Fleurette got up quietly, and began to dress. It did not take her long, but she could find no hat and no shoes. But she found a pair of red bedroom slippers; these would serve her purpose. A handbag, her own, lay on the cheap dressing-table.
Its contents seemed to be undisturbed since she had laid it on the sofa berth in her cabin.
Dropping cigarette case and matches into the bag, Fleurette very quietly drew the curtains aside from the low square window.
It was latched, and the room, though cold, was stuffy. The latch was a difficult problem—it was a very old fitting, much worn and warped. Once, it emitted a terrifying squeak.
Fleurette stopped dead in her operations, and creeping across the room, applied her ear to the wooden partition.
Sonorous snores sounded from the adjoining bedroom.
She raised the window steadily but firmly. To her great surprise it made very little noise. She looked out and saw a neglected flower border immediately below. Then came a moss-grown, paved path leading on the right to a little pergola. This, in turn, communicated with a gate.
Fleurette dropped her bag on to the flower-bed, put on her slippers, and wriggled through the opening. It was not a particularly easy business, but Fleurette was fit and very athletic. She knew that her hands were filthy dirty and her feet muddy, when at last she stood outside; but these things did not matter.
Picking up her bag, she walked quickly around to the gate, opened it, and found herself in a narrow, hedge- bordered lane.
An oak tree overhung it a few paces back on the left—there were other dark buildings ahead. But in none of them did any light show. She looked around her eagerly, sniffing the cold night air, then climbed the opposite bank and saw that where the ground fell away, there were farm buildings, beyond, backed by trees, and beyond these trees, evidently several miles beyond, a searchlight moved regularly. This, she decided, was an aerodrome.
It was utterly, horribly, mysterious, for she should have been far out in the Mediterranean, whereas the very scent of the air told her that she was in England!
In one direction, the lane terminated, beyond the cottage from which she had come, at a gate, with a stile. She decided to proceed the other way. The lane was very roughly paved;
and now, banks of cloud suddenly obscured the moon.
She was forced to walk slowly, for trees overhung the way and it was very dark. She passed two other buildings lying back from the lane on her right, but they showed no signs of life and she pressed on. She came to a wider lane, much better paved, hesitated whether to turn left or right, and finally decided upon right.
From the position of the moon and the darkness in the houses she passed (and these were few,) she realized that it must be late at night, how late, she could only guess.
On the corner of the second lane there was a large house surrounded by a high brick wall; also a post box and an electric lamp standard.
She pulled up, breathing quickly. She had reached a main road.
The lodge of some large residence directly faced her; but, whilst she had been hurrying along, she had been thinking clearly. She heard the sound made by the approach of a heavy vehicle; and presently came the glare of its headlights.
A green motor bus pulled up directly by the lodge gates.
There were very few passengers, but she saw that at least two were alighting. She raced across.
In the light of the standard lamp she read upon the side of the bus: “Reigate—Sutton—London”.
She sprang on to the step, the vehicle restarted. The conductor helped her on board.
“Are you going to London?” she asked, breathlessly.
“Yes, miss. This is the last bus.”
CHAPTER
42
NAYLAND SMITH REFUSES
In the depths below Sam Pak’s the furnace roared hungrily.
Sterling groped his way back through imaginary horrors to the real and greater horror of his actual surroundings.
If he had ever doubted, he knew now what his end was to be. He believed that he was no greater coward than the average man, but just as life with Fleurette had beckoned to him so sweetly, it must end. And what an end!
“Are you all right?” came a shaky whisper from the darkness.
It was Sergeant Murphy.
“Yes, thank you, Sergeant.”
“We’re in hell before our time, sir.”
Sterling tried to control his nerves, to concentrate upon one thing to the exiusion of all others. He must not give this fiendish maniac the satisfaction of seeing him quail. If a woman could meet death as Fah Lo Suee had met it, then— by heaven!—it was up to the Middle West to show its mettle!
“Sir Denis Nayland Smith.” The tones of that implacable voice fell upon Sterling like a cold douche.
“The hour of our parting has come.”
There was a pause; a guttural order.
The sound of a groan from the darkness where Nayland Smith lay, completed the horror of the scene. It was a groan of defeat, of bitter humiliation; then:
“Dr. Fu Manchu,” came Smith’s voice, and—to Sterling it seemed a miracle—its tone was steady, “order your human baboon to untie my ankles. I prefer to walk to death rather than to be carried. This, I think, I am entitled to ask.”
Another order was spoken rapidly. There was a faint scuffling sound—and Nayland Smith walked into the circle of light before the furnace door.
“Oh, my God!” Murphy whispered. “What are they doing up there. Why don’t they break through?”
The Burmese executioner followed Sir Denis out of the shadows, and stood at his elbow.
“Because in your long battle with me, Sir Denis,” Dr. Fu Manchu continued, stressing now a note of insane exaltation, “you have always observed those rules of clean warfare which, rightly or wrongly, are an English tradition, I respect you. I, too, have traditions to which I have always adhered.”
Nayland Smith, his hands behind him, stared up into the darkness which concealed the speaker.
“I bear you no personal animosity; indeed, I admire you. I have won—although my triumph may have come too late;
and, therefore, Sir Denis, I offer you the Lotus Gate of escape.”
“I thank you, but I decline.”
Sterling struggled on to his elbow, watching, and listening.
“He’s playing for time, Murphy! Can’t we do anything to help him?”
“What can we do?”
“You prefer the sword? The end of the common criminal?”
“I decline that also, if I have any choice.”
“You reduce me——” there was repressed frenzy now in the tones of Dr. Fu Manchu—”to the third alternative of ... the fire.”
There followed a moment of silence which Sterling knew that if he lived, he should never forget. Nayland Smith stood in the circle of light, motionless, looking upward. Beside Sterling, Murphy was breathing so heavily that he was almost panting in his suppressed emotion.
“Is there no other alternative?”
“None.”
An order was spoken—one sibilant word. The Burman sprang forward. . . .
CHAPTER 43
CATASTROPHE
Now events began to move rapidly to that astounding conclusion which, although it was the result of men’s
