Hours passed in silence and a great weariness claimed him. Telling himself over and over again “You must not fall asleep . . . you must not fall asleep,” perhaps by the very monotony of reiteration, he presently lost all knowledge of his surroundings.
His awakening was a rude one.
He felt himself seized in a herculean grasp, lifted and then thrown face downward upon the bed!
Blindly, he began to struggle, but his ankles were grasped and firmly tied, throughout being held in such a manner that he was unable to reverse his position. Then, again, he was lifted by his unseen assailant, lightly as a woman lifts a toy dog, and thrown back upon the bed.
A short, yellow man, stripped to the waist, grasped his arms, clasped them together with a remorseless strength which appalled Sterling, and adroitly tied his wrists with some kind of fine, strong twine.
The man was built like a baboon; his forehead was abnormally low, his arms incredibly long and of a muscularity which Sterling found almost incredible. The upper arms resembled the thighs of an athlete. The man had Crotonean shoulders and amazing chest development. His face was like a yellow mask; his sunken eyes registered no expression.
Sterling’s heart sank.
This could only mean one thing. Ali Oke had been detected—his message to Nayland Smith had never reached its destination! Dr. Fu Manchu had changed his mind. Instead of employing him in the subterranean hell, he had determined to kill him . . .
This frightful awakening had temporarily robbed him of the power of speech, but now:
“Who are you?” he demanded, angrily. “Where are you taking me?”
The Burman, ignoring his words, treating him as he might have treated a heavy sack, grasped Sterling by the middle and threw him over his left shoulder. Stooping, he walked out through the open doorway.
As he hung limply across the gigantic shoulder, he could have wept with rage, for his very weakness.
He, a physically powerful man, as normal men go, had no more chance against this deformed monster than a child would have had against himself. Yet, the horrible Burman, with his thick bandy legs, was all of three inches shorter than Sterling!
On to those nightmare stairs which led down into the pit, he was carried. From time to time, fitful gleams of light danced on the iron girders, or sent a red glow up into the darkness. He was being carried to his death: every instinct told him so. ...
One shaded lamp burned in the pit.
It hung directly in front of the furnace door. From time to time, at bends in the staircase, through eyes clouded by reason of his unnatural position, Sterling observed squat figures firing the furnace. The heat grew greater and greater. The place quivered and roared as white hot flames were whipped up under a forced draught.
The bottom reached, his captor and carrier dropped him unceremoniously upon the concrete floor.
Bruised, dazed, he yet succeeded in rolling over into a position from which he could inspect the shadows surrounding that ring of light in front of the furnace.
Several things became visible which conjured up horrible possibilities.
He saw a number of rough wooden trestles, some six feet in length and eighteen inches wide, laid upon the floor in the circle of light.
What could their purpose be?
Some inert body lay quite near to him. He strained his eyes to peer through the darkness; but beyond the fact that it appeared to be the body of a man, he could make out no details. Two muscular Chinamen stripped to the waist appeared now under the light. One, he thought he recognized, unless he was greatly mistaken—for to Western eyes Chinese faces are very similar—as a man who had formed one of the fan-tan party on the night that he and Nayland Smith had visited the Sailors’ Club.
The furnace door crashed open.
Scorching, blinding heat, poured out. Sterling wrenched his head aside. The Chinese stokers, probably professional firemen, fired the furnace, working mechanically and apathetically, although sweat poured down their faces and bodies like rain.
The furnace door was clanged into place again. Sterling lay so near to it that it had been impossible to take more than quick glances about him during the time that the door had been open, for the heat had seared his eyes. Nevertheless he had seen enough to know that his doom was sealed . . . perhaps the doom of all who stood in the path of Dr. Fu Manchu.
The man lying near to him, gagged and bound, was Alt Oke . . .
Alone, this discovery would have been sufficient to dash his last hope. But there was worse.
On the other side of the furnace door and nearly opposite to where he lay, Nayland Smith crouched on one elbow, bound as he was bound. He had glimpsed him searching the place with agonized eyes, as he himself had searched it.
It was the end.
CHAPTER
36
DIM ROARING
“There’s only one thing to do here,” growled Gallaho, banging his fist on the iron door which barred further progress. There’s a bit of a cavity—so I suppose the hinges are sunk. A couple of dynamite cartridges will shift something.”
“It might shift too much,” said Forester, who had pushed his way from the rear, and now stood at the speaker’s elbow. “Wouldn’t it be better to send for a blow-torch?”
“Do you realize how long it would take to blow through this door?” Gallaho demanded. “Are you forgetting who’s inside, and what may be happening?”
“I’m not forgetting. It was just a suggestion. Anyway, it’s going to take time to get either.”
“The longer we stand talking here, the longer it’s going to take.”
Gallaho, in common with many men of action, had a tendency to lose his temper when checked by such a barrier as this iron door.
“What do you suggest?”
“May I suggest something, sir?” came a voice.
“Yes, my man, what is it?”
“The Kinloch Explosive Works in Silvertown carry on all night. We could get there and back in half an hour in the Squad car, and probably bring someone with us who understands how to employ explosives on a job of this kind.”
“Good man,” growled Gallaho. “I’d better come along, as they won’t act without authority. Will you take charge, Forester?”
“Certainly. But if I can get hold of a blow-torch by hook or by crook, I’m going to start.”
“Good enough. No harm done.”
Gallaho adjusted his bowler and set out. He disappeared along the corridor lighted only by the torches of the police. Forester turned to Trench.
“What about getting through to the Yard?” he suggested.
“See if it’s possible to get a blow-torch rushed down.”
“We can try,” Trench agreed. “Leave two men here in case the door happens to open from the other side— and there’s a telephone upstairs in the shop.”
These dispositions were made, and the remainder of the police tramped up the concrete stairs and the wooden stairs into the premises of Sam Pak.
The shop blinds had been drawn—all lights put out. A constable was on duty on the pavement outside. At the moment that they reached the shop, the roar of the Flying Squad motor proclaimed itself as Gallaho dashed by on his journey to Silvertown.
“Here’s the telephone, Inspector,” said one of the men.
Forester nodded to Trench.
“This is your department, not mine,” he said. “You know who to call up, no doubt.”
