkan, long
famous as a _māitre d' hōtel_ in Cairo, and now host of London's
newest and most palatial _khan_. Portly, and wearing a gray imperial,
M. Samarkan had the manners of a courtier, and the smile of a true Greek.

I told him what was necessary, and no more, desiring him to go to
suite 14a without delay and also without arousing unnecessary
attention. I dropped no hint of foul play, but M. Samarkan expressed
profound (and professional) regret that so distinguished, though
unprofitable, a patron should have selected the New Louvre, thus
early in its history, as the terminus of his career.

"By the way," I said, "have you Oriental guests with you, at the moment?"

"No, monsieur," he assured me.

"Not a certain Oriental lady?" I persisted.

M. Samarkan slowly shook his head.

"Possibly monsieur has seen one of the _ayahs?_ There are several
Anglo-Indian families resident in the New Louvre at present."

An _ayah?_ It was just possible, of course. Yet ...


CHAPTER IV

THE FLOWER OF SILENCE


"We are dealing now," said Nayland Smith, pacing restlessly up and
down our sitting-room, "not, as of old, with Dr. Fu-Manchu, but with
an entirely unknown quantity--the Si-Fan."

"For Heaven's sake!" I cried, "what is the Si-Fan?"

"The greatest mystery of the mysterious East, Petrie. Think. You know,
as I know, that a malignant being, Dr. Fu-Manchu, was for some time
in England, engaged in 'paving the way' (I believe those words were
my own) for nothing less than a giant Yellow Empire. That dream is
what millions of Europeans and Americans term 'the Yellow Peril! Very
good. Such an empire needs must have----"

"An emperor!"

Nayland Smith stopped his restless pacing immediately in front of me.

"Why not an _empress_, Petrie!" he rapped.

His words were something of a verbal thunderbolt; I found myself at
loss for any suitable reply.

"You will perhaps remind me," he continued rapidly, "of the lowly place
held by women in the East. I can cite notable exceptions, ancient and
modern. In fact, a moment's consideration by a hypothetical body of
Eastern dynast-makers not of an emperor but of an empress. Finally,
there is a persistent tradition throughout the Far East that such a
woman will one day rule over the known peoples. I was assured some
years ago, by a very learned pundit, that a princess of incalculably
ancient lineage, residing in some secret monastery in Tartary or Tibet,
was to be the future empress of the world. I believe this tradition,
or the extensive group who seek to keep it alive and potent, to be
what is called the Si-Fan!"

I was past greater amazement; but--

"This lady can be no longer young, then?" I asked.

"On the contrary, Petrie, she remains always young and beautiful by
means of a continuous series of reincarnations; also she thus
conserves the collated wisdom of many ages. In short, she is the
archetype of Lamaism. The real secret of Lama celibacy is the existence
of this immaculate ruler, of whom the Grand Lama is merely a high
priest. She has, as attendants, maidens of good family, selected for
their personal charms, and rendered dumb in order that they may never
report what they see and hear."

"Smith!" I cried, "this is utterly incredible!"

"Her body slaves are not only mute, but blind; for it is death to look
upon her beauty unveiled."

I stood up impatiently.

"You are amusing yourself," I said.

Nayland Smith clapped his hands upon my shoulders, in his own
impulsive fashion, and looked earnestly into my eyes.

"Forgive me, old man," he said, "if I have related all these fantastic
particulars as though I gave them credence. Much of this is legendary,
I know, some of it mere superstition, but--I am serious now, Petrie--
_part of it is true_."

I stared at the square-cut, sun-tanned face; and no trace of a smile
lurked about that grim mouth. "Such a woman may actually exist, Petrie,
only in legend; but, nevertheless, she forms the head center of that
giant conspiracy in which the activities of Dr. Fu-Manchu were merely
a part. Hale blundered on to this stupendous business; and from what I
have gathered from Beeton and what I have seen for myself, it is
evident that in yonder coffer"--he pointed to the brass chest standing
hard by--"Hale got hold of something indispensable to the success of
this vast Yellow conspiracy. That he was followed here, to the very
hotel, by agents of this mystic Unknown is evident. But," he added
grimly, "they have failed in their object!"

A thousand outrageous possibilities fought for precedence in my mind.

"Smith!" I cried, "the half-caste woman whom I saw in the hotel ..."

Nayland Smith shrugged his shoulders.

"Probably, as M. Samarkan suggests, an _ayah!_" he said; but there was
an odd note in his voice and an odd look in his eyes.

"Then again, I am almost certain that Hale's warning concerning 'the
man with the limp' was no empty one. Shall you open the brass chest?"

"At present, decidedly _no_. Hale's fate renders his warning one that
I dare not neglect. For I was with him when he died; and they cannot
know how much _I_ know. How did he die? How did he die? How was the
Flower of Silence introduced into his closely guarded room?"

"The Flower of Silence?"

Smith laughed shortly and unmirthfully.

"I was once sent for," he said, "during the time that I was stationed
in Upper Burma, to see a stranger--a sort of itinerant Buddhist priest,
so I understood, who had desired to communicate some message to me
personally. He was dying--in a dirty hut on the outskirts of Manipur,
up in the hills. When I arrived I say at a glance that the man was a
Tibetan monk. He must have crossed the river and come down through
Assam; but the nature of his message I never knew. He had lost the
power of speech! He was gurgling, inarticulate, just like poor Hale.
A few moments after my arrival he breathed his last. The fellow who
had guided me to the place bent over him--I shall always remember the
scene--then fell back as though he had stepped upon an adder.

"'He holds the Flower Silence in his hand!' he cried--'the Si-Fan! the
Si-Fan!'--and bolted from the hut."

"When I went to examine the dead man, sure enough he held in one hand
a little crumpled spray of flowers. I did not touch it with my fingers
naturally, but I managed to loop a piece of twine around the stem,
and by that means I gingerly removed the flowers and carried them to
an orchid-hunter of my acquaintance who chanced to be visiting Manipur.

"Grahame--that was my orchid man's name--pronounced the specimen to be
an unclassified species of _jatropha;_ belonging to the _Curcas_
family. He discovered a sort of hollow thorn, almost like a fang,
amongst the blooms, but was unable to surmise the nature of its
functions. He extracted enough of a certain fixed oil from the flowers,
however, to have poisoned the pair of us!"

"Probably the breaking of a bloom ..."

"Ejects some of this acrid oil through the thorn? Practically the
uncanny thing stings when it is hurt? That is my own idea, Petrie. And
I can understand how these Eastern fanatics accept their sentence--
silence and death--when they have deserved it, at the hands of their
mysterious organization, and commit this novel form of _hara-kiri_.
But I shall not sleep soundly with that brass coffer in my possession
until I know by what means Sir Gregory was induced to touch a Flower
of Silence, and by what means it was placed in his room!"

"But, Smith, why did you direct me to-night to repeat the words,
'Sākya Mūni'?"

Smith smiled in a very grim fashion.

"It was after the episode I have just related that I made the
acquaintance of that pundit, some of whose statements I have already
quoted for your enlightenment. He admitted that the Flower of Silence
was an instrument frequently employed by a certain group, adding that,
according to some authorities, one who had touched the flower might
escape death by immediately pronouncing the sacred name of Buddha. He
was no fanatic himself, however, and, marking my incredulity, he
explained that the truth was this;--

"No one whose powers of speech were imperfect could possibly pronounce
correctly the words 'Sākya Mūni.' Therefore, since the first
effects of this damnable thing is instantly to tie the tongue, the
uttering of the sacred name of Buddha becomes practically a test
whereby the victim my learn whether the venom has entered his system
or not!"

I repressed a shudder. An atmosphere of horror seemed to be enveloping
us, foglike.

"Smith," I said slowly, "we must be on our guard," for at last I had
run to earth that elusive memory. "Unless I am strangely mistaken,
the 'man' who so mysteriously entered Hale's room and the supposed
_ayah_ whom I met downstairs are one and the same. Two, at least, of
the Yellow group are actually here in the New Louvre!"

The light of the shaded lamp shone down upon the brass coffer on the
table beside me. The fog seemed to have cleared from the room somewhat,
but since in the midnight stillness I could detect the muffled sounds
of sirens from the river and the reports of fog signals from the
railways, I concluded that the night was not yet wholly clear of the
choking mist. In accordance with a pre-arranged scheme we had decided
to guard "the key of India" (whatever it might be) turn and turn about
through the night. In a word--we feared to sleep unguarded. Now my
watch informed me that four o'clock approached, at which hour I was
to arouse Smith and retire to sleep to my own bedroom.

Nothing had disturbed my vigil--that is, nothing definite. True once,
about half an hour earlier, I had thought I heard the dragging and
tapping sound from somewhere up above me; but since the corridor
overhead was unfinished and none of the rooms opening upon it yet
habitable, I concluded that I had been mistaken. The stairway at the
end of our corridor, which communicated with that above, was still
blocked with bags of cement and slabs of marble, in fact.

Faintly to my ears came the booming of London's clocks, beating out
the hour of four. But still I sat beside the mysterious coffer,
indisposed to awaken my friend any sooner than was necessary,
particularly since I felt in no way sleepy myself.

I was to learn a lesson that night: the lesson of strict adherence to
a compact. I had arranged to awaken Nayland Smith at four; and because
I dallied, determined to finish my pipe ere entering his bedroom,
almost it happened that Fate placed it beyond my power ever to awaken
him again.

At ten minutes past four, amid a stillness so intense that the
creaking of my slippers seemed a loud disturbance, I crossed the room
and pushed open the door of Smith's bedroom. It was in darkness, but
as I entered I depressed the switch immediately inside the door,
lighting the lamp which swung form the center of the ceiling.

Glancing towards the bed, I immediately perceived that there was
something different in its aspect, but at first I found this
difference difficult to define. I stood for a moment in doubt. Then
I realized the nature of the change which had taken place.

A lamp hung above the bed, attached to a movable fitting, which
enabled it to be raised or lowered at the pleasure of the occupant.
When Smith had retired he was in no reading mood, and he had not even
lighted the reading-lamp, but had left it pushed high up against the
ceiling.

It was the position of this lamp which had changed. For now it swung
so low over the pillow that the silken fringe of the shade almost
touched my friend's face as he lay soundly asleep with one
lean brown hand outstretched upon the coverlet.

I stood in the doorway staring, mystified, at this phenomenon; I might
have stood there without intervening, until intervention had been too
late, were it not that, glancing upward toward the wooden block from
which ordinarily the pendant hung, I perceived that no block was
visible, but only a round, black cavity from which the white flex
supporting the lamp swung out.

Then, uttering a horse cry which rose unbidden to my lips, I sprang
wildly across the room ... for now I had seen something else!

Attached to one of the four silken tassels which ornamented the
lamp-shade, so as almost to rest upon the cheek of the sleeping man,
was a little corymb of bloom ... the _Flower of Silence!_

Grasping the shade with my left hand I seized the flex with my right,
and as Smith sprang upright in bed, eyes wildly glaring, I wrenched
with all my might. Upward my gaze was set; and I glimpsed a yellow
hand, with long, pointed finger nails. There came a loud resounding
snap; an electric spark spat venomously from the circular opening
above the bed; and, with the cord and lamp still fast in my grip, I
went rolling across the carpet--as the other lamp became instantly
extinguished.

Dimly I perceived Smith, arrayed in pyjamas, jumping out upon the
opposite side of the bed.

"Petrie, Petrie!" he cried, "where are you? what has happened?"

A laugh, little short of hysterical, escaped me. I gathered myself up
and made for the lighted sitting-room.

"Quick, Smith!" I said--but I did not recognize my own voice. "Quick--
come out of that room."

I crossed to the settee, and shaking in every limb, sank down upon it.
Nayland Smith, still wild-eyed, and his face a mask of bewilderment,
came out of the bedroom and stood watching me.

"For God's sake what has happened, Petrie?" he demanded, and began
clutching at the lobe of his left ear and looking all about the room
dazedly.

"The Flower of Silence!" I said; "some one has been at work in the top
corridor.... Heaven knows when, for since we engaged these rooms we
have not been much away from them ... the same device as in the case
of poor Hale.... You would have tried to brush the thing away ..."

A light of understanding began to dawn in my friend's eyes. He drew
himself stiffly upright, and in a loud, harsh voice uttered the words:
"Sākya Mūni"--and again: "Sākya Mūni."

"Thank God!" I said shakily. "I was not too late."

Nayland Smith, with much rattling of glass, poured out two stiff pegs
from the decanter. Then--

"_Ssh!_what's that?" he whispered.

He stood, tense, listening, his head cast slightly to one side.

A very faint sound of shuffling and tapping was perceptible, coming,
as I thought, from the incomplete stairway communicating with the upper
corridor.

"The man with the limp!" whispered Smith.

He bounded to the door and actually had one hand upon the bolt, when
he turned, and fixed his gaze upon the brass box.

"No!" he snapped; "there are occasions when prudence should rule.
Neither of us must leave these rooms to-night!"



CHAPTER V

JOHN KI'S


"What is the meaning of Si-Fan?" asked Detective-sergeant Fletcher.

He stood looking from the window at the prospect below; at the trees
bordering the winding embankment; at the ancient monolith which for
unnumbered ages had looked across desert sands to the Nile, and now
looked down upon another river of many mysteries. The view seemed to
absorb his attention. He spoke without turning his head.

Nayland Smith laughed shortly.

"The Si-Fan are the natives of Eastern Tibet," he replied.

"But the term has some other significance, sir?" said the detective;
his words were more of an assertion than a query.

"It has," replied my friend grimly. "I believe it to be the name, or
perhaps the sigil, of an extensive secret society with branches
stretching out into every corner of the Orient."

We were silent for awhile. Inspector Weymouth, who sat in a chair near
the window, glanced appreciatively at the back of his subordinate, who
still stood looking out. Detective-sergeant Fletcher was one of
Scotland Yard's coming men. He had information of the first importance
to communicate, and Nayland Smith had delayed his departure upon an
urgent errand in order to meet him.

"Your case to date, Mr. Smith," continued Fletcher, remaining with
hands locked behind him, staring from the window, "reads something like
this, I believe: A brass box, locked, contents unknown, has come into
your possession. It stands now upon the table there. It was brought
from Tibet by a man who evidently thought that it  had something to
do with the Si-Fan. He is dead, possibly by the agency of members of
this group. No arrests have been made. You know that there are people
here in London who are anxious to regain the box. You have theories
respecting the identity of some of them, but there are practically no
facts."

Nayland Smith nodded his head.

"Exactly!" he snapped.

"Inspector Weymouth, here," continued Fletcher, "has put me in
possession of such facts as are known to him, and I believe that I
have had the good fortune to chance upon a valuable one."

"You interest me, Sergeant Fletcher," said Smith. "What is the nature
of this clue?"

"I will tell you," replied the other, and turned briskly upon his heel
to  face us.

He had a dark, clean-shaven face, rather sallow complexion, and
deep-set, searching eyes. There was decision in the square, cleft chin
and strong character in the cleanly chiseled features. His manner was
alert.

"I have specialized in Chinese crime," he said; "much of my time is
spent amongst our Asiatic visitors. I am fairly familiar with the
Easterns who use the port of London, and I have a number of useful
acquaintances among them."

Nayland Smith nodded. Beyond doubt Detective-sergeant Fletcher knew
his business.

"To my lasting regret," Fletcher continued, "I never met the late Dr.
Fu-Manchu. I understand, sir, that you believe him to have been a high
official of this dangerous society? However, I think we may get in
touch with some other notabilities; for instance, I'm told that one
of the people you're looking for has been described as 'the man with
the limp'?"

Smith, who had been about to relight his pipe, dropped the match on
the carpet and set his foot upon it. His eyes shone like steel.

"'The man with the limp,'" he said, and slowly rose to his feet--"what
do you know of the man with the limp?"

Fletcher's face flushed slightly; his words had proved more dramatic
than he had anticipated.

"There's a place down Shadwell way," he replied, "of which, no doubt,
you  will have heard; it has no official title, but it is known to
habitués as the Joy-Shop...."

Inspector Weymouth stood up, his burly figure towering over that of
his slighter confrčre.

"I don't think you know John Ki's, Mr. Smith," he said. "We keep all
those places pretty well patrolled, and until this present business
cropped up, John's establishment had never given us any trouble."

"What is this Joy-Shop?" I asked.

"A resort of shady characters, mostly Asiatics," replied Weymouth.
"It's a gambling-house, an unlicensed drinking-shop, and even worse--
but it's more use to us open than it would be shut."

"It is one of my regular jobs to keep an eye on the visitors to the
Joy-Shop," continued Fletcher. "I have many acquaintances who use the
place. Needless to add, they don't know my real business! Well,
lately several of them have asked me if I know who the man is that
hobbles about the place with two sticks. Everybody seems to have
heard him, but no one has seen him."

Nayland Smith began to pace the floor restlessly.

"I have heard him myself," added Fletcher, "but never managed to get
so much as a glimpse of him.  When I learnt about this Si-Fan mystery,
I realized that he might very possibly be the man for whom you're
looking--and a golden opportunity has cropped up for you to visit the
Joy-Shop, and, if our luck remains in, to get a peep behind the scenes."

"I am all attention," snapped Smith.

"A woman called Zarmi has recently put in an appearance at the
Joy-Shop. Roughly speaking, she turned up at about the same time as
the unseen man with the limp...."

Nayland Smith's eyes were blazing with suppressed excitement; he was
pacing quickly up and down the floor, tugging at the lobe of his left
ear.

"She is--different in some way from any other woman I have ever seen
in the place. She's a Eurasian and good-looking, after a tigerish
fashion. I have done my best"--he smiled slightly--"to get in her good
books, and up to a point I've succeeded. I was there last night, and
Zarmi asked me if I knew what she called a 'strong feller.'

"'These,' she informed me, contemptuously referring to the rest of the
company, 'are poor weak Johnnies!'

"I had nothing definite in view at the time, for I had not then heard
about your return to London, but I thought it might lead to something
anyway, so I promised to bring a friend along to-night. I don't know
what we're wanted to do, but ..."

"Count on me!" snapped Smith. "I will leave all details to you and to
Weymouth, and I will be at New Scotland Yard this evening in time to
adopt a suitable disguise. Petrie"--he turned impetuously to me--"I
fear I shall have to go without you; but I shall be in safe company,
as you see, and doubtless Weymouth can find you a part in his portion
of the evening's program."

He glanced at his watch.

"Ah! I must be off. If you will oblige me, Petrie, by putting the
brass box into my smaller portmanteau, whilst I slip my coat on,
perhaps Weymouth, on his way out, will be good enough to order a taxi.
I shall venture to breathe again once our unpleasant charge is safely
deposited in the bank vaults!"


CHAPTER VI

THE SI-FAN MOVE


A slight drizzling rain was falling as Smith entered the cab which
the hall-porter had summoned. The brown bag in his hand contained the
brass box which actually was responsible for our presence in London.
The last glimpse I had of him through the glass of the closed window
showed him striking a match to light his pipe--which he rarely allowed
to grow cool.

Oppressed with an unaccountable weariness of spirit, I stood within
the lobby looking out upon the grayness of London in November. A
slight mental effort was sufficient to blot out that drab prospect and
to conjure up before my mind's eye a balcony overlooking the Nile--a
glimpse of dusty palms, a white wall overgrown with purple blossoms,
and above all the dazzling vault of Egypt. Upon the balcony my
imagination painted a figure, limning it with loving details, the
figure of Kāramaneh; and I thought that her glorious eyes would be
sorrowful and her lips perhaps a little tremulous, as, her arms resting
upon the rail of the balcony, she looked out across the smiling river
to the domes and minarets of Cairo--and beyond, into the hazy distance;
seeing me in dreary, rain-swept London, as I saw her, at Gezīra
beneath the cloudless sky of Egypt.

From these tender but mournful reflections I aroused myself, almost
angrily, and set off through the muddy streets towards Charing Cross;
for I was availing myself of the opportunity to call upon Dr. Murray,
who had purchased my small suburban practice when (finally, as I
thought at the time) I had left London.

This matter occupied me for the greater part of the afternoon, and I
returned to the New Louvre Hotel shortly after five, and seeing no one
in the lobby whom I knew, proceeded immediately to our apartment.
Nayland Smith was not there, and having made some changes in my attire
I descended again and inquired if he had left any message for me.

The booking-clerk informed me that Smith had not returned; therefore I
resigned myself to wait. I purchased an evening paper and settled down
in the lounge where I had an uninterrupted view of the entrance doors.
The dinner hour approached, but still my friend failed to put in an
appearance. Becoming impatient, I entered a call-box and rang up
Inspector Weymouth.

Smith had not been to Scotland Yard, nor had they received any message
from him. Perhaps it would appear that there was little cause for alarm
in this, but I, familiar with my friend's punctual and exact habits,
became strangely uneasy. I did not wish to make myself ridiculous,
but growing restlessness impelled me to institute inquiries regarding
the cabman who had driven my friend. The result of these was to
increase rather than to allay my fears.

The man was a stranger to the hall-porter, and he was not one of the
taximen who habitually stood upon the neighboring rank; no one seemed
to have noticed the number of the cab.

And now my mind began to play with strange doubts and fears. The driver,
I recollected, had been a small, dark man, possessing remarkably
well-cut olive-hued features. Had he not worn spectacles he would
indeed have been handsome, in an effeminate fashion.

I was almost certain, by this time, that he had not been an Englishman;
I was almost certain that some catastrophe had befallen Smith. Our
ceaseless vigilance had been momentarily relaxed--and this was the
result!

At some large bank branches there is a resident messenger. Even
granting that such was the case in the present instance, I doubted if
the man could help me, unless, as was possible, he chanced to be
familiar with my friend's appearance, and had actually seen him there
that day. I determined, at any rate, to make the attempt; reentering
the call-box, I asked for the bank's number.

There proved to be a resident messenger, who, after a time, replied to
my call. He knew Nayland Smith very well by sight, and as he had been
on duty in the public office of the bank at the time that Smith should
have arrived, he assured me that my friend had not been there that day!

"Besides, sir," he said, "you say he came to deposit valuables of some
kind here?"

"Yes, yes!" I cried eagerly.

"I take all such things down on the lift to the vaults at night, sir,
under the supervision of the assistant manager--and I can assure you
that nothing of the kind has been left with us to-day."

I stepped out of the call-box unsteadily. Indeed, I clutched at the
door for support.

"What is the meaning of Si-Fan?" Detective-sergeant Fletcher had asked
that morning. None of us could answer him; none of us knew. With a
haze seeming to dance between my eyes and the active life in the lobby
before me, I realized that the Si-Fan--that unseen, sinister power--
had reached out and plucked my friend from the very midst of this
noisy life about me, into its own mysterious, deathly silence.



CHAPTER VII

CHINATOWN


"It's no easy matter," said Inspector Weymouth, "to patrol the vicinity
of John Ki's Joy-Shop without their getting wind of it. The entrance,
as you'll see, is a long, narrow rat-hole of a street running at right
angles to the Thames. There's no point, so far as I know, from which
the yard can be overlooked; and the back is on a narrow cutting
belonging to a disused mill."

I paid little attention to his words. Disguised beyond all chance of
recognition even by one intimate with my appearance, I was all
impatience to set out. I had taken Smith's place in the night's
program; for, every possible source of information having been tapped
in vain, I now hoped against hope that some clue to the fate of my poor
friend might be obtained at the Chinese den which he had designed to
visit with Fletcher.

The latter, who presented a strange picture in his make-up as a sort
of half-caste sailor, stared doubtfully at the Inspector; then--

"The River Police cutter," he said, "can drop down on the tide and lie
off under the Surrey bank. There's a vacant wharf facing the end of
the street and we can slip through and show a light there, to let you
know we've arrived. You reply in the same way. If there's any
trouble, I shall blaze away with this"--he showed the butt of a
Service revolver protruding from his hip pocket--"and you can be
ashore in no time."

The plan had one thing to commend it, viz., that no one could devise
another. Therefore it was adopted, and five minutes later a taxi-cab
swung out of the Yard containing Inspector Weymouth and two ruffianly
looking companions--myself and Fletcher.

Any zest with which, at another time, I might have entered upon such
an expedition, was absent now. I bore with me a gnawing anxiety and
sorrow that precluded all conversation on my part, save monosyllabic
replies, to questions that I comprehended but vaguely.

At the River Police Depot we found Inspector Ryman, an old acquaintance,
awaiting us. Weymouth had telephoned from Scotland Yard.

"I've got a motor-boat at the breakwater," said Ryman, nodding to
Fletcher, and staring hard at me.

Weymouth laughed shortly.

"Evidently you don't recognize Dr. Petrie!" he said.

"Eh!" cried Ryman--"Dr. Petrie! why, good heavens, Doctor, I should
never have known you in a month of Bank holidays! What's afoot,
then?"--and he turned to Weymouth, eyebrows raised interrogatively.

"It's the Fu-Manchu business again, Ryman."

"Fu-Manchu! But I thought the Fu-Manchu case was off the books long
ago? It was always a mystery to me; never a word in the papers; and
we as much in the dark as everybody else--but didn't I hear that the
Chinaman, Fu-Manchu, was dead?"

Weymouth nodded.

"Some of his friends seem to be very much alive, though" he said.
"It appears that Fu-Manchu, for all his genius--and there's no denying
he was a genius, Ryman--was only the agent of somebody altogether
bigger."

Ryman whistled softly.

"Has the real head of affairs arrived, then?"

"We find we are up against what is known as the Si-Fan."

At that it came to the inevitable, unanswerable question.

"What is the Si-Fan?"

I laughed, but my laughter was not mirthful. Inspector Weymouth shook
his head.

"Perhaps Mr. Nayland Smith could tell you that," he replied; "for the
Si-Fan got him to-day!"

"Got him!" cried Ryman.

"Absolutely! He's vanished! And Fletcher here has found out that John
Ki's place is in some way connected with this business."

I interrupted--impatiently, I fear.

"Then let us set out, Inspector," I said, "for it seems to me that we
are wasting precious time--and you know what that may mean." I turned
to Fletcher. "Where is this place situated, exactly? How do we proceed?"

"The cab can take us part of the way," he replied, "and we shall have
to walk the rest. Patrons of John's don't turn up in taxis, as a rule!"

"Then let us be off," I said, and made for the door.

"Don't forget the signal!" Weymouth cried after me, "and don't venture
into the place until you've received our reply...."

But I was already outside, Fletcher following; and a moment later we
were both in the cab and off into a maze of tortuous streets toward
John Ki's Joy-Shop.

With the coming of nightfall the rain had ceased, but the sky remained
heavily overcast and the air was filled with clammy mist. It was a
night to arouse longings for Southern skies; and when, discharging
the cabman, we set out afoot along a muddy and ill-lighted
thoroughfare bordered on either side by high brick walls, their
monotony occasionally broken by gateways, I felt that the load of
depression which had settled upon my shoulders must ere long bear me
down.

Sounds of shunting upon some railway siding came to my ears; train
whistles and fog signals hooted and boomed. River sounds there were,
too, for we were close beside the Thames, that gray old stream which
has borne upon its bier many a poor victim of underground London. The
sky glowed sullenly red above.

"There's the Joy-Shop, along on the left," said Fletcher, breaking in
upon my reflections. "You'll notice a faint light; it's shining out
through the open door. Then, here is the wharf."

He began fumbling with the fastenings of a dilapidated gateway beside
which we were standing; and a moment later--

"All right--slip through," he said.

I followed him through the narrow gap which the ruinous state of the
gates had enabled him to force, and found myself looking under a low
arch, with the Thames beyond, and a few hazy lights coming and going
on the opposite bank.

"Go steady!" warned Fletcher. "It's only a few paces to the edge of
the wharf."

I heard him taking a box of matches from his pocket.

"Here is my electric lamp," I said. "It will serve the purpose better."

"Good," muttered my companion. "Show a light down here, so that we
can find our way."

With the aid of the lamp we found our way out on to the rotting
timbers of the crazy structure. The mist hung denser over the river,
but through it, as through a dirty gauze curtain, it was possible
to discern some of the greater lights on the opposite shore. These,
without exception, however, showed high up upon the fog curtain;
along the water level lay a belt of darkness.

"Let me give them the signal," said Fletcher, shivering slightly and
taking the lamp from my hand.

He flashed the light two or three times. Then we both stood watching
the belt of darkness that followed the Surrey shore. The tide lapped
upon the timbers supporting the wharf and little whispers and gurgling
sounds stole up from beneath our feet. Once there was a faint splash
from somewhere below and behind us.

"There goes a rat," said Fletcher vaguely, and without taking his gaze
from the darkness under the distant shore. "It's gone into the cutting
at the back of John Ki's."

He ceased speaking and flashed the lamp again several times. Then, all
at once out of the murky darkness into which we were peering, looked
a little eye of light--once, twice, thrice it winked at us from low
down upon the oily water; then was gone.

"It's Weymouth with the cutter," said Fletcher; "they are ready ...
now for Jon Ki's."

We stumbled back up the slight acclivity beneath the archway to the
street, leaving the ruinous gates as we had found them. Into the
uninviting little alley immediately opposite we plunged, and where
the faint yellow luminance showed upon the muddy path before us,
Fletcher paused a moment, whispering to me warningly.

"Don't speak if you can help it," he said; "if you do, mumble any old
jargon in any language you like, and throw in plenty of cursing!"

He grasped me by the arm, and I found myself crossing the threshold of
the Joy-Shop--I found myself in a meanly furnished room no more than
twelve feet square and very low ceiled, smelling strongly of paraffin
oil. The few items of furniture which it contained were but dimly
discernible in the light of a common tin lamp which stood upon a
packing-case at the head of what looked like cellar steps.

Abruptly, I pulled up; for this stuffy little den did not correspond
with pre-conceived ideas of the place for which we were bound. I was
about to speak when Fletcher nipped my arm--and out from the shadows
behind the packing-case a little bent figure arose!

I started violently, for I had had no idea that another was in the
room. The apparition proved to be a Chinaman, and judging from what I
could see of him, a very old Chinaman, his bent figure attired in a
blue smock. His eyes were almost invisible amidst an intricate map of
wrinkles which covered his yellow face.

"Evening, John," said Fletcher--and, pulling me with him, he made for
the head of the steps.

As I came abreast of the packing-case, the Chinaman lifted the lamp
and directed its light fully upon my face.

Great as was the faith which I reposed in my make-up, a doubt and a
tremor disturbed me now, as I found myself thus scrutinized by those
cunning old eyes looking out from the mask-like, apish face. For the
first time the Chinaman spoke.

"You blinger fliend, Charlie?" he squeaked in a thin, piping voice.

"Him play piecee card," replied Fletcher briefly. "Good fellow, plenty
much money."

He descended the steps, still holding my arm, and I perforce followed
him. Apparently John's scrutiny and Fletcher's explanation respecting
me, together had proved satisfactory; for the lamp was replaced upon
the lid of the packing-case, and the little bent figure dropped down
again into the shadows from which it had emerged.

"Allee lightee," I heard faintly as I stumbled downward in the wake
of Fletcher.

I had expected to find myself in a cellar, but instead discovered that
we were in a small square court with the mist of the night about us
again. On a doorstep facing us stood a duplicate of the lamp upon the
box upstairs. Evidently this was designed to indicate the portals of
the Joy-Shop, for Fletcher pushed open the door, whose threshold
accommodated the lamp, and the light of the place beyond shone out
into our faces. We entered and my companion closed the door behind us.

Before me I perceived a long low room lighted by flaming gas-burners,
the jets hissing and spluttering in the draught from the door, for
they were entirely innocent of shades or mantles. Wooden tables,
their surfaces stained with the marks of countless wet glasses, were
ranged about the place, café fashion; and many of these tables
accommodated groups, of nondescript nationality for the most part.
One or two there were in a distant corner who were unmistakably
Chinamen; but my slight acquaintance with the races of the East did
not enable me to classify the greater number of those whom I now saw
about me. There were several unattractive-looking women present.

Fletcher walked up the center of the place, exchanging nods of
recognition with two hang-dog poker-players, and I was pleased to note
that our advent had apparently failed to attract the slightest
attention. Through an opening on the right-hand side of the room, near
the top, I looked into a smaller apartment, occupied exclusively by
Chinese. They were playing some kind of roulette and another game
which seemed wholly to absorb their interest. I ventured no more than
a glance, then passed on with my companion.

"_Fan-tan!_" he whispered in my ear.

Other forms of gambling were in progress at some of the tables; and
now Fletcher silently drew my attention to yet a third dimly lighted
apartment--this opening out from the left-hand corner of the
principal room. The atmosphere of the latter was sufficiently
abominable; indeed, the stench was appalling; but a wave of choking
vapor met me as I paused for a moment at the threshold of this inner
sanctuary. I formed but the vaguest impression of its interior; the
smell was sufficient. This annex was evidently reserved for
opium-smokers.

Fletcher sat down at a small table near by, and I took a common wooden
chair which he thrust forward with his foot. I was looking around at
the sordid scene, filled with a bitter sense of my own impotency to
aid my missing friend, when that occurred which set my heart beating
wildly at once with hope and excitement. Fletcher must have seen
something of this in my attitude, for--

"Don't forget what I told you," he whispered. "Be cautious!--be very
cautious!..."



CHAPTER VIII

ZARMI OF THE JOY-SHOP


Down the center of the room came a girl carrying the only ornamental
object which thus far I  had seen in the Joy-Shop; a large Oriental
brass tray. She was a figure which must have formed a center of
interest in any place, trebly so, then, in such a place as this. Her
costume consisted in a series of incongruities, whilst the entire
effect was barbaric and by no means unpicturesque. She wore high-heeled
red slippers, and, as her short gauzy skirt rendered amply evident,
black silk stockings. A brilliantly colored Oriental scarf was wound
around her waist and knotted in front, its tasseled ends swinging
girdle fashion. A sort of chemise--like the _'anteree_ of Egyptian
women--completed her costume, if I except a number of barbaric
ornaments, some of them of silver, with which her hands and arms
were bedecked.

But strange as was the girl's attire, it was to her face that my gaze
was drawn irresistibly. Evidently, like most of those around us, she
was some kind of half-caste; but, unlike them, she was wickedly
handsome. I use the adverb _wickedly_ with deliberation; for the
pallidly dusky, oval face, with the full red lips, between which rested
a large yellow cigarette, and the half-closed almond-shaped eyes,
possessed a beauty which might have appealed to an artist of one of
the modern perverted schools, but which filled me less with admiration
than horror. For I _knew_ her--I recognized her, from a past, brief
meeting; I knew her, beyond all possibility of doubt, to be one of
the Si-Fan group!

This strange creature, tossing back her jet-black, frizzy hair, which
was entirely innocent of any binding or ornament, advanced along the
room towards us, making unhesitatingly for our table, and carrying her
lithe body with the grace of a _Ghįzeeyeh_.

I glanced at Fletcher across the table.

"Zarmi!" he whispered.

Again I raised my eyes to the face which now was close to mine, and
became aware that I was trembling with excitement....

Heavens! why did enlightenment come too late! Either I was the victim
of an odd delusion, or Zarmi had been the driver of the cab in which
Nayland Smith had left the New Louvre Hotel!

Zarmi place the brass tray upon the table and bent down, resting her
elbows upon it, her hands upturned and her chin nestling in her palms.
The smoke from the cigarette, now held in her fingers, mingled with
her disheveled hair. She looked fully into my face, a long, searching
look; then her lips parted in the slow, voluptuous smile of the
Orient. Without moving her head she turned the wonderful eyes (rendered
doubly luminous by the _kohl_ with which her lashes and lids were
darkened) upon Fletcher.

"What you and your strong friend drinking?" she said softly.

Her voice possessed a faint husky note which betrayed her Eastern
parentage, yet it had in it the siren lure which is the ancient
heritage of the Eastern woman--a heritage more ancient than the tribe
of the _Ghāzeeyeh_, to one of whom I had mentally likened Zarmi.

"Same thing," replied Fletcher promptly; and raising his hand, he
idly toyed with a huge gold ear-ring which she wore.

Still resting her elbows upon the table and bending down between us,
Zarmi turned her slumbering, half-closed black eyes again upon me,
then slowly, languishingly, upon Fletcher. She replaced the yellow
cigarette between her lips. He continued to toy with the ear-ring.

Suddenly the girl sprang upright, and from its hiding-place within
the silken scarf, plucked out a Malay _krīs_ with a richly jeweled
hilt. Her eyes now widely opened and blazing, she struck at my
companion!

I half rose from my chair, stifling a cry of horror; but Fletcher,
regarding her fixedly, never moved ... and Zarmi stayed her hand just
as the point of the dagger had reached his throat!

"You see," she whispered softly but intensely, "how soon I can kill
you."

Ere I had overcome the amazement and horror with which her action
had filled me, she had suddenly clutched me by the shoulder, and,
turning from Fletcher, had the point of the _krīs_ at _my_ throat!

"You, too!" she whispered, "you too!"

Lower and lower she bent, the needle point of the weapon pricking my
skin, until her beautiful, evil face almost touched mine. Then,
miraculously, the fire died out of her eyes; they half closed again
and became languishing, luresome _Ghāzeeyeh_ eyes. She laughed softly,
wickedly, and puffed cigarette smoke into my face.

Thrusting her dagger into her waist-belt, and snatching up the brass
tray, she swayed down the room, chanting some barbaric song in her
husky Eastern voice.

I inhaled deeply and glanced across at my companion. Beneath the
make-up with which I had stained my skin, I knew that I had grown
more than a little pale.

"Fletcher!" I whispered, "we are on the eve of a great discovery--that
girl ..."

I broke off, and clutching the table with both hands, sat listening
intently. From the room behind me, the opium-room, whose entrance was
less than two paces from where we sat, came a sound of dragging and
tapping! Slowly, cautiously, I began to turn my head; when a sudden
outburst of simian chattering from the _fan-tan_ players drowned that
other sinister sound.

"You heard it, Doctor!" hissed Fletcher.

"The man with the limp!" I said hoarsely; "he is in there! Fletcher!
I am utterly confused. I believe this place to hold the key to the
whole mystery, I believe ..."

Fletcher gave me a warning glance--and, turning anew, I saw Zarmi
approaching with her sinuous gait, carrying two glasses and jug upon
the ornate tray. These she set down upon the table; then stood
spinning the salver cleverly upon the point of her index finger and
watching us through half-closed eyes.

My companion took out some loose coins, but the girl thrust the
proffered payment aside with her disengaged hand, the salver still
whirling upon the upraised finger of the other.

"Presently you pay for drink," she said. "You do something for me--eh?"

"Yep," replied Fletcher nonchalantly, watering the rum in the
tumblers. "What time?"

"Presently I tell you. You stay here. This one a strong feller?"--
indicating myself.

"Sure," drawled Fletcher; "strong as a mule he is."

"All right. I give him one little kiss if he good boy!"

Tossing the tray in the air she caught it, rested its edge upon her
hip, turned, and walked away down the room, puffing her cigarette.

"Listen," I said, bending across the table, "it was Zarmi who drove
the cab that came for Nayland Smith to-day!"

"My God!" whispered Fletcher, "then it was nothing less than the hand
of Providence that brought us here to-night. Yes! I know how you feel,
Doctor!--but we must play our cards as they're dealt to us. We must
wait--wait."

Out from the den of the opium-smokers came Zarmi, one hand resting
upon her hip and the other uplifted, a smoldering yellow cigarette
held between the first and second fingers. With a movement of her
eyes she summoned us to join her, then turned and disappeared again
through the low doorway.

The time for action was arrived--we were to see behind the scenes of
the Joy-Shop! Our chance to revenge poor Smith even if we could not
save him. I became conscious of an inward and suppressed excitement;
surreptitiously I felt the hilt of the Browning pistol in my pocket.
The shadow of the dead Fu-Manchu seemed to be upon me. God! how I
loathed and feared that memory!

"We can make no plans," I whispered to Fletcher, as together we rose
from the table; "we must be guided by circumstance."

In order to enter the little room laden with those sickly opium fumes
we had to lower our heads. Two steps led down into the place, which
was so dark that I hesitated, momentarily, peering about me.

Apparently some four of five persons squatted and lay in the darkness
about me. Some were couched upon rough wooden shelves ranged around
the walls, others sprawled upon the floor, in the center whereof, upon
a small tea-chest, stood a smoky brass lamp. The room and its
occupants alike were indeterminate, sketchy; its deadly atmosphere
seemed to be suffocating me. A sort of choking sound came from one of
the bunks; a vague, obscene murmuring filled the whole place
revoltingly.

Zarmi stood at the further end, her lithe figure silhouetted against
the vague light coming through an open doorway. I saw her raise her
hand, beckoning to us.

Circling around the chest supporting the lamp we crossed the foul
den and found ourselves in a narrow, dim passage-way, but in cleaner
air.

"Come," said Zarmi, extending her long, slim hand to me.

I took it, solely for guidance in the gloom, and she immediately drew
my arm about her waist, leant back against my shoulder and, raising
her pouted red lips, blew a cloud of tobacco smoke fully into my eyes!

Momentarily blinded, I drew back with a muttered exclamation.
Suspecting what I did of this tigerish half-caste, I could almost have
found it in my heart to return her savage pleasantries with interest.

As I raised my hands to my burning eyes, Fletcher uttered a sharp cry
of pain. I turned in time to see the girl touch him lightly on the
neck with the burning tip of her cigarette.

"You jealous, eh, Charlie?" she said. "But I love you, too--see! Come
along, you strong fellers...."

And away she went along the passage, swaying her hips lithely and
glancing back over her shoulders in smiling coquetry.

Tears were still streaming from my eyes when I found myself standing
in a sort of rough shed, stone-paved, and containing a variety of
nondescript rubbish. A lantern stood upon the floor; and beside it ...

The place seemed to be swimming around me, the stone floor to be
heaving beneath my feet....

Beside the lantern stood a wooden chest, some six feet long, and
having strong rope handles at either end. Evidently the chest had but
recently been nailed up. As Zarmi touched it lightly with the pointed
toe of her little red slipper I clutched at Fletcher for support.

Fletcher grasped my arm in a vice-like grip. To him, too, had come
the ghastly conviction--the gruesome thought that neither of us dared
to name.

It was Nayland Smith's coffin that we were to carry!

"Through here," came dimly to my ears, "and then I tell you what to
do...."

Coolness returned to me, suddenly, unaccountably. I doubted not for an
instant that the best friend I had in the world lay dead there at the
feet of the hellish girl who called herself Zarmi, and I knew since it
was she, disguised, who had driven him to his doom, that she must have
been actively concerned in his murder.

But, I argued, although the damp night air was pouring in through the
door which Zarmi now held open, although sound of Thames-side activity
came stealing to my ears, we were yet within the walls of the Joy-Shop,
with a score or more Asiatic ruffians at the woman's beck and call....

With perfect truth I can state that I retain not even a shadowy
recollection of aiding Fletcher to move the chest out on to the brink
of the cutting--for it was upon this that the door directly opened.
The mist had grown denser, and except a glimpse of slowly moving water
beneath me, I could discern little of our surrounding.

So much I saw by the light of a lantern which stood in the stern of a
boat. In the bows of this boat I was vaguely aware of the presence of
a crouched figure enveloped in rugs--vaguely aware that two filmy
eyes regarded me out of the darkness. A man who looked like a lascar
stood upright in the stern.

I must have been acting like a man in a stupor; for I was aroused to
the realities by the contact of a burning cigarette with the lobe of
my right ear!

"Hurry, quick, strong feller!" said Zarmi softly.

At that it seemed as though some fine nerve of my brain, already
strained to utmost tension, snapped. I turned, with a wild,
inarticulate cry, my fists raised frenziedly above my head.

"You fiend!" I shrieked at the mocking Eurasian, "you yellow fiend of
hell!"

I was beside myself, insane. Zarmi fell back a step, flashing a glance
from my own contorted face to that, now pale even beneath its artificial
tan, of Fletcher.

I snatched the pistol from my pocket, and for one fateful moment the
lust of slaying claimed my mind.... Then I turned towards the river,
and, raising the Browning, fired shot after shot in the air.

"Weymouth!" I cried. "Weymouth!"

A sharp hissing sound came from behind me; a short, muffled cry ...
and something descended, crushing, upon my skull. Like a wild cat
Zarmi hurled herself past me and leapt into the boat. One glimpse I
had of her pallidly dusky face, of her blazing black eyes, and the
boat was thrust off into the waterway ... was swallowed up in the mist.

I turned, dizzily, to see Fletcher sinking to his knees, one hand
clutching his breast.

"She got me ... with the knife," he whispered. "But ... don't worry ...
look to yourself, and ..._him_...."

He pointed, weakly--then collapsed at my feet. I threw myself upon
the wooden chest with a fierce, sobbing cry.

"Smith, Smith!" I babbled, and knew myself no better, in my sorrow,
than an hysterical woman. "Smith, dear old man! speak to me! speak
to me!..."

Outraged emotion overcame me utterly, and with my arms thrown across
the box, I slipped into unconsciousness.



CHAPTER IX

FU-MANCHU


Many poignant recollections are mine, more of them bitter than sweet;
but no one of them all can compare with the memory of that moment of
my awakening.

Weymouth was supporting me, and my throat still tingled from the
effects of the brandy which he had forced between my teeth from his
flask. My heart was beating irregularly; my mind yet partly inert.
With something compound of horror and hope I lay staring at one who
was anxiously bending over the Inspector's shoulder, watching me.

_It was Nayland Smith._

A whole hour of silence seemed to pass, ere speech became possible;
then--

"Smith!" I whispered, "are you ..."

Smith grasped my outstretched, questing hand, grasped it firmly,
warmly; and I saw his gray eyes to be dim in the light of the several
lanterns around us.

"Am I alive?" he said. "Dear old Petrie! Thanks to you, I am not only
alive, but free!"

My head was buzzing like a hive of bees, but I managed, aided by
Weymouth, to struggle to my feet. Muffled sounds of shouting and
scuffling reached me. Two men in the uniform of the Thames Police were
carrying a limp body in at the low doorway communicating with the
infernal Joy-Shop.

"It's Fletcher," said Weymouth, noting the anxiety expressed in my
face. "His missing lady friend has given him a nasty wound, but he'll
pull round all right."

"Thank God for that," I replied, clutched my aching head. "I don't
know what weapon she employed in my case, but it narrowly missed
achieving her purpose."

My eyes, throughout, were turned upon Smith, for his presence there,
still seemed to me miraculous.

"Smith," I said, "for Heaven's sake enlighten me! I never doubted
that you were ..."

"In the wooden chest!" concluded Smith grimly, "Look!"

He pointed to something that lay behind me. I turned, and saw the box
which had occasioned me such anguish. The top had been wrenched off
and the contents exposed to view. It was filled with a variety of gold
ornaments, cups, vases, silks, and barbaric brocaded raiment; it might
well have contained the loot of a cathedral. Inspector Weymouth
laughed gruffly at my surprise.

"What is it?" I asked, in a voice of amazement.

"It's the treasure of the Si-Fan, I presume," rapped Smith. "Where it
has come from and where it was going to, it must be my immediate
business to ascertain."

"Then you ..."

"I was lying, bound and gagged, upon one of the upper shelves in the
opium-den! I heard you and Fletcher arrive. I saw you pass through
later with that she-devil who drove the cab to-day ..."

"Then the cab ..."

"The windows were fastened, unopenable, and some anaesthetic was
injected into the interior through a tube--that speaking-tube. I know
nothing further, except that our plans must have leaked out in some
mysterious fashion. Petrie, my suspicions point to high quarters. The
Si-Fan score thus far, for unless the search now in progress brings
it to light, we must conclude that they have the brass coffer."

He was interrupted by a sudden loud crying of his name.

"Mr. Nayland Smith!" came from somewhere within the Joy-Shop. "This
way, sir!"

Off he went, in his quick, impetuous manner, whilst I stood there,
none too steadily, wondering what discovery this outcry portended.
I had not long to wait. Out by the low doorway come Smith, a grimly
triumphant smile upon his face, carrying the missing brass coffer!

He set it down upon the planking before me.

"John Ki," he said, "who was also on the missing list, had dragged
the thing out of the cellar where it was hidden, and in another minute
must have slipped away with it. Detective Deacon saw the light shining
through a crack in the floor. I shall never forget the look John gave
us when we came upon him, as, lamp in hand, he bent over the precious
chest."

"Shall you open it now?"

"No." He glanced at me oddly. "I shall have it valued in the morning
by Messrs. Meyerstein."

He was keeping something back; I was sure of it.

"Smith," I said suddenly, "the man with the limp! I heard him in the
place where you were confined! Did you ..."

Nayland Smith clicked his teeth together sharply, looking straightly
and grimly into my eyes.

"I _saw_ him!" he replied slowly; "and unless the effects of the
anaesthetic had not wholly worn off ..."

"Well!" I cried.

"The man with the limp is _Dr. Fu-Manchu!_"



CHAPTER X

THE TŪLUN-NŪR CHEST


"This box," said Mr. Meyerstein, bending attentively over the carven
brass coffer upon the table, "is certainly of considerable value, and
possibly almost unique."

Nayland Smith glanced across at me with a slight smile. Mr. Meyerstein
ran one fat finger tenderly across the heavily embossed figures, which,
like barnacles, encrusted the sides and lid of the weird curio which
we had summoned him to appraise.

"What do you think, Lewison?" he added, glancing over his shoulder at
the clerk who accompanied him.

Lewison, whose flaxen hair and light blue eyes almost served to mask
his Semitic origin, shrugged his shoulders in a fashion incongruous
in one of his complexion, though characteristic in one of his name.

"It is as you say, Mr. Meyerstein, an example of early Tūlun-Nūr
work," he said. "It may be sixteenth century or even earlier. The
Kūren treasure-chest in the Hague Collection has points of
similarity, but the workmanship of this specimen is infinitely finer."

"In a word, gentlemen," snapped Nayland Smith, rising from the
arm-chair in which he had been sitting, and beginning restlessly to
pace the room, "in a word, you would be prepared to make me a
substantial offer for this box?"

Mr. Meyerstein, his shrewd eyes twinkling behind the pebbles of his
pince-nez, straightened himself slowly, turned in the ponderous manner
of a fat man, and readjusted the pince-nez upon his nose. He cleared
his throat.

"I have not yet seen the interior of the box, Mr. Smith," he said.

Smith paused in his perambulation of the carpet and stared hard at
the celebrated art dealer.

"Unfortunately," he replied, "the key is missing."

"Ah!" cried the assistant, Lewison, excitedly, "you are mistaken, sir!
Coffers of this description and workmanship are nearly always
complicated conjuring tricks; they rarely open by any such rational
means as lock and key. For instance, the Kūren treasure-chest to
which I referred, opens by an intricate process involving the pressing
of certain knobs in the design, and the turning of others."

"It was ultimately opened," said Mr. Meyerstein, with a faint note of
professional envy in his voice, "by one of Christie's experts."

"Does my memory mislead me," I interrupted, "or was it not regarding
the possession of the chest to which you refer, that the celebrated
case of 'Hague versus Jacobs' arose?"

"You are quite right, Dr. Petrie," said Meyerstein, turning to me.
"The original owner, a member of the Younghusband Expedition, had been
unable to open the chest. When opened at Christie's it proved to
contain jewels and other valuables. It was a curious case, wasn't it,
Lewison?" turning to his clerk.

"Very," agreed the other absently; then--"Have you endeavored to open
this box, Mr. Smith?"

Nayland Smith shook his head grimly.

"From its weight," said Meyerstein, "I am inclined to think that the
contents might prove of interest. With your permission I will
endeavor to open it."

Nayland Smith, tugging reflectively at the lobe of his left ear, stood
looking at the expert. Then--

"I do not care to attempt it at present," he said.

Meyerstein and his clerk stared at the speaker in surprise.

"But you would be mad," cried the former, "if you accepted an offer for
the box, whilst ignorant of the nature of its contents."

"But I have invited no offer," said Smith. "I do not propose to sell."

Meyerstein adjusted his pince-nez again.

"I am a business man," he said, "and I will make a business proposal:
A hundred guineas for the box, cash down, and our commission to be ten
per cent on the proceeds of the contents. You must remember," raising
a fat forefinger to check Smith, who was about to interrupt him, "that
it may be necessary to force the box in order to open it, thereby
decreasing its market value and making it a bad bargain at a hundred
guineas."

Nayland Smith met my gaze across the room; again a slight smile
crossed the lean, tanned face.

"I can only reply, Mr. Meyerstein," he said, "in this way: if I desire
to place the box on the market, you shall have first refusal, and the
same applies to the contents, if any. For the moment if you will send
me a note of your fee, I shall be obliged." He raised his hand with a
conclusive gesture. "I am not prepared to discuss the question of sale
any further at present, Mr. Meyerstein."

At that the dealer bowed, took up his hat from the table, and prepared
to depart. Lewison opened the door and stood aside.

"Good morning, gentlemen," said Meyerstein.

As Lewison was about to follow him--

"Since you do not intend to open the box," he said, turning, his hand
upon the door knob, "have you any idea of its contents?"

"None," replied Smith; "but with my present inadequate knowledge of
its history, I do not care to open it."

Lewison smiled skeptically.

"Probably you know best," he said, bowed to us both, and retired.

When the door was closed--

"You see, Petrie," said Smith, beginning to stuff tobacco into his
briar, "if we are ever short of funds, here's something"--pointing to
the Tūlun-Nūr box upon the table--"which would retrieve our fallen
fortunes."

He uttered one of his rare, boyish laughs, and began to pace the
carpet again, his gaze always set upon our strange treasure. What did
it contain?

The manner in which it had come into our possession suggested that it
might contain something of the utmost value to the Yellow group. For
we knew the house of John Ki to be, if not the head-quarters, certainly
a meeting-place of the mysterious organization the Si-Fan; we knew
that Dr. Fu-Manchu used the place--Dr. Fu-Manchu, the uncanny being
whose existence seemingly proved him immune from natural laws, a
deathless incarnation of evil.

My gaze set upon the box, I wondered anew what strange, dark secrets
it held; I wondered how many murders and crimes greater than murder
blackened its history.

"Smith," I said suddenly, "now that the mystery of the absence of a
key-hole is explained, I am sorely tempted to essay the task of
opening the coffer. I think it might help us to a solution of the
whole mystery."

"And I think otherwise!" interrupted my friend grimly. "In a word,
Petrie, I look upon this box as a sort of hostage by means of which--
who knows--we might one day buy our lives from the enemy.
I have a sort of fancy, call it superstition if you will, that
nothing--not even our miraculous good luck--could save us if once
we ravished its secret."

I stared at him amazedly; this was a new phase in his character.

"I am conscious of something almost like a spiritual unrest," he
continued. "Formerly you were endowed with a capacity for divining
the presence of Fu-Manchu or his agents. Some such second-sight would
appear to have visited me now, and it directs me forcibly to avoid
opening the box."

His steps as he paced the floor grew more and more rapid. He
relighted his pipe, which had gone out as usual, and tossed the
match-end into the hearth.

"To-morrow," he said, "I shall lodge the coffer in a place of greater
security. Come along, Petrie, Weymouth is expecting us at Scotland Yard."



CHAPTER XI

IN THE FOG


"But, Smith," I began, as my friend hurried me along the corridor, "you
are not going to leave the box unguarded?"

Nayland Smith tugged at my arm, and, glancing at him, I saw him
frowningly shake his head. Utterly mystified, I nevertheless
understood that for some reason he desired me to preserve silence for
the present. Accordingly I said no more until the lift brought us down
into the lobby and we had passed out from the New Louvre Hotel,
crossed the busy thoroughfare and entered the buffet of an
establishment not far distant. My friend having ordered cocktails--

"And now perhaps you will explain to me the reason for your mysterious
behavior?" said I.

Smith, placing my glass before me, glanced about him to right and left,
and having satisfied himself that his words could not be overheard--

"Petrie," he whispered, "I believe we are spied upon at the New Louvre."

"What!"

"There are spies of the Si-Fan--of Fu-Manchu--amongst the hotel
servants! We have good reason to believe that Dr. Fu-Manchu at one
time was actually in the building, and we have been compelled to draw
attention to the state of the electric fitting in our apartments, which
enables any one in the corridor above to spy upon us."

"Then why do you stay?"

"For a very good reason, Petrie, and the same that prompts me to
retain the Tūlun-Nūr box in my own possession rather than to deposit
it in the strong-room of my bank."

"I begin to understand."

"I trust you do, Petrie; it is fairly obvious. Probably the plan is a
perilous one, but I hope, by laying myself open to attack, to
apprehend the enemy--perhaps to make an important capture."

Setting down my glass, I stared in silence at Smith.

"I will anticipate your remark," he said, smiling dryly. "I am aware
that I am not entitled to expose _you_ to these dangers. It is _my_
duty and I must perform it as best I can; you, as a volunteer, are
perfectly entitled to withdraw."

As I continued silently to stare at him, his expression changed; the
gray eyes grew less steely, and presently, clapping his hand upon my
shoulder in his impulsive way--

"Petrie!" he cried, "you know I had no intention of hurting your
feelings, but in the circumstances it was impossible for me to say less."

"You have said enough, Smith," I replied shortly. "I beg of you to say
no more."

He gripped my shoulder hard, then plunged his hand into his pocket and
pulled out the blackened pipe.

"We see it through together, then, though God knows whither it will
lead us."

"In the first place," I interrupted, "since you have left the chest
unguarded----"

"I locked the door."

"What is a mere lock where Fu-Manchu is concerned?"

Nayland Smith laughed almost gaily.

"Really, Petrie," he cried, "sometimes I cannot believe that you mean
me to take you seriously. Inspector Weymouth has engaged the room
immediately facing our door, and no one can enter or leave the suite
unseen by him."

"Inspector Weymouth?"

"Oh! for once he has stooped to a disguise: spectacles, and a muffler
which covers his face right up to the tip of his nose. Add to this a
prodigious overcoat and an asthmatic cough, and you have a picture of
Mr. Jonathan Martin, the occupant of room No. 239."

I could not repress a smile upon hearing this description.

"No. 239," continued Smith, "contains two beds, and Mr. Martin's
friend will be joining him there this evening."

Meeting my friend's questioning glance, I nodded comprehendingly.

"Then what part do _I_ play?"

"Ostensibly we both leave town this evening," he explained; "but I
have a scheme whereby you will be enabled to remain behind. We shall
thus have one watcher inside and two out."

"It seems almost absurd," I said incredulously, "to expect any member
of the Yellow group to attempt anything in a huge hotel like the New
Louvre, here in the heart of London!"

Nayland Smith, having lighted his pipe, stretched his arms and stared
me straight in the face.

"Has Fu-Manchu never attempted outrage, murder, in the heart of London
before?" he snapped.

The words were sufficient. Remembering black episodes of the past (one
at least of them had occurred not a thousand yards from the very spot
upon which we now stood), I knew that I had spoken folly.

Certain arrangements were made then, including a visit to Scotland
Yard; and a plan--though it sounds anomalous--at once elaborate and
simple, was put into execution in the dusk of the evening.

London remained in the grip of fog, and when we passed along the
corridor communicating with our apartments, faint streaks of yellow
vapor showed in the light of the lamp suspended at the further end.
I knew that Nayland Smith suspected the presence of some spying
contrivance in our rooms, although I was unable to conjecture how this
could have been managed without the connivance of the management. In
pursuance of his idea, however, he extinguished the lights a moment
before we actually quitted the suite. Just within the door he helped
me to remove the somewhat conspicuous check traveling-coat which I
wore. With this upon his arm he opened the door and stepped out into
the corridor.

As the door slammed upon his exit, I heard him cry: "Come along,
Petrie! we have barely five minutes to catch our train."

Detective Carter of New Scotland Yard had joined him at the threshold,
and muffled up in the gray traveling-coat was now hurrying with Smith
along the corridor and out of the hotel. Carter, in build and features,
was not unlike me, and I did not doubt that any one who might be
spying upon our movements would be deceived by this device.

In the darkness of the apartment I stood listening to the retreating
footsteps in the corridor. A sense of loneliness and danger assailed
me. I knew that Inspector Weymouth was watching and listening from the
room immediately opposite; that he held Smith's key; that I could
summon him to my assistance, if necessary, in a matter of seconds.

Yet, contemplating the vigil that lay before me in silence and
darkness, I cannot pretend that my frame of mind was buoyant. I could
not smoke; I must make no sound.

As pre-arranged, I cautiously removed my boots, and as cautiously
tiptoed across the carpet and seated myself in an arm-chair. I
determined there to await the arrival of Mr. Jonathan Martin's friend,
which I knew could not now be long delayed.

The clocks were striking eleven when he arrived, and in the perfect
stillness of that upper corridor. I heard the bustle which heralded
his approach, heard the rap upon the door opposite, followed by a
muffled "Come in" from Weymouth. Then, as the door was opened, I heard
the sound of a wheezy cough.

A strange cracked voice (which, nevertheless, I recognized for Smith's)
cried, "Hullo, Martin!--cough no better?"

Upon that the door was closed again, and as the retreating footsteps
of the servant died away, complete silence--that peculiar silence
which comes with fog--descended once more upon the upper part of the
New Louvre Hotel.



CHAPTER XII

THE VISITANT


That first hour of watching, waiting, and listening in the lonely
quietude passed drearily; and with the passage of every quarter--
signalized by London's muffled clocks--my mood became increasingly
morbid. I peopled the silent rooms opening out of that wherein I sat,
with stealthy, murderous figures; my imagination painted hideous
yellow faces upon the draperies, twitching yellow hands protruding
from this crevice and that. A score of times I started nervously,
thinking I heard the pad of bare feet upon the floor behind me, the
suppressed breathing of some deathly approach.

Since nothing occurred to justify these tremors, this apprehensive
mood passed; I realized that I was growing cramped and stiff, that
unconsciously I had been sitting with my muscles nervously tensed.
The window was open a foot or so at the top and the blind was drawn;
but so accustomed were my eyes now to peering through the darkness,
that I could plainly discern the yellow oblong of the window, and
though very vaguely, some of the appointments of the room--the
Chesterfield against one wall, the lamp-shade above my head, the
table with the Tūlun-Nūr box upon it.

There was fog in the room, and it was growing damply chill, for we
had extinguished the electric heater some hours before. Very few
sounds penetrated from outside. Twice or perhaps thrice people passed
along the corridor, going to their rooms; but, as I knew, the greater
number of the rooms along that corridor were unoccupied.

From the Embankment far below me, and from the river, faint noises
came at long intervals it is true; the muffled hooting of motors, and
yet fainter ringing of bells. Fog signals boomed distantly, and train
whistles shrieked, remote and unreal. I determined to enter my bedroom,
and, risking any sound which I might make, to lie down upon the bed.

I rose carefully and carried this plan into execution. I would have
given much for a smoke, although my throat was parched; and almost any
drink would have been nectar. But although my hopes (or my fears) of
an intruder had left me, I determined to stick to the rules of the
game as laid down. Therefore I neither smoked nor drank, but carefully
extended my weary limbs upon the coverlet, and telling myself that I
could guard our strange treasure as well from there as from elsewhere
... slipped off into a profound sleep.

Nothing approaching in acute and sustained horror to the moment when
next I opened my eyes exists in all my memories of those days.

In the first place I was aroused by the shaking of the bed. It was
quivering beneath me as though an earthquake disturbed the very
foundations of the building. I sprang upright and into full
consciousness of my lapse.... My hands clutching the coverlet on
either side of me, I sat staring, staring, staring ... at _that_ which
peered at me over the foot of the bed.

I knew that I had slept at my post; I was convinced that I was now
widely awake; yet I _dared_ not admit to myself that what I saw was
other than a product of my imagination. I dared not admit the physical
quivering of the bed, for I could not, with sanity, believe its cause
to be anything human. But what I saw, yet could not credit seeing,
was this:

A ghostly white face, which seemed to glisten in some faint reflected
light from the sitting-room beyond, peered over the bedrail; gibbered
at me demoniacally. With quivering hands this night-mare horror, which
had intruded where I believed human intrusion to be all but impossible,
clutched the bed-posts so that the frame of the structure shook and
faintly rattled....

My heart leapt wildly in my breast, then seemed to suspend its
pulsations and to grow icily cold. My whole body became chilled
horrifically. My scalp tingled: I felt that I must either cry out or
become stark, raving mad!

For this clammily white face, those staring eyes, that wordless
gibbering, and the shaking, shaking, shaking of the bed in the clutch
of the nameless visitant--prevailed, refused to disperse like the evil
dream I had hoped it all to be; manifested itself, indubitably, as
something tangible--objective....

Outraged reason deprived me of coherent speech. Past the clammy white
face I could see the sitting-room illuminated by a faint light; I
could even see the Tūlun-Nūr box upon the table immediately opposite
the door.

The thing which shook the bed was actual, existent--to be counted with!

Further and further I drew myself away from it, until I crouched close
up against the head of the bed. Then, as the thing reeled aside, and--
merciful Heaven!--made as if to come around and approach me yet closer,
I uttered a hoarse cry and hurled myself out upon the floor and on the
side remote from that pallid horror which I thought was pursuing me.

I heard a dull thud ... and the thing disappeared from my view, yet--
and remembering the supreme terror of that visitation I am not ashamed
to confess it--I dared not move from the spot upon which I stood, I
dared not make to pass that which lay between me and the door.

"Smith!" I cried, but my voice was little more than a hoarse whisper--
"Smith! Weymouth!"

The words became clearer and louder as I proceeded, so that the last--
"Weymouth!"--was uttered in a sort of falsetto scream.

A door burst open upon the other side of the corridor. A key was
inserted in the lock of the door. Into the dimly lighted arch which
divided the bed-room from the sitting-room, sprang the figure of
Nayland Smith!

"Petrie! Petrie!" he called--and I saw him standing there looking from
left to right.

Then, ere I could reply, he turned, and his gaze fell upon whatever
lay upon the floor at the foot of the bed.

"My God!" he whispered--and sprang into the room.

"Smith! Smith!" I cried, "what is it? what is it?"

He turned in a flash, as Weymouth entered at his heels, saw me, and
fell back a step; then looked again down at the floor.

"God's mercy!" he whispered, "I thought it was you--I thought it was
you!"

Trembling violently, my mind a feverish chaos, I moved to the foot of
the bed and looked down at what lay there.

"Turn up the light!" snapped Smith.

Weymouth reached for the switch, and the room became illuminated
suddenly.

Prone upon the carpet, hands outstretched and nails dug deeply into
the pile of the fabric, lay a dark-haired man having his head twisted
sideways so that the face showed a ghastly pallid profile against the
rich colorings upon which it rested. He wore no coat, but a sort of
dark gray shirt and black trousers. To add to the incongruity of his
attire, his feet were clad in drab-colored shoes, rubber-soled.

I stood, one hand raised to my head, looking down upon him, and
gradually regaining control of myself. Weymouth, perceiving something
of my condition, silently passed his flask to me; and I gladly availed
myself of this.

"How in Heaven's name did he get in?" I whispered.

"How, indeed!" said Weymouth, staring about him with wondering eyes.

Both he and Smith had discarded their disguises; and, a bewildered
trio, we stood looking down upon the man at our feet. Suddenly Smith
dropped to his knees and turned him flat upon his back. Composure was
nearly restored to me, and I knelt upon the other side of the
white-faced creature whose presence there seemed so utterly outside
the realm of possibility, and examined him with a consuming and fearful
interest; for it was palpable that, if not already dead, he was dying
rapidly.

He was a slightly built man, and the first discovery that I made was
a curious one. What I had mistaken for dark hair was a wig! The short
black mustache which he wore was also factitious.

"Look at this!" I cried.

"I am looking," snapped Smith.

He suddenly stood up, and entering the room beyond, turned on the
light there. I saw him staring at the Tūlun-Nūr box, and I knew what
had been in his mind. But the box, undisturbed, stood upon the table
as we had left it. I saw Smith tugging irritably at the lobe of his
ear, and staring from the box towards the man beside whom I knelt.

"For God's sake, what does it man?" said Inspector Weymouth in a voice
hushed with wonder. "How did he get in? What did he come for?--and
what has happened to him?"

"As to what has happened to him," I replied, "unfortunately I cannot
tell you. I only know that unless something can be done his end is not
far off."

"Shall we lay him on the bed?"

I nodded, and together we raised the slight figure and placed it upon
the bed where so recently I had lain.

As we did so, the man suddenly opened his eyes, which were glazed with
delirium. He tore himself from our grip, sat bolt upright, and
holding his hands, fingers outstretched, before his face, stared at
them frenziedly.

"The golden pomegranates!" he shrieked, and a slight froth appeared on
his blanched lips. "The golden pomegranates!"

He laughed madly, and fell back inert.

"He's dead!" whispered Weymouth; "he's dead!"

Hard upon his words came a cry from Smith:

"Quick! Petrie!--Weymouth!"



CHAPTER XIII

THE ROOM BELOW


I ran into the sitting-room, to discover Nayland Smith craning out of
the now widely opened window. The blind had been drawn up, I did not
know by whom; and, leaning out beside my friend, I was in time to
perceive some bright object moving down the gray stone wall. Almost
instantly it disappeared from sight in the yellow banks below.

Smith leapt around in a whirl of excitement.

"Come in, Petrie!" he cried, seizing my arm. "You remain here,
Weymouth; don't leave these rooms whatever happens!"

We ran out into the corridor. For my own part I had not the vaguest
idea what we were about. My mind was not yet fully recovered from the
frightful shock which it had sustained; and the strange words of the
dying man--"the golden pomegranates"--had increased my mental
confusion. Smith apparently had not heard them, for he remained grimly
silent, as side by side we raced down the marble stairs to the
corridor immediately below our own.

Although, amid the hideous turmoil to which I had awakened, I had
noted nothing of the hour, evidently the night was far advanced. Not a
soul was to be seen from end to end of the vast corridor in which we
stood ... until on the right-hand side and about half-way along, a
door opened and a woman came out hurriedly, carrying a small hand-bag.

She wore a veil, so that her features were but vaguely distinguished,
but her every movement was agitated; and this agitation perceptibly
increased when, turning, she perceived the two of us bearing down
upon her.

Nayland Smith, who had been audibly counting the doors along the
corridor as we passed them, seized the woman's arm without ceremony,
and pulled her into the apartment she had been on the point of
quitting, closing the door behind us as we entered.

"Smith!" I began, "for Heaven's sake what are you about?"

"You shall see, Petrie!" he snapped.

He released the woman's arm, and pointing to an arm-chair near by--

"Be seated," he said sternly.

Speechless with amazement, I stood, with my back to the door, watching
this singular scene. Our captive, who wore a smart walking costume and
whose appearance was indicative of elegance and culture, so far had
uttered no word of protest, no cry.

Now, whilst Smith stood rigidly pointing to the chair, she seated
herself with something very like composure and placed the leather bag
upon the floor beside her. The room in which I found myself was one of
a suite almost identical with our own, but from what I had gathered in
a hasty glance around, it bore no signs of recent tenancy. The window
was widely opened, and upon the floor lay a strange-looking contrivance
apparently made of aluminum. A large grip, open, stood beside it, and
from this some portions of a black coat and other garments protruded.

"Now, madame," said Nayland Smith, "will you be good enough to raise
your veil?"

Silently, unprotestingly, the woman obeyed him, raising her gloved
hands and lifting the veil from her face.

The features revealed were handsome in a hard fashion, but heavily
made-up. Our captive was younger than I had hitherto supposed; a
blonde; her hair artificially reduced to the so-called Titian tint.
But, despite her youth, her eyes, with the blackened lashes, were full
of a world weariness. Now she smiled cynically.

"Are you satisfied," she said, speaking unemotionally, "or," holding
up her wrists, "would you like to handcuff me?"

Nayland Smith, glancing from the open grip and the appliance beside it
to the face of the speaker, began clicking his teeth together, whereby
I knew him to be perplexed. Then he stared across at me.

"You appear bemused, Petrie," he said, with a certain irritation. "Is
this what mystifies you?"

Stooping, he picked up the metal contrivance, and almost savagely
jerked open the top section. It was a telescopic ladder, and more
ingeniously designed than anything of the kind I had seen before.
There was a sort of clamp attached to the base, and two sharply pointed
hooks at the top.

"For reaching windows on an upper floor," snapped my friend, dropping
the thing with a clatter upon the carpet. "An American device which
forms part of the equipment of the modern hotel thief!"

He seemed to be disappointed--fiercely disappointed; and I found his
attitude inexplicable. He turned to the woman--who sat regarding him
with that fixed cynical smile.

"Who are you?" he demanded; "and what business have you with the Si-Fan?"

The woman's eyes opened more widely, and the smile disappeared from
her face.

"The Si-Fan!" she repeated slowly. "I don't know what you mean,
Inspector."

"I am not an Inspector," snapped Smith, "and you know it well enough.
You have one chance--your last. To whom were you to deliver the box?
when and where?"

But the blue eyes remained upraised to the grim tanned face with a
look of wonder in them, which, if assumed, marked the woman a
consummate actress.

"Who are you?" she asked in a low voice, "and what are you talking
about?"

Inactive, I stood by the door watching my friend, and his face was a
fruitful study in perplexity. He seemed upon the point of an angry
outburst, then, staring intently into the questioning eyes upraised
to his, he checked the words he would have uttered and began to click
his teeth together again.

"You are some servant of Dr. Fu-Manchu!" he said.

The girl frowned with a bewilderment which I could have sworn was not
assumed. Then--

"You said I had one chance a moment ago," she replied. "But if you
referred to my answering any of your questions, it is no chance at
all. We have gone under, and I know it. I am not complaining; it's
all in the game. There's a clear enough case against us, and I am
sorry"--suddenly, unexpectedly, her eyes became filled with tears,
which coursed down her cheeks, leaving little wakes of blackness from
the make-up upon her lashes. Her lips trembled, and her voice shook.
"I am sorry I let him do it. He'd never done anything--not anything
big like this--before, and he never would have done if he had not
met me...."

The look of perplexity upon Smith's face was increasing with every
word that the girl uttered.

"You don't seem to know me," she continued, her emotion growing
momentarily greater, "and I don't know you; but they will know me at
Bow Street. I urged him to do it, when he told me about the box to-day
at lunch. He said that if it contained half as much as the Kūren
treasure-chest, we could sail for America and be on the straight all
the rest of our lives...."

And now something which had hitherto been puzzling me became suddenly
evident. I had not removed the wig worn by the dead man, but I knew
that he had fair hair, and when in his last moments he had opened his
eyes, there had been in the contorted face something faintly familiar.

"Smith!" I cried excitedly, "it is Lewison, Meyerstein's clerk! Don't
you understand? don't you understand?"

Smith brought his teeth together with a snap and stared me hard in
the face.

"I do, Petrie. I have been following a false scent. I do!"

The girl in the chair was now sobbing convulsively.

"He was tempted by the possibility of the box containing treasure," I
ran on, "and his acquaintance with this--lady--who is evidently no
stranger to felonious operations, led him to make the attempt with her
assistance. But"--I found myself confronted by a new problem--"what
caused his death?"

"His ... _death_!"

As a wild, hysterical shriek the words smote upon my ears. I turned,
to see the girl rise, tottering, from her seat. She began groping in
front of her, blindly, as though a darkness had descended.

"You did not say he was dead?" she whispered, "not dead!--not ..."

The words were lost in a wild peal of laughter. Clutching at her
throat she swayed and would have fallen had I not caught her in my
arms. As I laid her insensible upon the settee I met Smith's glance.

"I think I know that, too, Petrie," he said gravely.



CHAPTER XIV

THE GOLDEN POMEGRANATES


"What was it that he cried out?" demanded Nayland Smith abruptly. "I
was in the sitting-room and it sounded to me like 'pomegranates'!"

We were bending over Lewison; for now, the wig removed, Lewison it
proved unmistakably to be, despite the puffy and pallid face.

"He said 'the golden pomegranates,'" I replied, and laughed harshly.
"They were words of delirium and cannot possibly have any bearing
upon the manner of his death."

"I disagree."

He strode out into the sitting-room.

Weymouth was below, supervising the removal of the unhappy prisoner,
and together Smith and I stood looking down at the brass box. Suddenly--

"I propose to attempt to open it," said my friend.

His words came as a complete surprise.

"For what reason?--and why have you so suddenly changed your mind?"

"For a reason which I hope will presently become evident," he said;
"and as to my change of mind, unless I am greatly mistaken, the wily
old Chinaman from whom I wrested this treasure was infinitely more
clever than I gave him credit for being!"

Through the open window came faintly to my ears the chiming of Big Ben.
The hour was a quarter to two. London's pulse was dimmed now, and
around about us that great city slept as soundly as it ever sleeps.
Other sounds came vaguely through the fog, and beside Nayland Smith
I sat and watched him at work upon the Tūlun-Nūr box.

Every knob of the intricate design he pushed, pulled and twisted; but
without result. The night wore on, and just before three o'clock
Inspector Weymouth knocked upon the door. I admitted him, and side by
side the two of us stood watching Smith patiently pursuing his task.

All conversation had ceased, when, just as the muted booming of
London's clocks reached my ears again and Weymouth pulled out his
watch, there came a faint click ... and I saw that Smith had raised
the lid of the coffer!

Weymouth and I sprang forward with one accord, and over Smith's
shoulders peered into the interior. There was a second lid of some
dull, black wood, apparently of great age, and fastened to it so as
to form knobs or handles was an exquisitely carved pair of _golden
pomegranates!_

"They are to raise the wooden lid, Mr. Smith!" cried Weymouth eagerly.

"Look! there is a hollow in each to accommodate the fingers!"

"Aren't you going to open it?" I demanded excitedly--"aren't you going
to open it?"

"Might I invite you to accompany me into the bedroom yonder for a
moment?" he replied in a tome of studied reserve. "You also, Weymouth?"

Smith leading, we entered the room where the dead man lay stretched
upon the bed.

"Note the appearance of his fingers," directed Nayland Smith.

I examined the peculiarity to which Smith had drawn my attention. The
dead man's fingers were swollen extraordinarily, the index finger of
either hand especially being oddly discolored, as though bruised from
the nail upward. I looked again at the ghastly face, then, repressing
a shudder, for the sight was one not good to look upon, I turned to
Smith, who was watching me expectantly with his keen, steely eyes.

From his pocket the took out a knife containing a number of implements,
amongst them a hook-like contrivance.

"Have you a button-hook, Petrie," he asked, "or anything of that nature?"

"How will this do?" said the Inspector, and he produced a pair of
handcuffs. "They were not wanted," he added significantly.

"Better still," declared Smith.

Reclosing his knife, he took the handcuffs from Weymouth, and,
returning to the sitting-room, opened them widely and inserted two
steel points in the hollows of the golden pomegranates. He pulled.
There was a faint sound of moving mechanism and the wooden lid lifted,
revealing the interior of the coffer. It contained three long bars of
lead--and nothing else!

Supporting the lid with the handcuffs--

"Just pull the light over here, Petrie," said Smith.

I did as he directed.

"Look into these two cavities where one is expected to thrust one's
fingers!"

Weymouth and I craned forward so that our heads came into contact.

"My God!" whispered the Inspector, "we know now what killed him!"

Visible, in either little cavity against the edge of the steel
handcuff, was the point of a needle, which evidently worked in an
exquisitely made socket through which the action of raising the lid
caused it to protrude. Underneath the lid, midway between the two
pomegranates, as I saw by slowly moving the lamp, was a little
receptacle of metal communicating with the base of the hollow needles.

The action of lifting the lid not only protruded the points but also
operated the hypodermic syringe!

"Note," snapped Smith--but his voice was slightly hoarse.

He removed the points of the bracelets. The box immediately reclosed
with no other sound than a faint click.

"God forgive him," said Smith, glancing toward the other room, "for
he died in my stead!--and Dr. Fu-Manchu scores an undeserved failure!"



CHAPTER XV

ZARMI REAPPEARS


"Come in!" I cried.

The door opened and a page-boy entered.

"A cable for Dr. Petrie."

I started up from my chair. A thousand possibilities--some of a sort
to bring dread to my heart--instantly occurred to me. I tore open the
envelope and, as one does, glanced first at the name of the sender.

It was signed "Kāramaneh!"

"Smith!" I said hoarsely, glancing over the massage, "Kāramaneh is on
her way to England. She arrives by the _Nicobar_ to-morrow!"

"Eh?" cried Nayland Smith, in turn leaping to his feet. "She had no
right to come alone, unless----"

The boy, open-mouthed, was listening to our conversation, and I
hastily thrust a coin into his hand and dismissed him. As the door
closed--

"Unless what, Smith?" I said, looking my friend squarely in the eyes.

"Unless she has learnt something, or--is flying away from some one!"

My mind set in a whirl of hopes and fears, longings and dreads.

"What do you mean, Smith?" I asked. "This is the place of danger, as
we know to our cost; she was safe in Egypt."

Nayland Smith commenced one of his restless perambulations, glancing
at me from time to time and frequently tugging at the lobe of his ear.

"_Was_ she safe in Egypt?" he rapped. "We are dealing, remember, with
the Si-Fan, which, if I am not mistaken, is a sort of Eleusinian
Mystery holding some kind of dominion over the eastern mind, and
boasting initiates throughout the Orient. It is almost certain that
there is an Egyptian branch, or group--call it what you will--of the
damnable organization."

"But Dr. Fu-Manchu----"

"Dr. Fu-Manchu--for he lives, Petrie! my own eyes bear witness to the
fact--Dr. Fu-Manchu is a sort of delegate from the headquarters. His
prodigious genius will readily enable him to keep in touch with every
branch of the movement, East and West."

He paused to knock out his pipe into an ashtray and to watch me for
some moments in silence.

"He may have instructed his Cairo agents," he added significantly.

"God grant she get to England in safety," I whispered. "Smith! can we
make no move to round up the devils who defy us, here in the very
heart of civilized England? Listen. You will not have forgotten the
wild-cat Eurasian Zarmi?"

Smith nodded. "I recall the lady perfectly!" he snapped.

"Unless my imagination has been playing me tricks, I have seen her
twice within the last few days--once in the neighborhood of this hotel
and once in a cab in Piccadilly."

"You mentioned the matter at the time," said Smith shortly; "but
although I made inquiries, as you remember, nothing came of them."

"Nevertheless, I don't think I was mistaken. I feel in my very bones
that the Yellow hand of Fu-Manchu is about to stretch out again. If
only we could apprehend Zarmi."

Nayland Smith lighted his pipe with care.

"If only we could, Petrie!" he said; "but, damn it!"--he dashed his
left fist into the palm of his right hand--"we are doomed to remain
inactive. We can only await the arrival of Kāramaneh and see if she
has anything to tell us. I must admit that there are certain theories
of my own which I haven't yet had an opportunity of testing. Perhaps
in the near future such an opportunity may arise."

How soon that opportunity was to arise neither of us suspected then;
but Fate is a merry trickster, and even as we spoke of these matters
events were brewing which were to lead us along strange paths.

With such glad anticipations as my pen cannot describe, their gladness
not unmixed with fear, I retired to rest that night, scarcely
expecting to sleep, so eager was I for the morrow. The musical voice
of Kāramaneh seemed to ring in my ears; I seemed to feel the touch
of her soft hands and to detect, as I drifted into the borderland
betwixt reality and slumber, that faint, exquisite perfume which from
the first moment of my meeting with the beautiful Eastern girl, had
become to me inseparable from her personality.

It seemed that sleep had but just claimed me when I was awakened by
some one roughly shaking my shoulder. I sprang upright, my mind alert
to sudden danger. The room looked yellow and dismal, illuminated as it
was by a cold light of dawn which crept through the window and with
which competed the luminance of the electric lamps.

Nayland Smith stood at my bedside, partially dressed!

"Wake up, Petrie!" he cried; "you instincts serve you better than my
reasoning. Hell's afoot, old man! Even as you predicted it, perhaps in
that same hour, the yellow fiends were at work!"

"What, Smith, what!" I said, leaping out of bed; "you don't mean----"

"Not that, old man," he replied, clapping his hand upon my shoulder;
"there is no further news of _her_, but Weymouth is waiting outside.
Sir Baldwin Frazer has disappeared!"

I rubbed my eyes hard and sought to clear my mind of the vapors of
sleep.

"Sir Baldwin Frazer!" I said, "of Half-Moon Street? But what----"

"God knows _what_," snapped Smith; "but our old friend Zarmi, or so it
would appear, bore him off last night, and he has completely vanished,
leaving practically no trace behind."

Only a few sleeping servants were about as we descended the marble
stairs to the lobby of the hotel where Weymouth was awaiting us.

"I have a cab outside from the Yard," he said. "I came straight here
to fetch you before going on to Half-Moon Street."

"Quite right!" snapped Smith; "but you are sure the cab is from the
Yard? I have had painful experience of strange cabs recently!"

"You can trust this one," said Weymouth, smiling slightly. "It has
carried me to the scene of many a crime."

"Hem!" said Smith--"a dubious recommendation."

We entered the waiting vehicle and soon were passing through the
nearly deserted streets of London. Only those workers whose toils
began with the dawn were afoot at that early hour, and in the misty
gray light the streets had an unfamiliar look and wore an aspect of
sadness in ill accord with the sentiments which now were stirring
within me. For whatever might be the fate of the famous mental
specialist, whatever the mystery before us--even though Dr. Fu-Manchu
himself, malignantly active, threatened our safety--Kāramaneh would
be with me again that day--Kāramaneh, my beautiful wife to be!

So selfishly occupied was I with these reflections that I paid little
heed to the words of Weymouth, who was acquainting Nayland Smith with
the facts bearing upon the mysterious disappearance of Sir Baldwin
Frazer. Indeed, I was almost entirely ignorant upon the subject when
the cab pulled up before the surgeon's house in Half-Moon Street.

Here, where all else spoke of a city yet sleeping or but newly
awakened, was wild unrest and excitement. Several servants were
hovering about the hall eager to glean any scrap of information that
might be obtainable; wide-eyed and curious, if not a little fearful.
In the somber dining-room with its heavy oak furniture and gleaming
silver, Sir Baldwin's secretary awaited us. He was a young man,
fair-haired, clean-shaven and alert; but a real and ever-present
anxiety could be read in his eyes.

"I am sorry," he began, "to have been the cause of disturbing you at
so early an hour, particularly since this mysterious affair may prove
to have no connection with the matters which I understand are at
present engaging your attention."

Nayland Smith raised his hand deprecatingly.

"We are prepared, Mr. Logan," he replied, "to travel to the uttermost
ends of the earth at all times, if by doing so we can obtain even a
meager clue to the enigma which baffles us."

"I should not have disturbed Mr. Smith," said Weymouth, "if I had not
been pretty sure that there was Chinese devilry at work here: nor
should I have told you as much as I have, Mr. Logan," he added, a
humorous twinkle creeping into his blue eyes, "if I had thought you
could not be of use to us in unraveling our case!"

"I quite understand that," said Logan, "and now, since you have voted
for the story first and refreshments afterward, let me tell you what
little I kno