A figure walked slowly along the veranda—that of a very tall, gaunt man wrapped in a heavy overcoat and wearing some kind of cap. He leaned upon a stick as one uncertain of his steps. The French window was thrown open. I saw Ardatha outlined against the light beyond. The gaunt figure went in, passed Ardatha, and then half turned.
“Lock the window,” I heard spoken sibilantly.
It wasDr. Fu Manchu!
As the window was fastened, the curtain draped and I rose to my knees: “Ss!” came a hiss from close behind me. ‘Don’t move, Kerrigan!”
My heart seemed to miss a throb. Nayland Smith was lying less than two yards away!
‘“You saw her?” he whispered.
“Of course!”
“I quite understand, old man. No wonder we failed to find her. But, even now, don’t despair—“
“Why?” I groaned. “What hope is left?”
Smith’s reply was curious: “Dr. Fu Manchu once had a daughter.”
He had drawn nearer, and now he touched my shoulder. At that moment I had no idea what his words meant; but I was to learn, later.
“Come on—this way.”
In darkness I stumbled along behind him until I found myself under a clump of trees in what I divined to be a neglected garden. Beyond, loomed the bulk of the mystery house—the house which harboured the most dangerous man in the world . . . and Ardatha.
“The lane into which the Packard turned,” he said rapidly, “simply leads to the garage of this house and the one beyond. The latter also is apparently vacant. I grasped the position in time, backed out and came to look for you. Sims, the Yard driver, has gone for a raiding party. He will take the injured man with him.”
“But—Barton?”
“We can only do our best until reinforcements arrive. But one duty we owe to the world—that we do not allow Dr. Fu Manchu to slip through our fingers!”
“Why didn’t you shoot him where he stood. Smith?”
“For two reasons. The first concerns yourself; the second is, that I know this place to be occupied by agents of the Doctor—and Barton is in their hands . . . . Good God! What’s that?”
I think I began to reply, but the words perished on my tongue.
It was one of those sounds which it is good to forget; a sound which otherwise might haunt one’s dreams. It was a strangled cry, the cry of a strong man in the grip of mortal terror. It died away. From leafless limbs of trees stretching over us came the drip-drip-drip of falling water.
Smith grasped my arm so hard that I winced.
“That was Barton!” he said, hoarsely. “God forgive me if they—“
His voice broke. Shining the torchlight on the path, he set out headlong for the house.
I have often wondered since what he had planned to do—what would have happened if that Fate which bound two destinies together had not intervened. I can only record what occurred.
We were scrambling across a thorny patch which I judged to be a rose-bed when Smith pulled up, turned, and threw me flat on the ground! His nervous strength in moments of excitement was astounding: I was down before I realized it was he who had thrown me!
“Quiet!” he hissed in my ear; he lay prone beside me. “Look!”
A door had been opened, I Saw a silhouette—I should have known it a mile away—that of a girl who seemed to be in wild distress. She raised her arms as if in a gesture of supplication, then pressed her hands over her ears and ran out, turning swiftly right, then vanished.
Smith was breathing as rapidly asI, but: “Ardatha has opened the door for us,” he said quietly. “Come on, Kerrigan.”
As we ran across and stepped into a lighted lobby Smith was as self-possessed as though we were paying a formal call; I, knowing that we challenged the greatest genius who ever worked for Satan, admired him.
“Gun ready,” he whispered. “Don’t hesitate to shoot.”
Something vaguely familiar about the place in which we stood was explained when I saw an open door beyond which was an empty room, its french windows draped with sombre velvet. This was the lobby I had seen from the other side of the house. It was well furnished, the floor strewn with rugs, and oppressively hot. The air was heavy with the perfume of hyacinths, several bowls of which decorated the place. A grandfather clock ticked solemnly before the newel post of a carpeted staircase. I found myself watching the swing of the pendulum as we stood there, listening. The illumination was scanty, and from beside a partly-opened door in a recess left of the stairs light shone out.
In the room beyond a voice was speaking. Smith exchanged a swift glance with me and advanced, tip-toe. The speaker was Fu Manchu!
“I warned you as long as six months ago,” came that singular voice—who, hearing, could ever forget it! “But my warning was not heeded. I have several times attempted, and as often failed, to recover Christophe’s chart from your house in Norfolk. Tonight, my agents did not fail—“
A bearskin rug had deadened the sound of our approach: now. Smith was opening the door by decimals of an inch per move.
“You fought for its possession. I do not blame you. I must respect a man of spirit. You might even have succeeded if Dr. Oster had not managed to introduce an intra muscular injection of crataegusin which produced immediate crataegus katatonia—or shall I say, stupor—“
Smith had opened the door nearly six inches. I obtained a glimpse of the room beyond. It looked like a study, and on a long, narrow writing-table a struggling man lay bound: I could not see his face.
“Since this occurred in the street, it necessitated your removal. And now. Sir Lionel, I have decided that your undoubted talents, plus the dangers attendant upon a premature discovery of your body, entitle you to live—and to serve the Si-Fan. My plans for departure are complete. Dr. Oster will operate again, and your perspective be adjusted. Proceed.”
Smith now had the door half open. I saw that the bound man was Barton. They had gagged him. His eyes, wild with horror, were turned to the door. He had seen it opening!
A man who wore black-rimmed spectacles was bending over him, a man whose outstanding peculiarity was a bright yellow complexion. From the constable’s description I recognized Dr. Oster. Barton’s coat had been removed, his shirt sleeves rolled up. The yellow Dr. Oster grasped a muscular arm near the biceps and pinched up a pucker of flesh. The agony in those staring eyes turned me cold—murderously cold. The fang of a hypodermic syringe touched Barton’s skin—
Smith threw the door open: Dr. Oster looked up.
To this hour I cannot recall actually pressing the trigger; but I heard the report.
I saw a tiny bluish mark appear in the middle of that yellow forehead. Dr. Oster glared straight at me through his spectacles, dropping the syringe, and, still glaring, voiceless, fell forward across Barton’s writhing body.
CHAPTER V
ARDATHA
“Don’t move, Fu Manchu! The game’s up this time!”
Smith leaped into the room, and I was close beside him. The dead man slipped slowly to his knees, still staring glassily straight ahead as if into some black hell suddenly revealed, and soundlessly crumpled up on the floor. One swift glance I gave to Barton, strapped on the long table, then spun about to face Dr. Fu Manchu.
ButDr. Fu Manchu was not there!
“Good God!”
Smith, for once, was wholly taken aback; he glared around him, one amazed beyond belief. The room, as I supposed, was a study. The wall right of the door through which we had burst in was covered by bookcases flanking an old oak cabinet having glazed windows behind which I saw specimens of porcelain on shelves. No other door was visible. But, although we had heard Fu Manchu speaking, Fu Manchu was not in the room . . . .