But the rat-flea (and this is more like a flea than a sand-fly) is the proved cause of plague infection....Am I going mad?”
He suddenly crossed and bent over Petrie. He examined him carefully and in detail. The fact dawned upon me that Sir Denis Nayland Smith had more than a smattering of the medical art. I watched in silence while finally he took the temperature of the unconscious man.
“There’s no change,” he reported. “‘654’ seems already to have checked its progress. But this coma....Dare we hope?”
“I don’t know what to hope, or what to believe. Sir Denis!”
He nodded.
“Nor do I. The nature of my job has forced me to pick up some elements of medicine; but this is a specialist’s case....However, tell me about these leaves—the leaves which seemed to attract the fly....”
I told him briefly all that I knew of the insect-catching plant.
“The specimen which Petrie has preserved,” I concluded, “bears traces of human blood.”
Sir Denis suddenly grabbed the lens again and bent over the purple leaves on the table-top. A moment he looked, then turned.
“So does this!” he declared. “Fresh blood.”
I was dumb for a matter of seconds; then:
“The insect which I partly crushed?” I suggested.
He shook his head irritably.
“Quantity too great. These leaves have been
“How, in heaven’s name, did they get here? And how did that damnable fly get here?”
He suddenly clapped his hands upon my shoulders arid stared at me fixedly.
“You’re a man of strong nerve. Sterling,” he said, “and so I can tell you. They were
“But——”
“There are no *buts.’ I left the car in which I had been driven over from Cannes some distance back on the road tonight, and walked ahead to look for this villa, the exact location of which my driver didn’t know. I had nearly reached the way in when I heard a sound.”
“I heard it too.”
“I know you did. But to you it meant nothing—except that it was horrible; to me, it meant a lot. You see, I had heard it before.”
“What was it? I shall never forget it!”
“It was the signal used by certain Burmans, loosely known as dacoits, to give warning to one another. If poor old Petrie shad come across this new species of tsetse fly—he would have begun to think. If he had heard that cry...he would have
“He would have known what?” I asked, aware of a growing excitement communicated to me by the speaker.
“He would have known what he was up against.” He raised his fists in a gesture almost of despair. “We are children!” he said vehemently, momentarily taken out of himself. “What do you know of botany, and what does Petrie know of medicine beside Dr. Fu Manchu?”
“Dr. Fu Manchu?” I echoed.
“A synonym for Satan—evil immutable; apparently eternal.”
“Sir Denis——” I began.
But he turned aside abruptly, bending again over the motionless body of his old friend.
“Poor Karamaneh!” he murmured.
He was silent a while, then, without looking around:
“Do you know his wife, Sterling?” he asked.
“No, Sir Denis; we have never met.”
“She is still young, as we count tears to-day. She was a child when Petrie married her—and she is the most beautiful woman I have ever known....”
As he spoke I seemed to hear a soft voice saying, “Think of me as Derceto”...Fleurette! Fleurette was the most beautiful woman I had ever
“She was chosen by a master—who rarely makes mistakes.”
His manner and his words were so strange that I may be forgiven for misunderstanding.
“A master? Do you mean a painter?”
At that, he turned and smiled. His smile was the most boyish and disarming I had ever met with in a grown man.
“Yes, Sterling, a painter! His canvas, the world; his colours, the human races....”
This was mystery capping mystery, and certainly I should never have left the matter there; but at this moment we were interrupted by a series of short staccato shrieks.
I ran to the door. I had recognized the voice.
“Who is it?” Sir Denis snapped.
“Mme Dubonnet.”
“Housekeeper?”
“Yes.”
“Keep her out.”
I threw the door open—and the terrified woman tottered into my arms.
“M. Sterling,” she panted, hysterically—”something terrible has happened! I know—I know—something terrible has happened!”
“Don’t worry, Mme Dubonnet,” I said, and endeavoured to lead her away. “Dr. Petrie——”
“But I must tell the doctor—it concerns him. As I look up fi-om my casserole dish I see at the window just above me—a face—a dreadful yellow face with cross eyes....”
“Rather a quandary, Sterling,” Sir Denis cut in, standing squarely between the excited woman and the insensible man on the couch. “One of those murderous devils is hanging about the place....”
Dimly I heard the sound of an insistent motor horn on the Comiche road above, nearing the head of that narrow byway which debouched from the Comiche and led down to the Villa Jasmin.
“The ambulance from the hospital!” Sir Denis exclaimed in relief.
chapter sixth
“654”
mme dubonnet, still shaking nervously, was escorted back to her quarters. Petrie, we told her, was down with a severe attack of influenza and must be moved immediately. The appearance of the yellow face at the window, mendacity had failed to explain; and the old lady announced that she should lock herself into the kitchen until such time as someone could take her home.
She was left lamenting, “Oh, the poor, dear kind doctor!...”
Cartier had come in person, with two orderlies and a driver. The bearded, round-faced little man exhibited such perfect consternation on beholding Dr. Petrie that it must have been fanny had it not been tragic. He dropped to his knees, bending over the insensible man.
“The black stigmata!” he muttered, touching the purple-shadowed brow. “I am too late! The coma. Soon—in an hour, or less, the final convulsions...the end! God! it is terrible. He is a dead man!”
“I’m not so sure,” Sir Denis interrupted. “Forgive me, doctor; my name is Nayland Smith. I have ventured to give an injection——”
Dr. Cartier stood up excitedly.
“What injection?” he demanded.
“I don’t know,” Sir Denis replied calmly.
“What is this?”
“I don’t know. I used a preparation of Petrie’s which he called ‘654.’“
“654!”
