He hesitated, glancing about as if to seek help from one of his confreres.
“That Barton,” Sir Wallace Syms continued—”whose sense of humour sometimes betrays him—has seen fit to play a joke upon us!”
By this time I was thoroughly angry.
“What the devil do you mean. Sir Wallace?” I asked.
My anger had one immediate effect. Professor Eisner stood up and approached me, putting his arm about my shoulders.
“My young friend,” he explained, “something has gone wrong. It will all be explained, no doubt. But be calm.”
His manner quietened me. I recognized its sincerity. And, giving me a kind of final reassuring hug: “I shall not be surprised to hear,” he went on, “that you have not examined these relics recently. Eh?”
“Not,” I admitted, “since they were put in the case.”
“Since you placed them in the case, eh? Now, you have already a considerable reputation, Mr. Greville. I have talked with you, and you know your subject. Before we say any more, please to look at this sword.”
He stepped to the table, took up the Sword of God, returned, and handed it to me. My anger was still simmering as I took the thing up and glanced at it. Having done so:
“Well,” I replied, “I have looked. What do you expect me to say?”
“To say nothing—yet.” Again that reassuring arm was around my shoulders. “But to look, examine carefully—”
“It’s simply absurd!” came the voice of Dr. Brieux.
“If you please!” snapped the Professor sharply—”if you please! What you have to say, Doctor can wait for a moment.”
Amid a silence which vibrated with hostility, I examined the blade in my hand. And I suppose, as I did so, my expression changed.
“Ah! you see, eh?” said the German.
And while I stared with horrified eyes at the blade, the inlay, the hilt, he had darted to the table, almost immediately to return with one of the gold plates. Relieving me of the sword, he placed the inscribed tablet in my hands.
“It is beautifully done!” He almost whispered the words, very close to my ear; “and rubbed down very fine. But look...”
He held a glass before my eye—one of those which I had provided for this very purpose.
I looked—and I knew!
Tossing the plate down, I faced the three men around the table. Professor Eisner remained beside me.
“Gentlemen,” I said—”my apologies. I can only ask you to remain silent until this mystery has been cleared up. I will try, to the best of my ability, to explain.”
The sword, the plates, and the mask, which I had exhibited to these four experts, were, beyond any shadow of doubt, the duplicates made by Solomon Ishak....
CHAPTER FIFTIETH
DR. FU MANCHU TRIUMPHS
Thanks to Rima’s photographs, I proved my case. The blade of the sword, as I realised, had been provided by Soloman Ishak. It closely resembled the sword of the prophet, but differed in several essential particulars.
The stones in the hilt (the hilt had been reproduced exactly) were genuine and must have cost the chief some hundreds of pounds; but they were much smaller than those shown in the photograph; and some of them badly flawed.
Under a powerful lens the plates shrieked forgery aloud. I learned later that they had been photographed from Rima’s negatives onto the gold and then engraved by Solomon’s workmen. Closely examined, the newly cut gold betrayed the secret.
The mask was the most perfect duplicate I have ever handled; but the two large jewels were reconstructed; and the delicate engravery, magnified, betrayed itself in the same way as that upon the plates.
However, a friendly atmosphere was re-established before the party broke up. I had admitted—could see no alternative— that Sir Lionel had a duplicate set made in Persia. And it was obvious that this was the set which now lay upon the table.
When and where the substitution had taken place, I left to the imagination of my visitors. They were sympathetic in a way, but the Englishmen were laughing at me; and the Frenchman, who had come from Paris especially to view the relics, was very plainly annoyed.
Professor Eisner alone seemed to understand and to sympathise. He was the last to leave, and:
“Mr. Greville,” he said in parting, “Sir Lionel Barton has touched deep, secret influences in this matter. He has been clever—very clever; but they have been more clever still. Eh? You will find out one day when this trick was done.”
But as from the window I watched him swinging down Bruton Street with the walk of a dragoon, I knew that I had nothing to find out. I already knew where dreaming had ended and reality had begun. And I knew why Fah Lo Suee had whispered: “You will live to hate me....”
I was still trying to get a call through to the chief, whose Norfolk number was a private extension, when Belts came in and announced:
“Sir Denis Nayland Smith and Dr. Petrie, sir.”
I hung up the receiver and positively sprang to meet them.
They were waiting for me in the room on the left of the lobby, the room in which I had received my learned visitors that morning. I suppose my expression must have betrayed me, for I saw, as I ran in, that both had sensed the fact that there was something wrong.
“What is it, Greville?” snapped Nayland Smith—”Barton? Rima?”
“Both safe,” I replied. “This is a delightful surprise! You are a whole day ahead of your schedule!”
“Flew from Marseilles,” said Sir Denis.
“But something is wrong with you,” Dr. Petrie declared, holding onto my hand and looking at me searchingly.
I nodded, smiling, although I was far from mirthful.
“Suppose you prescribe a drink. Doctor!” I suggested; “I feel badly shot away. Then I will try to explain the position.”
It occupied me longer than I could have supposed; involving as it did an account of what had happened since I had parted from my friend on the previous night, right up to my recent interview with the four experts.
Long before I had reached the end of it, Nayland Smith was pacing up and down the room in his restless fashion, having relighted his pipe three or four times. But at last, when that strange story was ended:
“Amazing,” he snapped, “but ghastly.” He turned to Petrie. “I told you that Fu Manchu would be in England ahead of us.”
“You did,” the doctor agreed.
“He is here?” I exclaimed.
“Undoubtedly, Greville. He keeps a close watch upon his beautiful daughter! Your dream, as it seemed to you, was of course no dream at all. You were subjected last night, in the basement of the adjoining house, to the treatment referred to by Dr. Fu Manchu; an injection in your arm. Petrie can probably discover the mark. Eh, Petrie?”
“Possibly,” the doctor replied guardedly. “But I can make an examination later, Smith. Please carry on.”
“Very well. Later, you were given that ‘simple antidote’ which he mentioned. You remember now those lost hours in Cairo. And some of your memories, Greville, are most illuminating. I can see Hewlett and myself searching the Sukkariya quarter, when actually the house for which we were looking was somewhere out at Gizeh!
“The drug used by Fu Manchu (obviously that mentioned by McGovem) renders the subject peculiarly susceptible to suggestion. I suppose you appreciate that you had your instructions from Fah Lo Suee, who was awaiting your return in the adjoining empty house, to open the door for her at a specified time?”
“I must have opened it,” I returned blankly;” for, otherwise, how did she get in?”