the boy’s last visit. I was aware that there was diphtheria in that neighbourhood.”
Something in his unmoving regard seemed to steady Moya.
“Your only crime is that you are a woman,” said Dr. Fu Manchu quietly. “Even to the last you have done your duty by me. I must do mine. I guaranteed your boy’s safety. I have never failed to redeem my word. From small failures great catastrophes grow.”
“And I must protest,” Dr. Burnett interposed, speaking indignantly but in a low voice. “At any moment we are expecting Dr. Detmold.
“Detmold is a dabbler,” said Dr. Fu Manchu contemptuously, and crossing to the bed he seated himself in a chair, staring down intently at Robbie. “I have cancelled those instructions.”
“This is preposterous,” Burnett exclaimed. “I order you to leave my patient.”
Dr. Fu Manchu moved a gaunt yellow hand in a fan-like movement over Robbie’s forehead, then, stooping, parted his lips with the second finger and the thumb of his left hand, and bent yet lower.
“When did you administer the antitoxin?” he demanded.
Dr. Burnett clenched his teeth, but did not reply.
“I asked a question.”
The green eyes became suddenly fixed upon Dr. Burnett, and Dr. Burnett replied:
“At eleven o’clock last night.”
“Eight hours too late. The diphtheritic membrane has invaded the larynx.”
“I am dispersing it.”
Moya’s hands closed convulsively upon Mark Hepburn’s arm.
“God help me!” she whispered. “What am I to do?”
Her words had reached the ears of Dr. Fu Manchu.
“You are to have courage,” he replied, “and to wait in the sitting-room with Mary Goff until I call you. Please go.”
For one moment Moya glanced at Hepburn. Then Nurse Goff, her face haggard with anxiety, put an arm around her and the two women went out. Dr. Fu Manchu stood up.
“Surgical interference is unavoidable,” he said.
“I disagree!” Burnett in his indigation lost control, raising his voice unduly. “Until I have conferred with Dr. Detmold I forbid you to interfere with the patient in any way. Even if you are qualified to do so—which I doubt—I refuse to permit it.”
Dr. Burnett found himself transfixed by a glance which seemed to penetrate to his subconscious mind. He became aware of an abysmal incompetence which he had successfully concealed even from himself throughout a prosperous career. He had never experienced an identical sensation in the whole of his life.
“Leave us,” said the guttural voice. “Captain Hepburn will assist me.”
As Dr. Burnett, moving like an automaton, went out of the room, the fact crashed in upon Hepburn that Dr. Fu Manchu had addressed him by his proper name and rank!
And, as if he had read his thoughts:
“My presence here to-night,” said Dr. Fu Manchu, “is due to your telephone message to Sir Denis Nayland Smith. It was intercepted and relayed to me on my journey. To this I am indebted for avoiding a number of patrols whose positions you described. Be good enough to open the case which you will find upon the carpet at your feet. Disconnect the table lamp and plug in the coil of white flex.”
Automatically, Mark Hepburn obeyed the order. Dr. Fu Manchu took up a mask to which a lamp was attached.
“We shall operate through the cricoid cartilage,” he said.
“But——”
“I must request you to accept my decisions. I could force them upon you but I prefer to appeal to your intelligence.”
He moved his hands again over the boy’s face; and slowly, feverish bright eyes opened, staring upward.
Something resembling a tortured grin appeared upon Robbie’s lips.
“Hello . . . Yellow Uncle,” came a faint, gasping whisper. “I’s glad . . . you come . . .”
He choked, became contorted, but his eyes remained open, fixed upon those other strange eyes which looked down upon him. Gradually the convulsion passed.
“You are sleepy.” Fu Manchu’s voice was a crooning murmur. The boy’s long lashes began to flicker. “You are sleepy . . .” His lids drooped. “You are very sleepy . . .” Robbie’s eyes became quite closed. “You are fast asleep.”
“A general anaesthetic?” Hepburn asked hoarsely.
“I never employ anaesthetics in surgery,” the guttural voice replied. “They decrease the natural resistance of the patient.”
Nayland Smith, seated in the bullet-proof car, a sheaf of forms and other papers upon his knee, looked up at Johnson, who stood outside the open door.
“What are we to make of it, Johnson? An impasse! Here is the mysterious message received by Fey half an
