And now Orwin Prescott sat up. There was vigour in his movements.
“Still I don’t understand. I assure you I recall whole passages of the debate at Carnegie Hall! I can remember Bragg’s triumph, my own ineptitude, my inability to counter his crude thrusts. . .”
“You were dreaming, Doctor; naturally the debate has been on your mind. Don’t overtire yourself.”
Gently she compelled him to lie down again.
“Then what really occurred?” he challenged.
The nurse smiled again soothingly.
“Nothing has occurred yet: except that we have got you in splendid form for the debate to-night.”
“What!”
“The debate at Carnegie Hall takes place tonight, and after a talk with your secretary, Mr. Norbert, who is waiting outside, I am quite sure you will be ready for it.”
Orwin Prescott stared at the speaker fixedly. A new, a dreadful idea, had presented itself to him, and:
“Do you assure me,” he said—”I beg you will be frank—that the debate has not taken place?”
“I give you my word,” she answered, meeting his glance with absolute candour. “There is no mystery about it all except that you have had a vivid dream of the thing upon which your brain has been centred for so long.”
“Then I have been here——?”
“Ever since the accident, Doctor.” She stood up, crossed, and pressed a bell. “I am sending for Mr. Norbert,” she explained. “He is naturally anxious to see you.”
But whole phases of the debate seemed to ring in Prescott’s ears! He saw himself, he saw Bragg, he saw the vast audience as though a talking picture were being performed inside his brain!
The door opened, and Norbert came in; dark, perfectly groomed. The neat black moustache suggested a British army officer. He came forward with outstretched hand.
“Dr. Prescott!” he exclaimed, “this is fine.” He turned to the nurse. “Nurse Arlen, I must congratulate you. Dr. Sigmund, I know, is delighted.”
“Perhaps, Norbert,” said Prescott, “now that you are here we can get this straight. There are many points which are quite dark to me. It is all but incredible that I could have lain here——”
“Forget all that, Doctor,” Norbert urged, “for the moment. I am told that you are fit to talk shop, and so there is one thing upon which to concentrate—to-night’s debate.”
“It really is to-night?”
“I understand your bewilderment—but it really is to-night. Imagine our anxiety! It means the biggest check in Bragg’s headlong career to the White House. I am going to refresh your memory with all our notes up to the date of the accident at Weaver’s Farm. I had left you, you recall, to go to Washington. I have added some later points. Do you feel up to business?”
He turned to the nurse. “Nurse Arlen, you are sure it will not tire him?”
“Dr. Sigmund is confident that it will complete his cure.”
Orwin Prescott’s glance lingered on the beautiful dark face. Then, again sitting up, he turned to Maurice Norbert. He was conscious of growing enthusiasm, of an intense ardour for his great task.
“Perhaps one day I shall understand,” he said, “but at the moment——”
Norbert opened his portfolio.
In a small, square, stone-faced room deep in the Chinese Catacombs, old Sam Pak crouched upon a settee placed against a wall. One would have thought, watching the bent motionless figure, that it was that of an embalmed Chinaman. There was little furniture in the room: a long narrow table, with a chair set behind it; upon the table appointments suggesting a medical consultant; upon the floor, two rugs. The arched doorway was closed by scarlet tapestry drapings.
Now these were drawn aside. A tall figure entered, a man who wore a black overcoat with heavy astrakhan collar, and an astrakhan cap upon his head; also, he wore spectacles. As he entered, and he entered quite silently, Sam Pak stood up as if electrified, bowing very low in the Chinese manner. The tall man walked to the chair behind the table and seated himself.
He removed his spectacles. The wonderful lined face which had reminded so many observers of that ofSeti I was revealed in its yellow mastery. Dr. Fu Manchu spoke.
“Be seated,” he said.
Sam Pak resumed his seat.
“You guarantee,” the harsh, guttural voice continued— those brilliant green eyes were fixed inflexibly upon the ancient Chinaman, “the appearance of Dr. Orwin Prescott tonight?”
“You have my word, Marquis.”
Three drops of the tincture must be administered ten minutes before he leaves.”
“It shall be administered.”
“Already, my friend, we are suffering at the hands of the bunglers we are compelled to employ. The pestilential priest Patrick Donegal has slipped through all our nets. Nor is it certain that he is not in the hands of Enemy Number One.”
The ancient head of Sam Pak was slowly nodded.
