“He has been detained in China,” he replied, in smooth, sibilant tones—“by affairs of great urgency. His well-known personality and ungregarious habits have served me well, here!”
Smith, I could see, was undetermined how to act; he stood tugging at his ear and glancing from the impassive Chinaman to the wondering detectives.
“What are we to do, sir?” one of them asked.
“Leave Dr. Petrie and myself alone with the prisoner, until I call you.”
The three withdrew. I divined now what was coming.
“Can you restore Weymouth’s sanity?” rapped Smith abruptly. “I cannot save you from the hangman, nor”—his fists clenched convulsively—“would I if I could; but—”
Fu-Manchu fixed his brilliant eyes upon him.
“Say no more, Mr. Smith,” he interrupted; “you misunderstand me. I do not quarrel with that, but what I have done from conviction and what I have done of necessity are separated—are seas apart. The brave Inspector Weymouth I wounded with a poisoned needle, in self-defense; but I regret his condition as greatly as you do. I respect such a man. There is an antidote to the poison of the needle.”
“Name it,” said Smith.
Fu-Manchu smiled again.
“Useless,” he replied. “I alone can prepare it. My secrets shall die with me. I will make a sane man of Inspector Weymouth, but no one else shall be in the house but he and I.”
“It will be surrounded by police,” interrupted Smith grimly.
“As you please,” said Fu-Manchu. “Make your arrangements. In that ebony case upon the table are the instruments for the cure. Arrange for me to visit him where and when you will—”
“I distrust you utterly. It is some trick,” jerked Smith.
Dr. Fu-Manchu rose slowly and drew himself up to his great height. His manacled hands could not rob him of the uncanny dignity which was his. He raised them above his head with a tragic gesture and fixed his piercing gaze upon Nayland Smith.
“The God of Cathay hear me,” he said, with a deep, guttural note in his voice—“I swear—”
The most awful visitor who ever threatened the peace of England, the end of the visit of Fu-Manchu was characteristic—terrible—inexplicable.
Strange to relate, I did not doubt that this weird being had conceived some kind of admiration or respect for the man to whom he had wrought so terrible an injury. He was capable of such sentiments, for he entertained some similar one in regard to myself.
A cottage farther down the village street than Weymouth’s was vacant, and in the early dawn of that morning became the scene of outré happenings. Poor Weymouth, still in a comatose condition, we removed there (Smith having secured the key from the astonished agent). I suppose so strange a specialist never visited a patient before—certainly not under such conditions.
For into the cottage, which had been entirely surrounded by a ring of police, Dr. Fu-Manchu was admitted from the closed car in which, his work of healing complete, he was to be borne to prison—to death!
Law and justice were suspended by my royally empowered friend that the enemy of the white race might heal one of those who had hunted him down!
No curious audience was present, for sunrise was not yet come; no concourse of excited students followed the hand of the Master; but within that surrounded cottage was performed one of those miracles of science which in other circumstances had made the fame of Dr. Fu-Manchu to live forever.
Inspector Weymouth, dazed, disheveled, clutching his head as a man who has passed through the Valley of the Shadow—but sane—sane!—walked out into the porch!
He looked towards us—his eyes wild, but not with the fearsome wildness of insanity.
“Mr. Smith!” he cried—and staggered down the path—“Dr. Petrie! What—”
There came a deafening explosion. From every visible window of the deserted cottage flames burst forth!
“Quick!” Smith’s voice rose almost to a scream—“into the house!”
He raced up the path, past Inspector Weymouth, who stood swaying there like a drunken man. I was close upon his heels. Behind me came the police.
The door was impassable! Already, it vomited a deathly heat, borne upon stifling fumes like those of the mouth of the Pit. We burst a window. The room within was a furnace!
“My God!” cried someone. “This is supernatural!”
“Listen!” cried another. “Listen!”
The crowd which a fire can conjure up at any hour of day or night, out of the void of nowhere, was gathering already. But upon all descended a pall of silence.
From the heat of the holocaust a voice proclaimed itself—a voice raised, not in anguish but in triumph! It chanted barbarically—and was still.
The abnormal flames rose higher—leaping forth from every window.
“The alarm!” said Smith hoarsely. “Call up the brigade!”
I come to the close of my chronicle, and feel that I betray a trust—the trust of my reader. For having limned in the colors at my command the fiendish Chinese doctor, I am unable to conclude my task as I should desire, unable, with any consciousness of finality, to write “Finis” to the end of my narrative.
It seems to me sometimes that my pen is but temporarily idle—that I have but dealt with a single phase of a movement having a hundred phases. One sequel I hope for, and against all the promptings of logic and Western bias. If my hope shall be realized I cannot, at this time, pretend to state.
The future, ’mid its many secrets, holds this precious one from me.
I ask you then, to absolve me from the charge of ill completing my work; for any curiosity with which this narrative may leave the reader burdened is shared by the writer.
With intent, I have rushed you from the chambers of Professor Jenner Monde to that closing episode at the deserted cottage; I have made the pace hot in order to impart to these last pages of my account something of the breathless scurry which characterized those happenings.
My canvas may seem sketchy: it is my impression of the reality. No hard details remain in my mind of the dealings of that night. Fu-Manchu
