Inspector Weymouth’s wondering face peeped over my shoulder.
“Where is Dr. Fu-Manchu?” I whispered, as Nayland Smith in turn appeared beside me. “I cannot understand the silence of the house—”
“Look about,” replied Karamanèh, never taking her eyes from the face of Aziz.
I peered around the shadowy walls. Tall glass cases there were, shelves and niches: where once, from the gallery above, I had seen the tubes and retorts, the jars of unfamiliar organisms, the books of unfamiliar lore, the impedimenta of the occult student and man of science—the visible evidences of Fu-Manchu’s presence. Shelves—cases—niches—were bare. Of the complicated appliances unknown to civilized laboratories, wherewith he pursued his strange experiments, of the tubes wherein he isolated the bacilli of unclassified diseases, of the yellow-bound volumes for a glimpse at which (had they known of their contents) the great men of Harley Street would have given a fortune—no trace remained. The silken cushions; the inlaid tables; all were gone.
The room was stripped, dismantled. Had Fu-Manchu fled? The silence assumed a new significance. His dacoits and kindred ministers of death all must have fled, too.
“You have let him escape us!” I said rapidly. “You promised to aid us to capture him—to send us a message—and you have delayed until—”
“No,” she said; “no!” and clutched at my arm again. “Oh! is he not reviving slowly? Are you sure you have made no mistake?”
Her thoughts were all for the boy; and her solicitude touched me. I again examined Aziz, the most remarkable patient of my busy professional career.
As I counted the strengthening pulse, he opened his dark eyes—which were so like the eyes of Karamanèh—and, with the girl’s eager arms tightly about him, sat up, looking wonderingly around.
Karamanèh pressed her cheek to his, whispering loving words in that softly spoken Arabic which had first betrayed her nationality to Nayland Smith. I handed her my flask, which I had filled with wine.
“My promise is fulfilled!” I said. “You are free! Now for Fu-Manchu! But first let us admit the police to this house; there is something uncanny in its stillness.”
“No,” she replied. “First let my brother be taken out and placed in safety. Will you carry him?”
She raised her face to that of Inspector Weymouth, upon which was written awe and wonder.
The burly detective lifted the boy as tenderly as a woman, passed through the shadows to the stairway, ascended, and was swallowed up in the gloom. Nayland Smith’s eyes gleamed feverishly. He turned to Karamanèh.
“You are not playing with us?” he said harshly. “We have done our part; it remains for you to do yours.”
“Do not speak so loudly,” the girl begged. “He is near us—and, oh, God, I fear him so!”
“Where is he?” persisted my friend.
Karamanèh’s eyes were glassy with fear now.
“You must not touch him until the police are here,” she said—but from the direction of her quick, agitated glances I knew that, her brother safe now, she feared for me, and for me alone. Those glances sent my blood dancing; for Karamanèh was an Eastern jewel which any man of flesh and blood must have coveted had he known it to lie within his reach. Her eyes were twin lakes of mystery which, more than once, I had known the desire to explore.
“Look—beyond that curtain”—her voice was barely audible—“but do not enter. Even as he is, I fear him.”
Her voice, her palpable agitation, prepared us for something extraordinary. Tragedy and Fu-Manchu were never far apart. Though we were two, and help was so near, we were in the abode of the most cunning murderer who ever came out of the East.
It was with strangely mingled emotions that I crossed the thick carpet, Nayland Smith beside me, and drew aside the draperies concealing a door, to which Karamanèh had pointed. Then, upon looking into the dim place beyond, all else save what it held was forgotten.
We looked upon a small, square room, the walls draped with fantastic Chinese tapestry, the floor strewn with cushions; and reclining in a corner, where the faint, blue light from a lamp, placed upon a low table, painted grotesque shadows about the cavernous face—was Dr. Fu-Manchu!
At sight of him my heart leaped—and seemed to suspend its functions, so intense was the horror which this man’s presence inspired in me. My hand clutching the curtain, I stood watching him. The lids veiled the malignant green eyes, but the thin lips seemed to smile. Then Smith silently pointed to the hand which held a little pipe. A sickly perfume assailed my nostrils, and the explanation of the hushed silence, and the ease with which we had thus far executed our plan, came to me. The cunning mind was torpid—lost in a brutish world of dreams.
Fu-Manchu was in an opium sleep!
The dim light traced out a network of tiny lines, which covered the yellow face from the pointed chin to the top of the great domed brow, and formed deep shadow pools in the hollows beneath his eyes. At last we had triumphed.
I could not determine the depth of his obscene trance; and mastering some of my repugnance, and forgetful of Karamanèh’s warning, I was about to step forward into the room, loaded with its nauseating opium fumes, when a soft breath fanned my cheek.
“Do not go in!” came Karamanèh’s warning voice—hushed—trembling.
Her little hand grasped my arm. She drew Smith and myself back from the door.
“There is danger there!” she whispered. “Do not enter that room! The police must reach him in some way—and drag him out! Do not enter that room!”
The girl’s voice quivered hysterically; her eyes blazed into savage flame. The fierce resentment born of dreadful wrongs was consuming her now; but fear of Fu-Manchu held her yet. Inspector Weymouth came down the stairs and joined us.
“I have sent the boy to Ryman’s room at the station,” he said. “The divisional surgeon will look after him until you arrive, Dr. Petrie. All is ready now. The launch is just off the wharf and every side of the place under observation. Where’s
