point.
Gallaho stood still, listening.
Except for that vague murmuring which makes London audible for twenty miles beyond the city’s boundaries, the night was still.
It was very queer.
Gallaho had noted that all windows in the domestic quarters were fastened. The ideal point of entrance had not presented itself. He pushed on. What had become of Sterling?
Weed-grown flower beds bordered the wall of the house. There was nothing of interest to tempt him to approach nearer.
Suddenly, he stopped, fists clenched.
Somewhere—somewhere inside the house, he thought . . . a woman had screamed!
He began to run. He ran in the direction of an out-jutting wing. It was very dark here, but Gallaho found gravel beneath his feet. He raced around the abutment and found himself staring at a French window.
There was no light in the room to which it belonged. Gallaho could see that heavy curtains were drawn. But there was no indication that the interior was illuminated. Nevertheless—from that room the cry might well have come.
He ran forward.
His first discovery was a dramatic one. A glass pane immediately above the lock had been shattered!
The absence of Sterling was now becoming inexplicable. Gallaho could only suppose that he had made some discovery which he had felt to be of such importance as to justify his returning and reporting to Sir Denis. Otherwise, palpably they must have met some considerable time before this.
Gallaho slipped his hand through the opening in the glass, encountering velvet draperies, groped about and found the lock.
There was no key in it.
Yet there was something very sinister about this broken window—that dim scream.
Searching his memory, he seemed to recall that at one point in his fruitless journey, just after he had crossed the stable yard, at about the same time that a distant train whistle had disturbed the silence, he had imagined that he heard a muffled crash. Here, perhaps, was the explanation.
But where was Sterling?
He ran on to the corner of this wing of the house; and now, through close growing but leafless trees, could see the tunnel-like drive along which they had come. Sterling was not in sight, nor could he see Sir Denis. . . .
CHAPTER
23
FLEURETTE
Alan Sterling was fully alive to the selfishness of his own motives. Nayland Smith was working for the welfare of humanity, striving to defend what we call Civilization from the menace which Dr. Fu Manchu represented. Gallaho officially assisted him. But he, Sterling, hard though he might fight to thrust personal interest into the background, to seek the same goal, knew in his heart that his present objective was the rescue ofFleurette—if she lived—from the clutches of the Chinese doctor.
Through long days and all but unendurable hours of sleepless nights, since the message of Dr. Petrie, her father, had reached him, he had known this yearning for the truth, dreadful though it might be. Was she dead or alive? If alive, to what condition of mindless slavery—to what living death—had she been subjected by the brilliant devilish master other destiny?
He forced his way through damp shrubbery; thorny bushes obstructing his path. He was anxious to avoid making any unnecessary noise. Frequently he glanced towards the porch of Rowan House before which the long, lithe outlines of Sir Bertram’s Rolls glittered dimly in reflected light. The headlamps had been turned off, but the sleek body was clearly visible.
Scratches were not to be avoided. At last he was clear of the shrubbery, and found himself upon the damp soil of a flowerbed. He ploughed forward, aiming for a dimly seen path, reached it and felt hard gravel beneath his feet. He was now out of sight from the porch. Glancing back swiftly, he crossed the path and found himself in shelter from the point of view of anyone watching from the front of the house.
He became aware of an oppressive, sickly sweet perfume. He saw a long, dead wall upon which some kind of creeper grew, despite the wintry season, bearing small yellow flowers. Heavy of limb, it climbed almost to the eaves of this wing of Rowan House.
One dark window he saw, high above his head, marked it, but knew that it could only be reached by means of a ladder. He pressed on.
In all directions vegetation hemmed the place in; until, through a chink in heavy curtains drawn behind a French window having small leaded panes, a spear of light shot across the damp gravel path, revealing many weeds, and was lost in shadowy shrubbery. Sterling crept forward cautiously, step by step, until at last he could peer into the room to which this French window belonged.
He found himself looking into a sort of small library. At first, all that he could see was shelf upon shelf laden with faded, well-worn volumes. Cautiously, he moved nearer to the pane, and now was able to enlarge his field of vision.
Intensely he was excited, so excited that he distrusted himself. He was breathing rapidly.
He saw more bookshelves, and, craning his neck still further, saw a floor plainly carpeted. There was little furniture in the place. He could not see the source of the illumination: he could see books, books, books: one or two Oriental ornaments; a coffee table with an open volume upon it; and a number of cushions.
A shadow fell across the carpet.
Sterling watched intently, fists clenched.
The shadow grew more dense, shortened—and then the person who occasioned it walked slowly into view, head lowered in the act of reading a small, very faded-looking volume.
It was Fleurette—
Sterling experienced a wave of exultation which swept everything else from his mind. Nayland Smith’s instructions were forgotten—the chief purpose of the expedition, the apprehension of Dr. Fu Manchu, was forgotten . . . Fleurette was alive—only a few panes of glass separated them.
And how beautiful she was!
The hidden light, gleaming upon her wonderful hair, made it glow and shimmer in living loveliness. She was so slender— so divinely graceful; that rarest creation of nature, as the Chinese doctor had once declared, a perfect woman.
He rapped urgently upon the window.
Fleurette turned. The book dropped from her hand. Her eyes, opened widely, were fixed upon the gap in the curtains.
Sterling’s heart was beating wildly as he pressed his face upon the glass. Surely in the light shining out from the room she could see him?
But she stood motionless, startled, gazing, but giving no sign.
“Fleurette!” Sterling spoke in a low voice, yet loudly enough for the girl in the room to hear him. “It’s Alan. Open the window, darling—open the window!”
But she gave no sign.
“Fleurette! Can you hear me? It’s Alan. Open the window.”
He had found the handle. The strangeness of his reception by this girl who only a few days before had lain trembling in his arms because three or four weeks of separation pended, was damping that glad exultation, chilling the hot blood dancing through his veins.
The window was locked, as he had assumed it would be. He could see the key inside.
“Fleurette, darling! For God’s sake open the window. Let me in. Don’t you understand? It’s Alan! It’s Alan!”
Fleurette shook her head, and turning, walked across the room.
Surely she had recognized him? In spite of his rough dress, could Fleurette, his Fleurette,
