“It is so, Marquis. He has a bodyguard five times as strong as that which formerly surrounded Harvey Bragg.”
Silence fell for some moments. Dr. Fu Manchu, from his seat behind the lacquer table, seemed to be watching the woodland prospect through half-closed eyes.
Some reports indicate that he evades his guards.” Fu Manchu spoke almost in a whisper. “These reports the woman, Lola Dumas, has confirmed. My Chicago agents are ignorant and obtuse. I await an explanation of these clandestine journeys.”
Sam Pak slowly nodded his wrinkled head.
“I have taken sharp measures, Master, with the Number responsible. He was the Japanese physician, Shoshima.”
“He
“He honourably committed hara-kiri last night. . . .”
Silence fell again between these invisible weavers who wrought a strange pattern upon the loom of American history. This little farmstead in which, unsuspected, Dr. Fu Manchu pursued his strange studies, and from which he issued his momentous orders, stood remote from the nearest main road upon property belonging to an ardent supporter of the League of Good Americans. He was unaware of the identity of his tenant, having placed the premises at the disposal of the league in all good faith.
Dr. Fu Manchu sat motionless in silence, his gaze fixed upon the distant woods. Sam Pak resembled an image: no man could have sworn that he lived. A squirrel ran up a branch of a tree which almost overhung the balcony, seemed to peer into the room, sprang lightly to a higher branch, and disappeared. The evensong of the birds proclaimed the coming of dusk. Nothing else stirred.
“I shall move to Base 6, Chicago,?” came the guttural voice at last. “The professor will accompany me; his memory holds all our secrets. It is essential that I be present in person on Saturday night.”
“The plane is ready, Marquis, but it will be necessary for you to drive through New York to reach it.”
“I shall leave in an hour, my friend. On my journey to Base 6 I may pay my respects to the Abbot Donegal,” Dr. Fu Manchu spoke very softly. “Salvaletti’s address on Saturday means the allegiance of those elements of the Middle West hitherto faithful to the old order. We must silence the priest. . . .”
Chapter 36
THE HUMAN EQUATION
Mark Hepburn could not keep still: impatience and anxiety conspired to deny him repose. He stood up from the seat in Central Park overlooking the pond and began to walk in the direction of the Scholar’s Gate.
Smith had started at dawn by air to reach the Abbot Donegal, whose veiled statements relative to the man and the movement attempting to remodel the Constitution of the country had electrified millions of hearers from coast to coast. A consciousness of defeat was beginning to overwhelm Hepburn. No charge, unless it could be substantiated to the hilt, could check the headlong progress of Paul Salvaletti to the White House. . . .
And now, for the first time in their friendship, Moya Adair had failed to keep an appointment. Deep in his heart Hepburn was terrified. Lieutenant Johnson had traced Robbie’s Long Island playground, but Moya had begged that Mark would never again have the boy covered.
She had been subjected to interrogation on the subject by the President! Apparently her replies had satisfied him—but she was not sure.
And now, although a note in her own hand had been conveyed to him by Mary Goff, Moya was not here.
If he should be responsible for any tragedy occurring in her life he knew that he could never forgive himself. And always their meetings took place under the shadow of the dreadful, impending harm. He walked on until he could see the gate;
but Moya was not visible. His restlessness grew by leaps and bounds. He turned and began to retrace his steps.
He had nearly reached the familiar seat which had become a landmark in his life when he saw her approaching from the opposite direction. He wanted to shout aloud, so great was his joy and relief. He began to hurry forward.
To his astonishment Moya, who must have seen him, did not hasten her step. She continued to stroll along looking about her as though he had not existed. His heart, which had leaped gladly at sight of her, leaped again, but painfully. What did it mean? What should he do? And now she was so near that he could clearly see her face . . . and he saw that she was very pale.
An almost imperceptible movement of her head, a quick lowering other lashes, conveyed the message:
“Don’t speak to me!”
His brow moist with perspiration, he passed her, looking straight ahead. Very faintly the words reached him:
“There’s someone following. Keep him in sight.”
Mark Hepburn walked on to where the path forked. A short thick-set man passed him at the bend but did not pay any attention to him. Hepbum carried on for some ten or twelve paces, then dodged through some bushes, skirted a boulder and began to retrace his steps.
The man who was covering Moya was now some twenty yards ahead. Hepburn kept him in view, and presently he bore right, following a path which skirted the pond. In the distance Moya Adair became visible.
A book resting on her knee, she was watching a group of children at play.
The man passed her, making no sign. And in due course Hepbum approached. As he did so, Moya bent down over her book. He went on, keeping the man in sight right to the gate of the park. When he saw him cross towards the plaza, Mark Hepburn returned.
Moya looked up. She was still very pale; her expression was troubled.
