motives, I wish you, before going to join the shades of your ancestors, to be witnesses of my justice.”
He uttered again that short, guttural command.
A figure walked gracefully out of the shadows into the light.
It was his daughter—Fah Lo Suee. She wore a green robe, cut low upon the shoulders, and of so fine a texture that every line of her slender body might be traced in its delicacy. There were jewels on her fingers and she smiled composedly.
Within the ring of light she knelt, and bowed her head in the direction of the unseen speaker.
The Burmese executioner had followed her. He stood behind her, now, looking upward.
“Of all the spies who have penetrated to my councils,”—the voice became more and more sibilant, rising ever upon a higher key—”this woman, my daughter, has been the chief culprit. There is a traitor blood in her, but she has betrayed me for the last time.”
Fah Lo Suee knelt motionless, her graceful head lowered.
“One who would do the work to which I have set my hand, must forget mercy in favour of justice. Yet because, though execrable, detestable, you are my daughter, I offer you the Lotus Gate of escape. Do you accept it?”
Fah Lo Suee raised her head. She was still smiling proudly.
“I accept,” she said. “I have only loved one man in my life— and I accept on condition that the same gate shall be opened for him.”
“I agree to this condition.”
The tones of the speaker indicated repressed madness.
Fah Lo Suee extended her slender arms.
“Denis Nayland Smith,” she said, and there was tragedy in her musical voice—”until to-night, you never even suspected. I have told you and I am unashamed. You go with me through the gate. Death gives me something that life could never give.”
She paused; only the roar of the furnace could be heard. Then, stretching her arms upward, towards the hidden Dr. Fu Manchu:
“I am ready.”
“To this I had been blind, yet I might have known—for woman is a lever which a word can bend.”
The strange voice, exalted, oracular in mad inspiration, drew nearer in the darkness until Dr. Fu Manchu appeared in the circle of light.
His mask-like face was transfigured, his eyes glittered like jewels. He was a seer, a prophet, a man set above human laws. He carried a small, cut-glass goblet, upheld like a chalice.
“Rise,” he commanded.
Fah Lo Suee stood upright.
“You are ready?”
“I am eager. It is my wedding night.”
“Here is the desire of your heart. . . and death.”
“Good-bye,” said Fah Lo Suee, her lips curved in that proud, fearless smile.
She took the glass and drained its contents.
The crystal crashed to the floor. Fah Lo Suee sank down, slowly; her smile became a smile of rapture. She extended herself upon the concrete still wet with the blood of an earlier victim, and opened her arms ecstatically.
“Denis, my dear, my dear!” she whispered. “Hold me close. Then, I shall not be afraid.”
Her arms dropped—she lay still . . .
Sterling was past speech; even Murphy was silent, Dr. Fu Manchu turned and paced slowly back into the shadows. As he reached them, he uttered that quick, guttural order.
The Burman stooped, and placed the body of Fah Lo Suee upon one of the wooden racks. The two Chinamen appeared and the furnace door was thrown open.
Sterling had reached cracking point.
He heard an hysterical scream, but was unaware of the fact that he had uttered it. His last recollection of the scene was that of a monotonous chanting:—
“Hi yah, hi yah . . .”
CHAPTER
40
A FIGHT TO THE DEATH
Dr. Petrie reached London late at night.
One knowing him, who had met him at Victoria Station, would have noticed that whereas for many years his hair had been streaked with grey, the grey was now liberally streaked with white. He was but recently recovered from an illness which only an iron constitution and a will to live—not for the sake of life itself, but for his wife and newly discovered daughter—had enabled him to survive.
He had advised Nayland Smith of the time of his arrival;
but, jumping from the train, for his activity was unimpaired by the stresses which had been imposed upon him, and looking eagerly up and down the platform, he failed to see the tall, gaunt figure of his friend.
This was unlike Smith.
Leaving a porter in charge of his baggage, he pushed rapidly on to the barrier. There was no sign of Nayland Smith, or even of Fey, that strange, taciturn creature who had been in Smith’s service in Burma, who had now rejoined him in England.
It was unaccountable; a crown, almost crushing to the anxiety which possessed him.
Fleurette!
He recognized in this moment of loneliness, of disappointment, that he had even dreamed of finding Fleurette there. Smith’s last message had held out such a hope. Yet, there was no one here at all!
“Dr. Petrie,” came a voice. “Dr. Petrie.”
Petrie stared all about him, and then recognized that the speaker was a commissionaire.
“Yes!” he said eagerly; “I am Dr. Petrie.”
“Good evening, sir—” the man saluted. “I come from Sir Denis Nayland Smith’s flat, sir. My orders are to ask you to proceed there at once.”
Hope beckoned again, but anxiety remained.
“Is that all, Sergeant?”
“That is all I was told to say, sir.”
“Thank you,” said Dr. Petrie, wearily. “Have a drink as you go out, Sergeant.”
“Thank you, sir. Good night.”
The assembly of his baggage was a tedious business. A man who travelled light himself, on this occasion he was cumbered with many trunks and boxes belonging to Fleurette. He deposited the bulk of them in the cloakroom, and jumping into a taxi, proceeded to Westminster.
Fey admitted him.
Petrie observed with astonishment, for he knew the man for a perfect servant, that a large briar pipe was fuming in an ash-tray in the lobby.
“Good evening, sir.” Fey turned to the hall porter. “Leave the baggage to me. Your room is prepared, sir.”
“Is Sir Denis at home?”
“No, sir.”
Fey took Petrie’s hat and coat and Petrie walked through into the cheerful, lofty, sitting-room. He observed that the curtains had not been drawn in the bay window.
A premonition of some new disaster began to creep upon his mind. Fey joined him almost immediately.
“Whisky and soda, sir?”
“Thank you.”
Fey prepared one in silence, Petrie watching him; then:
“Where is Sir Denis?” he asked.
