be below, for Regan had gone down at four o’clock, when Mr. Shaw had relieved him.
She pressed the button, and when the signal light glowed, unlocked the door and descended to the main floor. There was a small, dark lobby which opened directly onto the street, a means of private entry and exit used only by the laboratory and Michael Frobisher. At the moment that Camille stepped out of the elevator and as the door closed behind her, she knew that someone was in this lobby.
She stood quite still.
“Who’s there?” she asked in a low voice
“Don’t be alarmed.” A flashlamp came to life. “It’s only me—or I, if you’re a purist!”
“Oh!” Camille whispered. “Sir Denis Nayland Smith—”
She could see his face now, framed in the upturned collar of a fur-lined coat. It was a very grim face.
“Wondering how I got in? Well, I’ll explain the great illusion. I have a duplicate key! Craig up there?”
“Yes, Sir Denis—and very busy.”
“Are you off for the night?”
“Not at all. I hope to be back in an hour.”
“Good girl!” That revealing smile swept grimness from his face as swiftly as a mask removed. “I have excellent reports of your keenness and efficiency.”
He patted her shoulder, passed her, and put his key in the elevator door.
Camille found herself standing on the street without quite knowing how she got there. Two men who gave her searching glances were lounging immediately outside, but, although her heart was racing, she preserved her admirable poise, waiting with apparent calm until a cruising taxi came along.
She gave the address, Woolton Building, and then tried to carry out advice printed on a card before her, “Sit back and relax.”
Useless to ignore the fact that she had reached a climax in her affairs. The tangled threads of her existence had tripped her at almost every turn. True, she had snapped one. But Camille found herself thinking of Omar’s words, “The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ—”
Morris must be told. She had made up her mind to tell him tomorrow. Her crowning dread was that he would find out from someone else. She wanted him to learn the truth from her own lips . . .
Only one elevator remained in service at the Woolton Building. Most of the office staffs had left. Camille told the bored operator, “Professor Hoffmeyer.”
“Hoffmeyer? Top.”
She stepped out on an empty corridor. Directly facing her was a door marked, “Professor Hoffmeyer. Inquiries.”
It proved to be a well-appointed reception office.
No one was there.
Camille sat down on a cushioned divan. A clock above the desk told her that she was three minutes ahead of time. Morris’s words flashed through her mind, “Between the cocktails and the soup.”
On the stroke of eight, a Chinese girl came in through a doorway facing that by which visitors entered. She wore national dress and had a grace of movement which reminded Camille of a gazelle. Clasping her hands on her breast, she bowed.
“If you will be pleased to follow me,” she said.
Camille followed her, across a large salon decorated with miniature reproductions of classic statuary and paintings of flawless nudity. There were richly cushioned settees, desks provided with the latest periodicals, softly shaded lamps. She began to understand that Professor Hoffmeyer was a luxury reserved for the wives and concubines of commercial sultans, and to wonder if Mrs. Frobisher had any idea of her salary.
From here they passed along a tiled corridor between cubicles resembling those in a Pompeian bath. There were medical odors mingling with all those perfumes peculiar to a beauty parlor.
There had been no one in the salon, and there was no one in any of the cubicles.
The journey ended in an office which, unlike the other apartments, conformed with Camille’s idea of what a consultant’s establishment should be. There was a large, neat desk. One of the drawers was open, as if someone had been seated there only a moment before. A number of scientific books filled a heavy mahogany case. On the right of this was an opening which evidently communicated with another room.
Camille’s Chinese guide clasped her hands on her breast, bowed, and retired.
The place possessed a faint, sweetish smell. It awakened some dormant memory. Then a voice spoke, the voice of someone in the dimly lighted room beyond.
“Be so good as to enter.”
Camille’s mind, her spirit, rose in revolt. Suddenly she was fired by one impulse only—to escape. But she seemed to be incapable of attempting escape. Those words were a command she found herself helpless to disobey.
Slowly, with lagging steps, she walked in. Her movements made no sound on a thick carpet. It was an apartment Orientally furnished. There were arched openings in which lanterns hung. She saw painted screens, lacquer. But these were sketchy, a pencilled background for a figure seated behind a long, narrow table.
He wore a yellow robe; his chin rested on his hands, his elbows on the table. And his glittering green eyes claimed and owned her.
Camille stifled a scream, turned—and the opening through which she had come in was no longer there; only a beautifully wrought lacquer panel. She twisted back, fighting down hysteria. Her glance took in the whole room.
“Yes,” the sibilant voice assured her, “you are not mistaken. Miss Navarre . . . you have been here before.”
Chapter XI
“The greatest compliment ever paid to me,” said Nayland Smith grimly. “Dr. Fu Manchu considers I am more useful alive than dead!”
Morris Craig, seated, back to the desk, watched that lean, restless figure parading the office. Smith’s hat and topcoat lay on the settee, his pipe bubbled between his small, even teeth. He looked gaunt, but his steps were springy, his eyes clear.
“I can only repeat—it’s a miracle you’re alive.”
“I suppose it is. Mysterious news of the pending raid on Huan Tsung’s led to a postponement of the treatment prescribed. Otherwise, I should have been found, certifiably dead, in that ghastly coffin. Failing the raid, I should by now be on my way to China.”
“Do you think the headquarters of this thing are in China?”
“No,” rapped Smith. “In Tibet. In a completely inaccessible spot. Lhasa is not the only secret city in Asia—nor Everest the highest mountain. But leave that. I want certain facts.”
Craig lighted a cigarette which he had been holding for some time between his fingers.
“You shall have them. But there are certain facts I want, too. I’m not immune from human curiosity, even if I have harnessed a force new to physics. When the police found you last night, what about this fellow, Huan Tsung?”
Nayland Smith smiled. It was a smile of pure enjoyment. He pulled up, facing Craig.
“Huan Tsung, ex-governor of a Chinese province , and a prominent member of the Council of Seven, I had met before. He blandly denied any recollection of the meeting. As I had clearly been delivered at his shop during the evening in a crate, and taken into an adjoining cellar, Harkness and the commissioner proposed to arrest him.”
“I should have proposed ditto.”
“On what charge?” rapped Smith. “There are witnesses—including a police officer—to testify that he was not at home during the time I was being interviewed by Dr. Fu Manchu—”
“But you tell me he doubled with Fu Manchu—”
“Undoubtedly he did. But how can we prove it? A scholarly, elderly gentleman who claims to be French Canadian occupies the apartment on lower Fifth Avenue which Huan Tsung visited last night. They are old friends, it seems. They were discussing the political situation in China, and Huan Tsung returned to Pell Street for some correspondence bearing on the subject.”
“But Smith—you were found in his cellar!”
