which seems to cover him, I regard this priest as the challenge of Rome to our older and deeper philosophy. . . .
“Suitable measures will be taken when the poppy is in flower. There is much more which I wish to say, but it must be temporarily postponed, since I have arranged that we shall all hear our chosen executive speak to-night. He is addressing a critical audience in the assembly hall in which Harvey Bragg formerly ruled as king. This is his second public address since Bragg was removed. It will convince you more completely than any words of mine could do of the wisdom of our selection. I beg for silence: you are now listening to a coast-to-coast broadcast.”
So closely had Dr. Fu Manchu timed his words that the announcer had ceased speaking when radio contact was made.
Tremendous uproar rose to an hysterical peak, and then slowly subsided. Paul Salvaletti began to speak a speech destined both by virtue of beauty, phrasing and the perfect oratory of the man to find a permanent place in American forensic literature.
Salvaletti, to be known from that hour as “Silver Tongue,” was, as befitted a selection of Dr. Fu Manchu, probably one of the four greatest orators in the world. Trained by the Oratorian fathers and then perfected in a famous dramatic academy of Europe, he spoke seven languages with facility, and he learned the subtle art of mass control as understood by the Eastern adepts in the Tiberan monastery of Rache Churan. For two years, efficiently but unobtrusively, he had laboured in silence as confidential secretary to Harvey Bragg. He had the absolute confidence of Harvey Bragg. He had a more intimate knowledge of the inner workings of the League of Good Americans, of the Lotus Transport Corporation, and of the other enterprises which had formed the substantial background of the demagogue, than any man living. He understood human nature, but had the enormous advantage over Bragg of a profound culture. He could speak to the South in the language of the South; he could speak to the world in the language of Cicero.
He began, with perfect art, to deliver this modern version of Mark Antony’s oration over the body of Caesar. . . .
“What in hell’s this?” growled Police Captain Corrigan. “We’re jammed!”
The light of his torch and that of Nayland Smith’s became concentrated upon the iron door which had fallen behind them. Dimly, very dimly, they could hear the voices of the party outside.
“Hadn’t counted on this,” muttered Nayland Smith. “But we mustn’t get bothered—we must think.”
“Looks to me, Chief,” said the police officer, “as if the seven rings work automatically, and that after an interval this second door comes down—like as not to make sure that a big party isn’t bullying in.”
“Something in that Corrigan,” Nayland Smith rapped. “Outstanding point is—we are cut off.”
“I know it.”
They stood still, listening. Shouted orders from somebody who had taken charge became dimly audible. Words reached their ears as mere murmurs. The iron door was not only heavy but fitted perfectly in its grooves.
“Can you hear a sound like water, Chief?” Corrigan said in a low voice.
“Yes.”
The ray from Nayland Smith’s torch searched the floor, the walls, as far ahead as it could reach, revealing nothing but an apparently endless brick tunnel.
“I kind of fancy,” Corrigan went on, “that I’ve heard there used to be a brook or a stream hereabouts in the old days, and that it was switched into a sewer. You can hear running water?”
“I can,” said Nayland Smith.
“I guess we’re beside it or over it. Used to run from some place near Columbus Park where there was a pond. . . .”
“We have to suppose,” said Nayland Smith quietly, “that so far everything is in order——”
“Except that we’re trapped!”
“I mean, if, as you suggest, the river door opens mechanically and this outer door falls at an agreed interval, we shall be quite safe in pushing ahead.”
“I should feel safer with forty men behind me.”
“So should I. The proper routine would be in all probability to re-close the river door, ring the bell seven times, and continue in this way until the whole party was inside.”
“Sounds reasonable—but how do we do it? . . . Hullo! Look at this!”
Corrigan directed the light of his torch downwards; his hand shook with excitement. Discord of shouting voices grew louder. A crack appeared at the bottom of the iron door. Slowly, it was being raised!
“The opening of the outer door drops it automatically in half a minute or less,” said Nayland Smith. “Normally it is raised when the door is closed. They must have moved the spar. Contact has been established which raises it again.”
“I’m waiting,” Corrigan replied grimly, his gaze fixed upon the slowly moving door. “I’m not built like an eel. When I can get out I’ll be the first to cheer. . . .”
In the streets of Chinatown a cordon had been drawn around the suspected area. During the course of the day a census had been taken of the inhabitants in the section indicated by Nayland Smith; outgoings and incomings, all had been accounted for. Most of those interrogated were Chinese, and the Chinaman is a law-respecting citizen. Almost any other would have openly resented the siege conditions to which the inhabitants of this section of New York City found themselves subjected on this occasion.
Mark Hepburn with a guard of three men directed operations. He was feverishly anxious, as his deep-set eyes indicated to everyone he approached. His duty was to make sure that none of the invisible members of Dr. Fu Manchu’s organization should escape by the street exits which the vigilance of government men and police engaged upon the inquiry had failed to detect. The importance of his duty was great enough to enable him to force into the background the problem of Moya Adair. Apart from his personal interest, she formed an invaluable link, if only he could succeed in reconciling his conscience with his duty, his own interests with those of the State.
