The murder party roared away ahead—a Z-car, with Rolls engines built for two hundred miles per hour. . . .
The heavy windows had splintered in several places—but not one bullet had penetrated!
Johnson sprang out on to the roadside as they pulled up.
“Everything right in front?”
“O.K., sir.”
Men were running to them from the leading car and jumping out of that which followed, when, leaning from the open door:
“Back to your places!” Nayland Smith shouted. “We stop for nothing. . . .”
In the covered car park of the Regal-Athenian Smith alighted and ran in. The door was still swinging when Wyatt, a government man, came out from the reception office.
“I have a message from Captain Hepburn,” he said.
Nayland Smith, already on his way to the elevator, paused, turned.
“What is it?”
“He does not expect to be here at the time arranged, but asks you to wait until he calls you.”
Upstairs, in their now familiar quarters, Fey prepared a whisky.
“What’s detaining Captain Hepburn?” Nayland Smith demanded. “Do you know?”
“I don’t, sir, but I think it’s something to do with the lady.”
“Mrs. Adair?”
“Yes, sir. Mary Goff—a very excellent woman who has called here before—brought a note for Captain Hepburn this morning, just after you left, sir. Captain Hepburn has been out all day, but he returned an hour ago, collected up some things from his laboratory, and went out again.”
Nayland Smith set down his glass and irritably began to load his pipe.
This was a strange departure from routine. Smith did not understand. Admittedly he was ahead of time, but he had counted upon finding Hepburn here. In such an hour of crisis as this, the absence of his chief of staff was more than perturbing. Every minute, every second, had its value. Dr. Fu Manchu had thwarted them at point after point. Despite their sleepless activity that cold, inexorable genius was carrying his plans to fruition. . . .
The phone bell rang. Fey answered. A moment he listened, then, looking up:
“Captain Hepburn, sir,” he said.
in
How is he, Dr. Burnett?”
Moya’s voice was breathlessly anxious—her eyes were tragic. Dr. Burnett, a young man with charming manners and a fashionable practice, shook his head, frowning thoughtfully.
“There’s really nothing to worry about, Mrs. Adair,” he replied. “Nevertheless I am not entirely satisfied.”
Moya turned as Mark Hepburn came into the sitting-room. His intractable hair was more than normally untidy. He was acutely conscious of the danger of the situation, for he knew now that his presence would be reported by those mysterious watchers whose eyes missed nothing. He had made a plan, however. If Moya should be in peril, he would declare himself as a Federal agent who had forced his way in to interrogate her.
“Dr. Burnett,” said Moya, “this is”—for the fraction of a second she hesitated—”Dr. Purcell, an old friend. You don’t mind if he sees Robbie?”
Dr. Burnett bowed somewhat frigidly.
“Not at all,” he replied; “in fact, I was about to suggest another opinion—purely in the interests of your peace of mind, Mrs. Adair. I had thought of Dr. Detmold.”
Dr. Detmold had the reputation of being the best consulting physician in New York, and Mark Hepburn, as honest with himself as with others, experienced a moment of embarrassment. But finally:
“The boy’s asleep,” said Dr. Burnett, “and I am anxious not to arouse him. But if you will come this way, Dr.— er—Purcell, I shall be glad to hear your views.”
In the dimly-lighted bedroom, Nurse Goff sat beside the sleeping Robbie; her appearance indicated, correctly, that she had known no sleep for the past twenty-four hours. She looked up with a gleam of welcome in her tired, shrewd eyes as Hepburn entered.
He beckoned her across to the open window, and there in a whisper:
“He looks very white, nurse. How is his pulse?”
“He’s failing sir! The poor bairn is dying under my eyes. He’s choking—he can swallow nothing! How can we keep him alive?”
Mark Hepburn crossed to the bed. Gently he felt the angle of the boy’s jaw: the glands were much enlarged. Slight though his touch had been, Robbie awoke. His big eyes were glassy. There was no recognition in them.
“Water,” he whispered. “Froat. . .so sore!”
“Poor bonnie lad,” murmured Mary Goff. “He’s crying for water, and every time he tries to swallow it I expect him to suffocate. Oh, what will we do! He’s going to die!”
Hepburn, who had hastily collected from the Regal those indispensable implements of his trade, a stethoscope, a thermometer and a laryngeal mirror, began to examine the little patient. It was a difficult examination, but at last
