I knew what he was about to say, and I said it for him, shouted it, angrily:
“Where is Rima?”
For one instant the long green eyes flickered in my direction. I felt the force of that enormous intellect, and:
“She is here,” said Dr. Fu Manchu softly. “I said she would be here.”
The last words were spoken as if nothing could be more conclusive. I was on the point of challenging them, but, somehow, there was that in their utterance which seemed unchallengeable. The crowning mystery of the thing presented itself nakedly before me.
How had Fu Manchu gained access to this place, the entrance to which had been watched from sunset? How had Rima been smuggled in?
“Your motives,” said Nayland Smith, speaking in the manner of one who holds himself tightly on the curb, “are not clear to me. This movement among certain Moslem sects—which, I take it, you hope to direct—must break down when the facts are published.”
“To which facts do you more particularly refer?” the Chinese doctor inquired sibilantly.
“The fact that an extemporised bomb was exploded in the tomb of El Mokanna by Sir Lionel Barton, and that the light seen in the sky on that occasion was caused in this manner; the fact that the relics were brought by him to Egypt and returned to the conspirators under coercion. What becomes of the myth of a prophet reborn when this plain statement is made public?”
“It will not affect the situation in any way; it will be looked upon as ingenious propaganda of a kind often employed in the past. And since neither Sir Lionel Barton nor anyone else will be in a position to prove that the relics were ever in his possession, it will not be accepted.”
“And your own association with the movement?”
“Is welcome, since the ideals of the Si-Fan are in harmony with the aims of those Moslem sects you have mentioned, Sir Denis. Subterfuge between us is useless. This time I fight in the open. One thing, and one thing only, can defeat the New Mokanna...his failure to produce those evidences of his mission which, I presume, you bring to me to-night....”
His strength and the cool vigour of his utterance had now, as I could see, arrested Sir Denis’s attention as they had arrested mine; and:
“I congratulate you,” he said dryly. “Your constitution would seem to be unimpaired by your great responsibilities.”
Dr. Fu Manchu slightly inclined his head.
“I am, I thank you, restored again to normal health. And I note with satisfaction that you, also, are your old vigorous self. You have drawn a cordon of Egyptian police around me— as you are entitled to do under the terms of our covenant. You hope to trap me, and have acted as I, in your place, should have acted. But I know that for ten minutes after our interview is concluded I am safe from molestation. I am not blind to the conditions. My safety lies in my knowledge that you will strictly adhere to them.”
He clapped his hands sharply.
What I expected to happen, I don’t know. But Nayland Smith and I both glanced instinctively back to the low opening. What actually happened transcended anything I could have imagined.
A low shuddering cry brought me swiftly about again.
“Shan!”
Rima, deathly pale in the strange light of that globular lamp, was standing upright behind the granite coffer!
My heart leapt, and then seemed to stop, as she fixed her wide-open eyes upon me appealingly. And Sir Denis, that man of steel nerve, exhibited such amazement as I had never known him to show in all the years of our friendship.
“Rima!” he cried. “Good God! Have you been lying there, hiding?”
“Yes!” she turned to him. I saw that her hands were clenched. “I promised.” She glanced down at the motionless, high-shouldered figure seated before her. “It was my part of the bargain.”
Describing a wide circle around the sinister Chinaman, she ran to me, and I had her in my arms. I could feel her heart beating wildly. I held her close, stroking her hair: she was overwrought, on the verge of collapse. She was whispering rapidly—incoherently—other fears for my safety, other happiness to be with me again, when those low even tones came:
“I have performed what I promised. Sir Denis. It is now your turn....”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIRST
THE TRAP IS LAID
My last recollection as I stopped and went out must always remain vivid in my mind.
Those golden records of the Masked Prophet, one of the unique finds in the history of archaeology, lay glittering upon the narrow table under the light of that strange globular lamp. Dr. Fu Manchu, his long pointed chin resting upon his crossed hands, his elbows upon the table, watched us unfalteringly.
One grave anxiety was set at rest. In reply to a pointed question of Nayland Smith’s, he had assured us that Rima had not been subjected to “damnable drugs or Lama tricks” (Sir Denis’s own words). And, fearing and loathing Dr. Fu Manchu as I did, yet, incredible though it may seem, I never thought of doubting his word. A hundred and one questions I was dying to ask Rima, but first and foremost I wanted to find the sky above by head again.
The Great Corridor was empty from end to end. And, I leading and Nayland Smith bringing up the rear, we stumbled down to the point where it communicates with the narrower passage. Here I turned, and looked back as far as the light of my lamp could reach.
Nothing was visible. I could only think that Dr. Fu Manchu remained alone in the King’s Chamber....
I glanced at Rima. She was clenching her teeth bravely, and even summoned up a pallid smile. But I could see that she was close to the edge of her resources.
“Hurry!” snapped Nayland Smith. “Remember—ten minutes!”
But even when, passing the lowest point, we began to mount towards open air, somehow, I could not credit the idea that Dr. Fu Manchu had carried out this business unaided. I paused again.
“It was here that we heard,” I began——
As though my words had been a cue, from somewhere utterly impossible in those circumstances to define, came the dim note of a gong!
Rima clutched me convulsively. In that age-old corridor, in the heart of the strangest building erected by the hands of man, it was as uncanny a sound as imagination could have conjured up.
“Don’t be afraid, Rima,” came Nayland Smith’s voice. “It’s only a signal that we are on the way up!”
“Oh!” she gasped, “but I can’t bear much more. Please get me out, Shan!—get me out...”
I led on as swiftly as possible. Had Rima collapsed, it would have been no easy task to carry her along that cramped passage. But the purpose of those signals, apart from the mystery of the hiding place of whoever gave them, was a problem we were destined never satisfactorily to solve.
As we had arranged, five men with Dr. Petrie were immediately outside the entrance.
“Thank God, Petrie,” said Nayland Smith hoarsely. “We’ve got her! Here she is! Take care other, old man.”
Whereupon, at sight of the Doctor, Rima’s wonderful fortitude deserted her. She threw herself into his arms with a muffled scream and began to sob hysterically.
“Rima, dear,” I exclaimed, “Rima!”
Petrie, supporting her with one arm, waved to me to go on, at the same time nodding reassuringly.
“Come on, Greville,” said Nayland Smith. “She’s in safe hands, and better without you at the moment.”
We had arranged—I confess I had never dared to hope that our arrangements would be carried out—to take her to Mena House. Down on the sands at the foot of the slope Sir Lionel and Hewlett were stationed. And, as I jumped from the last step: