“Everything.”
“I’m off to Paris in an hour, or I should have loved to have you to lunch with me. But I expect you’ll be well occupied with your own affairs. I saw you in Pall Mall one afternoon with an uncommonly pretty girl. You Americans seem to be damned popular!”
When Wellingham hung up, Brian lay back on his ruffled pillow and tried to figure out just where he stood and how he felt about it.
He had sent a long airmail letter to his father, telling him that a chance to travel had some his way in the form of a job as assistant to no one less than Sir Denis Nayland Smith. The senator had replied, offering good advice and assuring Brian of his support if ever it should be needed. Then had followed some disturbing facts about the situation in the Near East.
“The public,” his father wrote, “don’t appreciate the seriousness of the situation out there. Here at home they think it doesn’t concern them as the trouble is so far away. But I can assure you that the President is deeply disturbed. The U.S.A. is the only partner in the Western bloc with any cash in the bank. This piles a terrible responsibility on to us. I’m sure you know how to take care of yourself, my boy, but be very careful when you get to Egypt. You couldn’t have a better man beside you than Nayland Smith. . . .”
But now that the moment of departure was near it all seemed unreal. A dream had been realized. He had knocked, and the gate of adventure had opened.
And it meant that he had only one more day with Lola!
He snatched up the phone; asked to be put through to her room.
There was no reply. But she had probably slept late as he had done, and was now in her bath. He hung up, waited impa tiently for ten minutes, and then called again.
No reply.
He jumped out of bed, called room service, ordered coffee, and went into the bathroom. The waiter came while Brian was in there. He rapped on the door.
“Your coffee, sir—and a note for you.”
Brian came out wrapped in a towel before the man had left the room. On the tray he saw a hotel envelope addressed to him ... in Lola’s handwriting!
He tore it open impatiently and read:
Brian dear: I found instructions when I got in last night to take a 9.35 a.m. train to Nottingham where there’s a sale of old lace. Which means I can’t get back until tomorrow! This drove me crazy. But I called the office this morning and asked for tomorrow off. I had to leave at 8.30 and didn’t like to wake you. But we can spend the whole day together.
Love, Brian dear. Lola.
Native Cairo slept. No sound came from the narrow street upon which the gate of a tree-shadowed courtyard opened. Inside the house there was unbroken silence. . . . And Matsukata and the old Arab physician never stirred.
They had witnessed the appalling convulsions brought about by the injection of the secret elixir. In intervals of exhaustion, the Japanese surgeon had anxiously tested Dr. Fu Manchu’s heart, and had shaken his head. Even his wonderful composure had almost deserted him. But:
“It is always so,” the old Arab had murmured. “Only, his heart is ten years older than the last time.”
For four hours they had been watching there, tirelessly. The convulsive struggles had subsided long before. Dr. Fu Manchu lay still as a dead man, so that his resemblance to the mummy of the long dead Pharaoh Seti I was uncannily increased.
The great change came slowly. First, the grey tinge faded from the face of the apparently dead man. Then, hollow cheeks seemed to fill out. Faintly, and soon more clearly, Fu Manchu’s breath became audible. The two doctors exchanged glances. The old Arab drew a handkerchief from the sleeve of his robe and dried his forehead.
And, at last, Dr. Fu Manchu awoke—a dead man snatched from the tomb by his own superhuman knowledge.
He opened his eyes. They were clouded no longer. They were brilliantly green. He looked from face to face.
“Mankind is spared.” His voice had all its old authority. “My star rises in the East. ...”
* * *
Brian spent a most unhappy morning. He decided that he needed company, and called up everybody he could think of to join him for lunch. But everybody either was away or had a prior engagement.
His packing was done in half an hour, for he travelled light, and he lunched alone in the hotel grill-room, wondering if he would ever lunch there again with Lola. Now that separation had come, swift as a sword stroke, he realized acutely how much she meant to him. He thought of the wildest plans, such as chartering a plane to Nottingham, but common sense rejected them. It was Fate. He must bow to it. He wouldn’t see her any more before he left for Cairo. . . .
After a miserable lunch he walked across to Hyde Park, a hotel writing-pad in his pocket, and took a chair at a spot where he could see the boats on the Serpentine. Lola and he had often sat there. He settled down to write her a long letter. It proved to be even a longer letter than he had intended it to be, and he decided to read it through and see if he had repeated himself.
It was at this point that he became aware of a voice. This voice was in some way familiar. The speaker seemed to be seated somewhere behind him, but too far away for Brian to make out what he was saying. Yet he seemed to recognize the voice, its curious intonations.
He tried to tune in to this voice; to blot out other sounds:
oars in rowlocks, shouts of young oarsmen, splashing; to pick out words. And, up to a point, he succeeded.
“. . . no choice . . . instructions are . . . break off. . . association . . . Sorry ... all that . . .”
And now, Brian’s curiosity had to be satisfied. Taking out a cigarette, he sparked his lighter and turned aside as if to guard the flame from a trifling breeze, but really so that he could glance over his shoulder.
His curiosity was satisfied.
The Honourable Peter Wellingham sat in the shade of a fine old oak tree talking animatedly to a girl whose face was shadowed by a large wide-brimmed hat but who almost certainly was Lola!
Brian turned his head quickly. He had a sudden sensation almost of nausea. Desperately he clung to the fact that he couldn’t be sure the girl was Lola; but . . . Although Wellingham had called him on several occasions this was the first time he had seen him since that fateful morning when the agreement had been signed. And Wellingham had told him only a few hours ago that he was leaving for Paris almost immediately!
His world was turning topsy-turvy. Wellingham had lied to him—unless he had missed his plane—and, unless he had made a stupid mistake, Lola was not in Nottingham!
Brian put his pen back in his pocket, stared at the long, unfinished letter. First, he must regain control of himself, then make sure that he hadn’t been mistaken about the identity of the girl with Wellingham. He must be cautious. If he had been lured into some kind of trap, if Wellingham and Lola (his heart seemed to miss a beat or two), were in league, what was their purpose?
He became calmer; listened again. He could no longer hear Wellingham’s voice. He turned cautiously and looked back.
They were walking away!
Brian jumped up and followed. Already they had a long start and were headed for the highway parallel to Rotten Row where cars could be parked. He began to run.
The graceful carriage of the girl, her figure, even the dress she wore, told him that she was Lola. The big flop hat he had never seen. But it might be worn to shade her face if they chanced to meet him.
He was still yards behind when Wellingham opened the door of a smart convertible for the girl, walked around and got into the driving seat. The car glided off. . . .
Brian called Peter Wellingham’s number, but was told by a soothing female voice which he seemed to recognize as that of the Eurasian secretary, that Mr. Wellingham was not at home. He gave his name and asked where Mr. Wellingham had gone. She was so sorry, but she didn’t know. Was there any message?
