The man addressed as Waygood roughly snatched the sou’wester from the head of the traveller and peeled back his oilskin at the same moment that the other roughly overhauled the immobile Chinaman.
Nayland Smith stared eagerly into the face revealed. Recognition of an astounding fact had come to him. By one of those divine incidents which so rarely rallied to his aid, he had selected for this attempt on Fu Manchu’s underground quarters a night when influential supporters of the movement were meeting in conference!
He had hoped to see the stoical features of General Li Wu Chang—but he was disappointed.
He saw a face Oriental in character, but rather of the Near then of the Far East; a proud, olive-skinned face with flashing dark eyes and supercilious lips. But the man was unknown to him.
The Chinaman was relieved of an automatic and a wicked-looking knife. The other was apparently unarmed, but a curious fact came to light when his oilskins were slipped off. Beneath them he wore a black robe, with a cowl!
Eastman burst in at the door.
“We’ve lost the second Chink,” he reported. “I guess he swims like a shark. He must have swum under water for a long time, unless he knocked himself out! Anyway, there’s no trace of him. And there’s a sea mist coming up.”
“Bad luck,” snapped Nayland Smith, “but keep a sharp look-out,” Turning to Corrigan: “Have this Chinaman taken outside,” he directed. “I have some questions to put to the other.”
A few moments later he stood before the dignified Oriental upon whose face Corrigan directed the light of a torch.
“Do you know the Chinaman, Corrigan?”
“No; but Finney, down on Mott Street, will know him when he sees him. He knows every Chink in the town.”
Nayland Smith fixed his penetrating regard upon the features of the Egyptian: that the man was an Egyptian he had now determined.
“What is your name?” he demanded.
“By what authority do you ask?”
The man, who retained a remarkable composure, spoke easily, in perfect English and with a cultured voice.
“I am a government agent. What is your name?”
“Judging from the treatment received by my Chinese acquaintance,” the Egyptian replied, “I have nothing but a man-handling to gain by silence. My name is Ahmed Fayume. Would you care to see my passport?”
“Hand it to Police Captain Corrigan.”
The Egyptian, from beneath the curious robe which he wore, produced a passport which he handed to Corrigan, who glared at him in that intimidating manner cultivated by the police and opened the document savagely as though he hated it.
“When did you arrive in New York?”
“Last night by the
“And you are staying at. . .”
“The Grosvenor-Grand.”
“What is your business in the States?”
“I am on a visit to Washington.”
“Are you a diplomat?”
“I am attached to the personal suite of King Fuad of Egypt.”
“That’s right,” growled Corrigan, looking up from the passport. “Something funny about this.”
His expression became puzzled.
“Perhaps, Mr. Fayume,” said Nayland Smith crisply, “you can explain what you are doing here to-night in the company of two suspected men.”
The Egyptian smiled slightly.
“Naturally I was unaware that they are suspected men,” he replied. “When the Egyptian consulate put me in touch with them, I was under the impression that I was being taken to a unique house of entertainment where hashish and other amusements were provided.”
“Indeed! But why the fancy dress?”
“The black domino?” The Egyptian continued to smile. “This was provided by my guides, as visitors to the establishment to which I refer do not invariably wish to be recognized.”
Nayland Smith continued to stare into the large velvety eyes of the speaker, and then:
“Your story requires investigation, Mr. Fayume,” he said drily. “In the meantime, I must ask you to regard yourself as under arrest. Will you be good enough to empty your pockets?”
Ahmed Fayume shrugged his shoulders resignedly and obeyed the order.
“I fear,” he said calmly, “that you are creating an international incident. . . .”
VI
