Re-enter Dr Fu Manchu

wrong persons.

Nayland Smith knew, for Nayland Smith had warned him. Long ago, returning from Washington to renew his Oxford studies, Brian had forgotten the discussion between his father and Sir Denis concerning (as he thought at the time) the possibly mythical creature called Dr. Fu Manchu. But now——

This fabulous Oriental genius had cast his net around him ... and Nayland Smith himself was fighting to escape from it!

What was he to make of Zoe’s warning?

Clearly, she knew of his danger. Perhaps she had learned it at that very moment when the dream had appeared to him. How she had come to know he couldn’t imagine. But she was evidently aware of the fact that in urging him to run for it she herself might become enmeshed.

Here were very troubled waters; for whatever might be the source of her information, whatever underlay her queer reticence, that Zoe’s warning had been desperately sincere he couldn’t doubt. She was in a state of terror, and first he must do his best to reassure her about the eavesdropper.

He dismissed the old beggar, then sat down again and forced what he feared might be a parody of his usual happy grin.

“There is someone there. Who is it?” He saw how pale she had become.

“Nobody to worry about, dear. Just a dirty old beggar man. I dropped him an English shilling and told him to go take a long walk.”

“He was listening,” she whispered. “He heard me.”

“I don’t believe he has a word of English.”

“But I heard you say, ‘Let me look at you!’ Does he look?”

“He just knew I was mad at him and looked up. It doesn’t mean he knows English.”

Zoe’s amber eyes blazed. “He was listening. You know he was listening!”

Brian tried to think clearly. “Suppose he was, Zoe. And suppose he does know English. What have you to worry about?”

She turned her head aside, so that the brim of her hat quite shadowed her face.

“I cannot explain to you, Brian. What was told to me was told—in confidence. For your sake I speak. If it is found out——”

“Well, Zoe dear, what then?”

“It could be terrible. But you can do nothing about it. Only one thing, to give me peace of mind about you ... Do as I ask. Do not stay here one hour longer than you can help!”

“But, Zoe. I don’t know, and I’m not going to worry you to tell me, where you got hold of the idea that I’m in danger, but isn’t it possible you’re letting yourself get all het up for nothing?”

She turned, and her eyes challenged him. “It is not for nothing! Could it be for nothing that I beg you to go away when I want you to stay with me? How can you think this!”

Brian realized, at last, that Zoe was in a state of tremendous nervous tension. His well-meant but perhaps clumsy attempt to soothe her fears had only increased this. He must change his tactics. The situation was utterly fantastic. But he knew that the danger was real enough.

“I guess you’d like to get back.” He spoke uneasily. “I’ll try to contact Sir Denis.”

“It will be no use,” Zoe whispered. “But—yes—let us go, Brian.”

There was a note of such black despair in her voice that he felt chilled. A cloud seemed to darken the Egyptian sunshine. He stood up, walked around and rested his hands on Zoe’s bowed shoulders.

“Don’t let it get you down, Zoe. I’ll go in and order a car right away to take us back to Cairo.”

She reached up and held both his hands. “Not to Cairo, Brian—to Port Said where we can find a ship! Do this and I will come with you. Leave all you have. It will be better—for you and for me. I am not mad. I know what I say. Do it—do it, Brian!”

“But, Zoe, dear, tonight——”

“Tonight is too late. It is now or never! . . . Oh! It is hopeless!” She thrust his hands away. “I can never make you understand! Go, then. I will wait here.”

His brain behaving like a carousel, Brian went into the hotel and arranged for a car. He could no longer delude himself. The ragged old ruffian he had found seated in the road was a spy. And he was there to listen to their conversation. Zoe knew this, and her pitiable panic was clear enough evidence of the menace overhanging them.

He toyed longingly with the temptation to accept her warning. She had become more than ever desirable. She was beautiful, and a delightful companion, responding to all his moods, equally prepared to dance, to swim or to ride as the humour moved him. And in all they did together she was graceful and efficient.

But it was morally unthinkable that he should break his contract with Sir Denis—particularly now, when Nayland Smith needed him.

He walked slowly back to the garden and along to their table.

But Zoe wasn’t there!

Brian felt his heart jump and then seem to stop for a moment. He sat down, looking at the empty chair. And by degrees he recovered himself. He, too, was giving way to panic. No doubt she had merely gone into the hotel to prepare herself for the drive.

This theory kept him quiet for five, ten, fifteen minutes. Then he decided that it was wrong.

He went in to make inquiries. But no one had seen her. He went back to the deserted table . . . and it was still deserted.

A boy walked down the path, and Brian jumped up expectantly.

“Your car is waiting, sir. . . .”

Chapter

7

Dr. Fu Manchu, seated on a divan in the saloon of the old house near the Mosque of El-Ashraf, gazed straight before him as a man in a trance. A sickly smell of opium hung in the still air. The long, hypnotic eyes were narrowed. Sometimes a sort of film seemed to pass across them and was gone, leaving them brilliantly green.

He aroused himself; struck a small gong which stood on a table beside him. And immediately, like a djinn answering a magic summons, a stocky Burmese with a caste-mark on his forehead, came in and saluted deeply. Fu Manchu spoke to him in his own language:

“Is Zobeida here?”

“She is here, Master.”

“Send her in to me.”

So soon after the man went out as to suggest that the girl had been waiting in some adjoining room, Zoe came in. She was dressed as she had been dressed at Mena House, except that she no longer wore her sun-hat. Although pale, she was quite composed. It was the composure of resignation.

Without attempting to meet the glance which Fu Manchu fixed upon her, she dropped to her knees and lowered her head. There was a long silence in the saloon. Sounds from the street outside sometimes penetrated dimly, but no word was spoken, until:

“Look up,” Dr. Fu Manchu commanded harshly, now using Arabic. “Look up! Speak!”

Zoe, known here as Zobeida, looked up.

“I have nothing to say, Master.” She lowered her head again.

“To me you mean, little serpent! ButAbdul al-Taleb (‘Abdul the Fox’) reports that you had much, too much, to say to Mr. Brian Merrick. Be so good as to tell me with what object you tried deliberately to disturb my plans.”

“I was sorry for him.”

Dr. Fu Manchu took a pinch of snuff from a little silver box, but never once ceased to watch the kneeling girl.

“There is no room for these moods of compassion in those who work for the Si-Fan. I bought you in an Arabian slave-market. I bought you for your beauty. A beautiful woman is a valuable weapon. But the blade must be true. You were trained to take your place in any walk of society. You have all the necessary accomplishments. Neither time nor money was spared in perfecting you for my purpose. Yet, like another I trained and trusted, your