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 Kuren 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 …
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 14 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 Tulun-Nur 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.
