“Yes,” Nayland Smith smiled grimly. “My attempted change of residence was a fiasco, and I don’t propose to give further amusement to the enemy by wearing funny disguises.”
Chapter 37
THE GREAT PHYSICIAN
“I have called Dr. Detmold,” said Mark Hepbum, “and have told him to bring——” he hesitated—”the necessary remedies.”
Moya clutched him convulsively. For the first time in their strange friendship he found her in his arms.
“Does that mean—” she was watching him with an expression which he was never to forget—”that——”
“Don’t worry, Moya—my dear. It will be all right. But I’m glad I came.”
“Mark,” she whispered, “I never realized until now how I wanted—someone I could count on.”
Mark Hepburn stroked her hair—as many times he had longed to do.
“You know you can count on
“Yes—I know I can.”
Hepburn tried to conquer the drumming in his ears, which was caused by the acceleration of his heart. When he spoke, his voice was even more toneless than normally.
“I’m not a very wonderful bargain, Moya; but when all these troubles are past—because it isn’t fair to ask you now . . .”
Moya raise her eyes to his: they were bright with stifled tears. But in them he read that which made further, inelo-quent words needless.
All the submerged poetry in his complex character expressed itself in that first ecstatic kiss. It was a passionate statement. As he released Moya he knew, deep in his buried self, that he had found his mate.
“Moya, darling.”
Her head rested on his shoulder. . . .
“Mark, dear, messages from this apartment are tapped.” She said. “It’s quite possible that your conversation with Dr. Detmold will be reported elsewhere.”
“It doesn’t matter. If your—employers catch me here, I shall declare myself and put you all under arrest.”
Moya gently freed herself and stepped away as Dr. Burnett joined them.
“In certain respects” said Burnett, “the patient’s condition, admittedly, is not favourable. My dear Mrs. Adair”—he patted her shoulder—”he is in very good hands. Dr. Detmold is coming?”
“Yes,” Hepbum replied.
“I am sure he will endorse my opinion. The symptoms are not inconsistent with the treatment which I have been following.”
Mark Hepburn entirely agreed. Robbie’s survival of the treatment was due to a splendid constitution.
“If you will excuse me for a moment,” he muttered, “I should like to look at the patient.”
In the silence of the sick room he bent over Robbie. There was agony now in the eyes of Nurse Goff. The boy had had a choking fit in which he had narrowly escaped suffocation. He was terribly exhausted. His fluttery pulse was alarming. Walking on tiptoe, Hepburn crossed to the open window, beckoning Nurse Goff to follow him.
There he held a whispered consultation. Presently the door opened and Dr. Burnett came in with Moya; the reassuring tone of his voice died away as he entered the room. He looked in a startled manner at his patient.
A change for the worse, which must have been apparent even to a layman, had taken place. Dr. Burnett crossed to the bed. There came a sound of three dull blows on the outer door, as if someone had struck it with a clenched hand. . . .
“Dr. Detmold!” Moya whispered brokenly, and ran out.
The two men were bending anxiously over the little sufferer when a suppressed cry from the vestibule, a sound of movement, bought Hepburn upright. He turned at the moment that a tall figure entered the bedroom.
It was that of a man in a long black overcoat having an astrakhan collar, who wore an astrakhan cap of a Russian pattern. Mark Hepburn’s heart seemed to miss a beat—as he found himself transfixed by the glance of the green eyes of Dr. Fu Manchu!
For a moment only he was called upon to sustain it. The situation found him dumbfounded. Dr. Fu Manchu removed his cap and, throwing it upon a chair, turned to Dr. Burnett.
“Are you attending the patient?”
He spoke in a low voice, sibilant but imperative.
“I am. May I ask who you are, sir?”
Dr. Burnett glanced at a leather case which the speaker had placed upon the floor. Ignoring the inquiry, Dr. Fu Manchu bent over Robbie for a moment, then stood upright, and turned as Moya came in.
“Why was I not notified earlier?” he demanded harshly.
Moya clutched at her throat; she was fighting back hysteria.
“How could I know, President,” she whispered, “that——”
“True,” Dr. Fu Manchu nodded. “I have been much preoccupied. Perhaps I am unjust. I should have prohibited
