“I don’t know. All I know is that it is not to be allowed to interfere with the carrying on of the objects of the league.”
“What are these objects?”
Moya Adair paused for a moment.
“I think, but I am not sure, to introduce a new form of government into the United States. Truly”—she stood up—”it is impossible for me to tell you any more. Mr. Purcell, you made a bargain with me, and our time is very short. When you understand more about my position you will see how hard it is to answer some of your questions.”
Mark Hepburn stood up also, and nodded. His middle name (his mother’s) was Purcell, and as Purcell he had introduced himself to Mrs. Adair.
“Which way do we go?”
“This way,” said Moya, and side by side they walked in the direction of the Sherman equestrian statue. Hepburn was silent, sometimes glancing aside at his equally silent companion. She made no attempt to break this silence until they had passed the end of the bridle path, when:
“Shall we want a taxi?” Hepburn asked.
“Yes, but not a Lotus.”
“Why?”
They came out through Scholar’s Gate.
“I have my reasons. Look! This one will do.”
As the taxi moved off to a Park Avenue address of which he made a careful mental note:
“I understand,” said Hepburn drily, “that Harvey Bragg was a director of the Lotus Transport Corporation?”
“He was.”
The immensity of the scheme was beginning to dawn upon him. Vehicles belonging to the Lotus Corporation, of one kind or another, ranged practically over the States. All employees belonged to the League of Good Americans: so much he knew. Assuming that they could be used, if necessary, as spies, what a network lay here at command of the master mind! As the countless possibilities presented themselves he turned and stared at Moya Adair. She was watching him earnestly.
“When we arrive at the apartment to which we are going,” she said, “I shall have to ask you to play the part of an old friend. Do you mind?”
Mark Hepburn clenched his teeth. Moya’s gloved hand rested listlessly upon the seat beside him. He grasped and held it for a moment.
“I sincerely wish I were,” he replied.
She smiled; and he thought that her smile, although passionless, was almost affectionate.
“Thank you. I mean, we must address each other by our Christian names. So you have my permission to call me Moya. What am I to call
Suddenly that alluring coquetry which had delighted and then repelled him at the Tower of the Holy Thorn made her eyes dance. A little dimple appeared at the left comer other mouth.
“Mark.”
“Thank you,” said Moya. “I think very soon you will find yourself christened ‘Uncle’ Mark.”
in
Dr. Fu Manchu pressed a button on his table, and in a domed room where the Memory Man, as a result of many hours of patient toil, had nearly completed another of those majestic clay heads, the making of which alone relieved the tedium of his life, the amber light went out.
“Give me the latest report,” came a curt, guttural order, “from the Number in charge of Mott Street patrol.”
“To hand at 3.10 p.m. Report as follows: Strength of government agents and police in this area doubled since noon. Access to entrances one and two impossible. A government agent, heavily guarded and so far unidentified, in charge. Indications point to a raid pending. This report from Number 41.”
Amber light prevailed again in the Gothic room, and the sculptor, Egyptian cigarette in mouth, proceeded to accentuate the gibbous brow of his subject.
Dr. Fu Manchu, who had produced this change of light by the pressure of a button, sat for a while with closed eyes. The next steps in his campaign had been successfully taken. The next step was by far the most difficult. The atmosphere of that strange study must have been unbreathable by an average man. A greying pencil of smoke arose from an incense burner set upon one corner of the table. Dr. Fu Manchu had his own methods of inducing mental stimulation. Presently he touched a switch, and two points of light appeared. A moment he waited, and then:
“Attend carefully to the orders I am about to give,” he directed: he spoke in Chinese.
“A plot is brewing to set the dogs upon us, my friend. Listen with great care. No one is to enter or to leave Base 3 until further instructions are received from me. Doors leading to street entrances are to remain locked. Our visitors to-night will enter by the river-gate. Their safety rests with you. All are important; some are distinguished. I shall keep you informed. . . .”
IV
“That is the reason . . . Mark (I must get used to calling you Mark while you are here), why I am so helpless.”
Through uncurtained french windows Mark Hepburn looked out from the penthouse apartment on to a roof
