returned. I saw a police car pull up at the door. The bell rang.
“I shall be in good hands until I see you again,” snapped Smith. “Later I will communicate when I have made arrangements for the safe transfer of the portfolio to a spot where I propose to place its contents before a committee which I must assemble for the purpose.”
“But what is it. Smith?”
“Forgive me, Kerrigan, but I don’t want to tell you. You will know in good time. One thing only I ask—and you will serve me best by doing exactly as I direct. Don’t leave your flat tonight until you hear from me, and distrust visitors as I distrust every inch of my route from here to Scotland Yard!”
When he was gone (and I went down to the front door to satisfy myself that the car really belonged to the flying squad) I sat at my desk for some time endeavoring to get my notes in order, to transfer to paper something of the recent amazing developments in this campaign of the Si-Fan against dictatorship. It was a story hard to believe, harder to tell; yet one that someday must be told, and one well worth the telling.
A phone call interrupted me. It was from Scotland Yard, and I knew the speaker: Chief Inspector Leighton of the special branch. News of Gallaho. He had escaped with cuts and contusions. The doctors despaired of the life of the driver; and among other casualties great and small occasioned by the apparently insane behavior of the truckman, was that of this person himself. His neck had been broken in the collision.
“He was some kind of Asiatic,” said Inspector Leighton. “Sir Denis may be able to recognize him. The firm to whom the lorry belonged know nothing of the matter . . .”
I was still thinking over his words when again my phone rang. I took up the receiver.
“Hello!”
“Yes,” said a voice, “is that Bart Kerrigan?”
The speaker was Ardatha!
My Doorbell Rings
By dint of a mighty effort I replied calmly:
“Yes, Ardatha. How did you find my number? It isn’t in the book.”
“You should know now”—how I loved her quaint accent—”that private numbers mean nothing to the people I belong to.”
There was a moment of almost timorous hesitancy.
“I hate to hear you say that, Ardatha. I am desperately unhappy about you. Thank God you called me! Why did you call me?”
“Because I had to.”
“What do you mean?”
“I cannot possibly speak to you long from here. I must see you tonight. This is urgent!”
I continued the effort to control my voice, to bid my thumping heart behave normally.
“Yes, Ardatha, you must know I am longing to see you. But—”
“But what?”
“I cannot go out tonight.”
“I do not ask you to go out tonight. I will come to you.”
“Oh, my dear, it’s wonderful! But every time you take such risks for my sake—”
“This is a risk I must take, or there will be no you, no Nayland Smith!”
“When shall I expect you?”
“In five minutes. But, listen. I know the house where you live. You cannot believe how well I know it! Fasten open the catch of the front door, so that I do not have to wait out in the street. I will come up and ring your bell. Please do not look out of the window or do anything to show that you expect anyone. Will you promise?”
“Of course.”
Silence.
I hung up the receiver as a man in a daze. Ardatha was real after all. Nayland Smith was wiser than I, for always he had acted as her counsel when in my despair I had condemned her as a Delilah.
Then, as if to banish the wild happiness with which my spirit was intoxicated, came a logical thought . . .
That mysterious portfolio—so valuable that Smith had been afraid to take it with him even in a flying squad car! It was here . . . The Si-Fan knew. Ardatha was coming to find it!
My hand on the door, I paused, chilled, doubting, questioning.
Were my instincts betraying me? I could not recall that I had ever proved myself easily glamoured by that which was worthless. If the soul of Ardatha be not a brave and a splendid soul but a hollow, mocking thing, I told myself, then the years of my maturity have been wasted. I am indeed no philosopher.
In any event, now was the acid test. For if she came with a hidden purpose I should learn it. And whatever the wrench—it would be the finish.
For the rest I had nothing to fear unless I were overpowered and the flat ransacked. There was no information which I could give, even under torture, for I did not know where Nayland Smith had concealed the portfolio.
I went downstairs. The lights were on in the little glass arcade which led to the porch. I opened the door and fixed the catch so that a push from outside would give access; then, in that frame of mind which every man in such circumstances has shown, I returned to my flat.
The interval, though short, seemed interminable . . .
My doorbell rang. I walked from the study along the short passage. I was trying to frame words with which I should greet Ardatha, trying to school myself to control hot impulses, and yet not to seem too cold.
I opened the door . . . and there on the landing, wearing a French cape and a black soft-brimmed hat, stood Dr Fu Manchu!
Always I Am Just
When I say that horror, disillusionment, abject misery robbed me of speech, movement, almost of thought, I do not exaggerate the facts. My beliefs, my philosophy, my world, crumbled around me.
“Mr. Kerrigan”—my dreadful visitor spoke softly—”do not hesitate to accept any order I may give.”
His right elbow rested upon his hip, his long yellow fingers held an object which resembled a silver fountain pen. I wrenched my glance away from those baleful eyes and stared at this thing.
“Death in the form of disintegration I hold in my hand,” he continued. “Step back. I will follow you.”
The little silver tube he pointed in my direction. I walked slowly along to the study. I heard Dr Fu Manchu close the front door and follow me in. I stood in front of the table, and turning, faced him. I avoided his eyes, but watched the long silver object which he held in his hand.
I despised myself completely. This man—I judged him to be not less than seventy years of age—held no weapon other than a small tube, yet had me cowed. I was afraid to attack him, afraid to defend myself—for behind this thing which he held I saw all the deadly armament of his genius.
But my weakness of spirit was not due entirely to cowardice, to fear of the dreadful Chinese doctor. It was due in great part to sudden recognition of the frightful duplicity of Ardatha! She, she whom I longed to worship, she had tricked me into opening my door to this awful being!
“Do not misjudge Ardatha.”
Those words had something of the effect of a flash of lightning. In the first place, they answered my unspoken thought (which alone was terrifying), and in the second place, they brought hope to a mind filled with black despair.
“Tonight,” that strange impressive voice continued, “Ardatha lives, or Ardatha dies. One of my purposes is to be present at your interview, for I know that this interview is to take place.”
Love of a woman goes deep in a man as I learnt at that moment; for, clutching this slender thread of promise—a thread strengthened by Nayland Smith’s assurance that Dr Fu Manchu never lied—I found a new strength and a new courage. I raised my eyes.
“Make no fatal mistake, Mr. Kerrigan,” he said coldly, precisely. “You are weighing your weight against mine, youth against age. But consider this device which I hold in my hand. From a thing which once demanded heavy cables and arc lamps, it is now, as you see”—always pointing in my direction—”a small tube. I dislike that which is
