as had his every movement, his behavior. He wore blue overalls. His swarthy features might have reminded a surgeon of a near successful grafting operation.
“Yes,” Camille said urgently. “Can I see you, tonight—at once?” The intruder took one silent step forward. Camille saw him. She dropped the receiver, sprang up, and retreated, her hands outstretched to fend off horror. She gasped. To scream was impossible.
“My God!” (Unknown to herself, she whispered the words in French.) “Who are you? What do you want?”
“I—want”—it was a mechanical, toneless, grating voice—”you.”
Chapter VI
When Morris Craig returned to his office, it remained as he had left it, illuminated only by two desk lights. He glanced automatically at the large electric clock on the wall above and saw that the hour was nine-fifty-five. He took off his topcoat and hung it up with his hat and jacket.
He was back on time.
What had Nayland Smith said?—”You’re a pure fanatic. Some lunatic like you will blow the world to bits one of these days. You’re science drunk. Even now, you’re dancing to get away . . .”
Craig stared out of the window. Many rooms in that towering building which overtopped the Huston were dark now, so that he thought of a London coster dressed in “pearlies” from which most of the buttons had been torn off. Yes, he had felt eager to get back.
Was it the call of science—of that absorbing problem which engaged his mind? Or was it, in part at least, Camille?
If the latter, then it simply wouldn’t do. In the life of a scientist steeped in an investigation which might well revolutionize human society there was no place for that sort of thing. When his work was finished—well, perhaps he might indulge in the luxury of thinking about an attractive woman.
Thus, silently. Dr. Morris Craig communed with himself— quite failing to appreciate the fact that he was thinking about an attractive woman all the time.
Nayland Smith suspected this interest. Hard to deceive Smith. And, somehow (Craig couldn’t pin down the impression), he felt that Smith didn’t approve. Of course, recognition had come to Craig, suddenly staggeringly, of the existence of danger he had never suspected.
He moved among shadowy menaces. Not all of them were intangible. He had seen the hand of Dr. Fu Manchu stretch out, fail in its grasp, and then bestow life upon one given up to death.
Dr. Fu Manchu . . . No, this was not the time to involve a girl in the affairs of a man marked down by Dr. Fu Manchu.
Craig glanced towards the door of Camille’s room, then sat down resolutely and touched a control.
“Laboratory,” came. “Regan here.”
“Thought I’d let you know I’m back, Regan. How are the readings?”
“Particularly irregular. Doctor. You might like to see them?”
“I will, Regan, presently. Nothing else to report?”
“Nothing.”
Craig stood up again, and crossed to the office door, which he opened
“Sam!”
“Hello,boss?”
Sam emerged from some cubbyhole which served as his headquarters. He had discarded the leather jacket and the cap with a long peak, and was resuming overalls and eye shade.”
“Is there any need for you to hang around?”
“Sure—plenty. Mr. Regan he told me to report back. There’s some job in the lab needs fixing up.”
“I see.” Craig smiled. “You’re not just sort of killing time until I go home, so that you can dog my weary footsteps?”
Sam tried an expression of injured innocence. But it didn’t suit him.
“Listen, Doctor—”
“Sir Denis tipped you to keep an eye on me until I was tucked up safely in my downy cot. Did he or didn’t he?”
“Well, maybe he figures there’s perils in this great city—”
“You mean, he did?”
“I guess that’s right.”
“I thought so. Just wanted to know.” Craig took out his keys and turned. “I’m going into the lab now. Come on.”
Followed by Sam, he crossed and went up the three steps to the metal door. As he unlocked it, eerie greenish-grey light shone out and a faint humming sound, as of a giant hornets’ nest, crept around the office. A moment later, the door closed as they went in.
The office remained silent and empty whilst the minute hand of the clock swept the dial three times. There was an attachment which sounded the hours, and its single bell note had just rung out on the stroke of ten, when Camille came in.
She stood quite still for a moment one hand resting on the edge of the door, her slim fingers looking curiously listless. Then she came right inside and opened her handbag. Taking out the black-rimmed glasses, she stared at them as though they were unfamiliar in some way. Her glance wandered to the clock.
It would have seemed to one watching her that the clock had some special significance, some urgent message to impart; for Camille’s expression changed. Almost, she might have been listening to explicit instructions. Her gaze grew alert.
She crossed to her room and went in, leaving the door half open.
Then, again, silence fell. By ones and twos, the gleaming buttons imagined by Craig disappeared from the pearly scheme which decorated a nocturne framed by long windows.
When Craig opened the laboratory door, he paused at the head of the steps.
“Be at ease, Sam. I will not stir a yard without my keeper.”
He closed and locked the door, came down, and went straight across to the safe. Resolutely he avoided looking toward Camille’s room to see if she had come back.
From his ring he selected the safe key, and spun the dial. Not until he took out his big drawing board, and turned, did he see Camille.
She stood right at his elbow, in shadows.
Craig was really startled.
“Good Lord, my dear!—I thought I’d seen a ghost!”
Camille’s smile was vague. “Please forgive me. Didn’t—you know—I was here?”
Craig laughed reassuringly.
“Forgive
“A few minutes ago.” He saw now that she held a notebook in her hand. “There is this letter to Dr. White, at Harvard. I must have forgotten it.”
Craig carried the board over to its place and fixed it up. Camille slowly followed. When he was satisfied, he suddenly grasped her shoulders and turned her around so that the reflected light from the drawing desk shone up onto her face.
“My dear—er—Miss Navarre, you have, beyond any shade of doubt, been overdoin’ it. I warned you. The letter to Dr. White went off with the other mail. I distinctly recall signing same.”
“Oh!” Camille looked down at her notebook.
Craig dropped his hands from her shoulders and settled himself on the stool. He drew a tray of pencils nearer.
“I quite understand,” he said quietly. “Done the same thing myself, lots of times. Fact is, we’re both overtired. I shan’t be long on the job tonight. We have been at it very late here for weeks now. Leave me to it. I suggest you hit the hay good and early.’
“But—I am sorry”—her accent grew more marked, more fascinating—”if I seem distrait—”
“Did you cut out for eats, as prescribed?”
