The Mask of Fu Manchu

wondered what I had been worrying about. I could perceive nothing wrong with the world nor with my own condition and place in it.

Dr. Fu Manchu took up a dull white flask, removed the stopper, and dipped a slender rod into the contents.

“This, Mr. Greville”—holding up a bar of metal—”is Sheffield steel.”

He dropped upon the bar some of the liquid adhering to the rod.

“Now—observe...”

In obedience to a slight signal, the Negroes released my arms; one with surgical scissors, cut the fastenings from my ankles....

But I was conscious of no desire to attack the speaker. On the contrary, I recognized with a sudden overwhelming conviction the fact that my own happiness and the happiness of everyone I knew rested in his hands! He was all-powerful, beneficent, a superman to be respected and obeyed.

I watched him, entranced. Holding the steel bar in his bony fingers, he snapped it as though it had been a stick of chocolate!

“Had I been a burglar, Mr. Greville, this small invention would have been of value to me. You see, even I have my toys.

TH

He turned and walked slowly from the room with that dignified, yet cat-like gait which I knew. As lightning flickers in a summer sky, the idea crossed my mind that once I had feared, had loathed this Chinese physician. It disappeared, leaving me in a state of mental rapture such as I had never known.

I rejoiced that I was to serve Fu Manchu. Of the details of my mission I knew nothing, but that it aimed at the ultimate good of us all, I did not doubt. We were in charge of an omnipotent being; it was not for us to question his wisdom.

Led by one of the Slave Coast Negroes whose broad shoulders and slightly bandy legs lent him a distinct resemblance to an ape dressed in human clothing, I found myself passing rapidly along a dimly lighted passage. I was delighted at my discovery that these active little men resembled apes. It seemed to me, in that strange mood, one worthy of reporting to the chief—an addition to scientific knowledge which should not be lost.

I understood, and it was a deep-seated faith, why Dr. Fu Manchu had willing servants all over the world. Hitherto I had merely existed: this was life. I laughed aloud, and snapped my fingers in time to my swift footsteps.

Down a flight of stairs I was led. A silk-shaded lamp on the landing afforded the only light, but I was aware of a surety of foot which would have enabled me to negotiate the most perilous mountain path with all the certainty of a wild goat. An iron-barred and studded door was opened, and I looked out into a square courtyard.

No cloud obscured the sky, now, which seemed to be filled with a million diamonds.

A landaulet stood before the steps. Respecting its driver, I could be sure only of one thing in that semi- darkness: he wore a tarbush and was therefore presumably an Egyptian.

The Negro opened the door for me, and I stepped in. One of the headlights was switched on momentarily, and I saw a heavy gate being opened. Then, the driver had swung out into a narrow street. It was not that behind the Mosque of Muayyad....

Through a number of such narrow streets, with never a light anywhere, we went at fair speed. I found myself constantly chuckling at the surprise which I had in store for Rima and the chief. Its exact character was not apparent to me, but I was perfectly satisfied that when the time came all would be well.

A shock of doubt, which passed quickly, came, when leaving the last of these streets we bumped up an ill- made road, turned sharply, and at greatly accelerated speed set off along a straight tree-bordered avenue. Beyond question this was the road from Gizeh to Cairo!

Mental confusion resembling physical pain claimed me in that moment. My drugged brain, of course, was trying to force realities upon me. The spasm passed. There was some good reason for this circuitous route....

And now we were nearing Cairo. The moment of the great revelation was fast approaching.

I took very little heed of passing automobiles or pedestrians, nor did I note by what route the driver made his way through to the Sharia Kamel. But almost exactly at the spot where Fah Lo Suee had entered the yellow car, that is, nearly opposite Shepheard’s, we pulled up.

“Stand here, please, in the light,” said the driver, springing out and opening the door for me, “where she can see you when I find her.”

“I know,” I replied eagerly; “I understand perfectly.”

The man nodded and ran across to the terrace steps. The number of waiting cars was not so great as at the time of my departure, but it was obvious that revelry still proceeded.

So unusually warm was the night that fully half a dozen tables on the terrace were occupied by dancers who had evidently come there to seek comparative quiet. Dimly I could hear strains of music. One thing I knew urgently I must avoid above all others—I must not be seen by anyone who knew me.

It was vitally important that Rima alone should know what was afoot.

I saw the driver go up the steps. He looked about him swiftly and then went into the hotel. He was carrying my letter. I became the victim of a devouring impatience.

Rima was not well known at Shepheard’s and perhaps it might prove difficult to find her, unless she chanced to be in her room. All would be lost if Sir Lionel got to know, or even if Sir Denis or Dr. Petrie should suspect what was afoot.

My impatience grew by leaps and bounds.

A group of four people came out onto the terrace, walking down the strip of carpet towards the steps. I shrank back apprehensively. One was a big, heavily built man, and for a moment I mistook him for the chief, until I saw that he wore evening kit. A car drew up, and the party drove away.

Suspense became all but intolerable. Evidently some difficulty was being experienced in finding Rima, and the moments were precious—each one adding to the chances of detection. I found myself regarding failure of the plot with absolute horror!

Such was the genius of Dr. Fu Manchu....

The doors revolved again. The Egyptian driver came out, walked to the head of the steps, and signaled to me.

I stepped forward into the roadway where I must be clearly visible from the terrace. Rima came out, dressed as I had seen her last, hatless and flushed with excitement. She held an open letter in her hand—mine. And she was staring eagerly across the street in quest of me.

None of the people seated on the terrace took any notice of these manoeuvres; indeed, as I realised joyfully, there was nothing extraordinary in a man calling to pick up a girl from a dance.

Rima saw me, raced down the steps, and ran across.

I noticed, with a quick pang of sorrow—which, however, instantly gave place to that thrilling exaltation which was the keynote of my mood—that she was, or recently had been, very frightened. She threw her arms around me with a little gasping cry and looked into my eyes.

“Shan, Shan darling! You have terrified us all! Wherever have you been? Whose car is this?”

“It is his car, dearest,” I replied. “Quick! get in. It’s important that nobody should see us.”

“His car?”

As I half lifted her in onto the cushions she grasped my arm and looked up with startled eyes at me. The chauffeur already was back at the wheel.

“Shan dear, whatever do you mean? Sir Denis got in touch with police headquarters half an hour ago. And Uncle is simply raving. Dr. Petrie has asked everybody he knows in the hotel if you were seen to leave.”

I held her close as the car moved off, but she began to tremble violently.

“Shan!—my dear, my dear!” she cried, and pulled my head down, trying to search my eyes in that semidarkness. “For God’s sake, where are we going?”

“We are going to him,” I replied.

“My God! He’s mad!”

The words were barely audible—a mere whisper. Thrusting both hands against my breast, Rima tried to push me away— to free herself. Already we had passed the Continental.