President Fu Manchu

“Good night, Father Abbot,” he snapped. “Don’t ring. I should like to walk down, although that will take some time. Since you refuse my advice, I leave you in good hands.”

“In the hands of God, Mr. Smith, as we all are.”

Outside on the street, beyond the great bronze door with its figure of the thorn-tortured head, King Blizzard held high revel. Snow was spat into the suffering face when the door was opened, as though powers of evil ruled that night, pouring contumely, contempt, upon the gentle Teacher. Captain Mark Hepburn, U.S.M.C, was standing there. He had one glimpse of the olive face of James Richet, who ushered the visitors out, heard his silky “Good night, Mr. Smith”; then the bronze door was closed, and the wind shrieked in mocking laughter around the Tower of the Holy Thorn.

Dimly through the spate of snow watchful men might be seen.

“Listen, Hepburn,” snapped Smith, “get this address:

Weaver’s Farm, Winton, Connecticut. Phone that Dr. Orwin Prescott is not to step outside for one moment until I arrive. Arrange that we get there—fast. Have the place protected. Flying hopeless to-night. Special train to Cleveland. Side anything in our way. Have a plane standing by. Advise the pilot to look up emergency landings within easy radius of Weaver’s Farm. If blizzard continues, arrange for special to run through to Buffalo. Advise Buffalo.”

“Leave it to me.”

“Cover the man James Richet. I want hourly reports sent to headquarters. This priest’s life is valuable. See that he’s protected day and night. Have this place covered from now on. Grab anybody—anybody— that comes out to-night.”

“And where are you going, Chief?”

“I am going to glance over Dom Patrick’s home quarters. Meet me at the station. . . .”

Chapter 4

MRS. ADAIR

Mark Hepburn drove back through a rising blizzard. The powers of his newly accredited chief, known to him simply as “Federal Agent 56,” were peculiarly impressive.

Arrangements—”by order of Federal Agent 56”—had been made without a hitch. These had included sidetracking the Twentieth Century Limited and the dispatch of an army plane from Dayton to meet the special train.

Dimly he realized that issues greater than the fate of the Presidency were involved. This strange, imperious man, with his irritable, snappy manner, did not come under the jurisdiction of the U.S. Department of Justice; he was not even an American citizen. Yet he was highly empowered by the government. In some way the thing was international. Also, Hepburn liked and respected Federal Agent 56.

And the affection of Mark Hepburn was a thing hard to win. Three generations of Quaker ancestors form a stiff background; and not even a poetic strain which Mark had inherited from a half-Celtic mother could enable him to forget it. His only rebellion—a slender volume of verse in the university days, “Green Lilies”—he had lived to repent. Medicine had called him (he was by nature a healer); then army work, with its promise of fresh fields; and now, the Secret Service, where in this crisis he knew he could be of use.

For in the bitter campaign to secure control of the country there had been more than one case of poisoning; and toxicology was Mark Hepburn’s special province. Furthermore, his military experience made him valuable.

Around the Tower of the Holy Thorn the blizzard wrapped itself like a shroud. Only the windows at the very top showed any light. The tortured bronze door remained closed.

Stayton stepped forward out of a white mist as Hepburn sprang from his car.

“Anything to report, Stayton? I have only ten minutes.”

“Not a soul has come out, Captain, and there doesn’t seem to be anybody about in the neighbourhood.”

“Good enough. You will be relieved at daylight. Make your own arrangements.”

Hepburn moved off into the storm. Something in the wild howling of the wind, some message reaching him perhaps from those lighted windows at the top of the tower, seemed to be prompting his subconscious mind. He had done his job beyond reproach. Nevertheless, all was not well.

One foot on the running board of the car, he paused, staring up to where that high light glimmered through snow. He turned back and walked in the direction of the tower. Almost immediately he was challenged by a watchful agent, was recognized, and passed on. He found himself beside a wall of the building remote from the bronze door. Here there was no exit and he went unchallenged. He stood still, staring about him, his fur coat-collar turned up about his ears, the wind frolicking with his untidy wet black hair.

A slight sound came, only just audible above the shrieking of the blizzard, the opening of a window . . . . He crouched close against the wall.

“All clear. Good luck. . . .”

James Richet!

Then someone dropped, falling lightly in the snow almost beside him. The window closed. Hepburn reached out a long sinewy arm, grabbed and held his captive . . . and found himself looking down into the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen!

His prisoner was a girl, little above medium height, but slender, so that she appeared much taller. She was muffled up in a mink coat as a protection against that fierce wind; a Basque beret was crushed down upon curls which reminded him of polished mahogany. A leather satchel hung from one wrist, and she was so terrified that Hepburn could feel her heart beating as he held her in his bear-like grip.

He realized that he was staring dumbly into those uplifted deep-blue eyes, that he was wondering if he had ever seen such long, curling lashes . . . when duty, duty—that slogan of Quaker ancestors—called him sharply. He slightly relaxed his hold, but offered no chance of escape.