The Mask of Fu Manchu

——”

“I do know it, and I feel sure that your complaint is a just one. But since you are a Member of Parliament, you will naturally do everything in your power to assist me. A matter of national urgency demands that I should have two minutes’ private conversation with Mr. Voorden.”

Mr. Kennington blew himself up again.

“My dear sir,” he replied, “I must take this opportunity of pointing out to you that I have certain rights here.”

Sir Denis’s temper, never of the best, was growing dangerously frayed.

“Mr. Voorden,” he said quietly, “I don’t know this gentleman’s name, but have I your permission to place him in the alleyway until our very urgent business is concluded?”

The purser’s broad face broke into a smile. It was a suggestion after his own heart; and:

“May I ask you, Mr Kennington,” he said, addressing the outraged M.P., whose features were now assuming a hectic florid hue, “to allow me two minutes with this gentleman? His business, I think, is important.”

“Important!” the other exploded. “Important! By heavens, sir, Rotterdam shall hear of you—Rotterdam shall hear of you!”

He expelled himself from the cabin.

“Here is my card, Mr. Voorden,” said Sir Denis, laying a card upon the purser’s table: “but in order to save your time and my own, I called upon the Dutch consul on my way to the docks. He was unable to accompany me, but he sends this note.”

He laid upon the table a sheet of paper bearing the letterhead of the Dutch consulate in Port Said. The purser put on a pair of hom-rimmed glasses and read the note. Mr Kennington, not far away, might be heard demanding an interview with the captain.

“Sir Denis Nayland Smith,” the purser, sanding up, “I am at your service. What can I do for you?”

“Thank you,” said Sir Denis, and shook his hand. “Your passenger list, if you please. I want the name of everyone joining the ship at this port.”

“Certainly! that is very simple. You will also wish to know, of course, what accommodation they have reserved?”

“Exactly”

A moment later Nayland Smith was bending over a plan of the ship, in close consultation with the purser. I moved to the curtain, drew it aside, and stepped into the alleyway. Mr. Kennington had discovered the second steward and was insisting that that official should conduct him to the captain. I had it in mind to endeavour to pacify the infuriated little man, when the matter was taken out of my hands.

“Sir Lionel Barton is the person’s name,” shouted Mr. Kennnigton—”who the devil may I ask is Sir Lionel Barton?”

Unfortunately for Mr. Kennington, at that moment Sir Lionel appeared on the scene.

“Does anybody want me?” he inquired in his deep gruff voice.

Mr. Kennington turned and looked up into that sun-baked, truculent mask. He tried bravely to sustain the glare of deep-set eyes beneath tufted brows. But when he spoke, it was with a notable lack of confidence.

“Are you Sir Lionel Barton?”

“I am. Did you want me?”

The second steward escaped, leaving Mr. Kennington to fight his battle alone.

“There seems to be some misunderstanding about our cabins,” he said in a tone of gentle melancholy....

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVENTH

THE RELICS OF THE PROPHET

There was some pretty straight talking in the chief’s room five minutes later. Rima was not present.

“I have the outline of the thing complete, Barton,” said Nayland Smith, puffing furiously at his pipe. “For God’s sake, don’t interrupt. Just listen. My time is brief. The man Amir Khan blundered onto the location ofMokanna’s tomb in some way and up to the time of his disappearance, was undoubtedly acting on his own. I take it you paid him well for his information.”

“I did.”

Sir Denis nodded.

“He did not belong to that obscure sect, an offshoot of true Mohammedanism, which still holds the tradition of the New Koran. But he knew more than they do, because he knew where the prophet was buried. He was a thug; you always knew this. And he deserted because he was recalled by his immediate chief. The laws of thuggee (which I don’t profess to understand) are very binding upon devotees. His chief learned what had happened; and his chief—”

“Was one of the Fu Manchu group!” Sir Lionel interrupted. “And so....”

“And so the news reached the doctor. Where he was at the time, we shall probably never know—but he acted swiftly. The possibilities were tremendous. Islam is at least as divided as Christianity. A religious revival is long overdue. The man and the occasion, only, were wanted. Here was the occasion. Dr. Fu Manchu found the man.”

“Whom did he find?”

“I don’t know. Listen, and I will tell you all I know. In every religion there are secret sects. I have maintained for many years, in the face of much opposition from learned sources— and from you—that the organisation known as the Si-Fan embodies the greater part of these dissentients——”

“Rot!”

“Such a movement, reinforced by the backing of the Si-Fan, would almost certainly have tipped the scale. This was what Dr. Fu Manchu saw. The arising of the prophet was staged for him when you blew up that lonely tomb in Khorassan. This he acted upon with the results which we know. Interested parties in the Moslem world were only too ready to receive the new prophet. His material qualities they were prepared to overlook. But it happens—and a memory ofGreville’s gave me the clue to the truth—that a certain fanatical sect, having representatives at Damascus and also at Mecca, possess or claim to possess copies of the New Koran.”

“That’s true,” said the chief, shifting his feet uneasily, for he was sprawling upon the settee. “I’ve seen ‘em. I knew what I was up against. Smith.”

Nayland Smith looked at Sir Lionel with a sort of reluctant admiration.

“You’re a remarkable man, Barton,” he admitted. “If a modicum of discretion had been added to your outfit, much of this trouble might have been avoided.”

“What trouble?” the chief shouted. He kicked at the wooden chest. “Where’s the trouble? I’ve tricked every damned fool among them. And, by heaven! I’ve tricked Dr. Fu Manchu himself. You all wondered why I hung on so long in Ispahan——”

He began to laugh loudly; but:

“I know now,” said Nayland Smith.

And he spoke the words so coldly that the chief’s laughter was checked.

“I thought,” he went on, “that you were bluffing in Cairo. I know your schoolboy sense of humour. It was a dramatic surprise to me, although I may not have shown it, when your old suitcase was opened before Mr. Aden and I saw the sword, the mask, and the gold plates.”

He jumped out of his chair and began to move from foot to foot, since there was no room for him to promenade.

“I carried out my contract with Dr. Fu Manchu—Rima’s life being the price at stake—in what I believed to be all honesty. Don’t speak. Barton—let me finish. Dr. Fu Manchu is the most ghastly menace to our present civilisation which has appeared since Attila the Hun. He is an old man, but, by some miracle which I can only ascribe to his