Madame Ingomar was speaking rapidly to the butler who had admitted them, a squat Burman, dressed in white, and possessing an incredible width of shoulder. They spoke in a language which Sir Bertram did not understand.
CHAPTER
20
GOLD
The room to which Madame Ingomar presently conducted Sir Bertram was astonishing in many respects.
“I will tell my father you are here,” she said—and he found himself alone.
From the lacquer armchair in which he sat, Sir Bertram surveyed his surroundings. He saw a room Orientally elegant, having entrances closed with sliding doors. Two shaded lanterns swung from the ceiling, illuminating the room warmly, and a number of brightly coloured cushions were strewn about the floor. There were tapestries in which red and gold ran riot, so that one lost the head of a dragon and failed to recover it again in endeavouring to trace his tail. Rich carpets and cushioned divans; a number of handsome cabinets containing fine pottery, a battalion of books in unfamiliar bindings arranged upon shelves which, conforming to the scheme of the room, were of dull red lacquer.
At the end remote from that where Sir Bertram sat, in a deep tiled hearth, a small chemical furnace threw its red glow into the room. On a shelf just above this furnace there was a row of jars which contained preserved lizards, snakes and other small reptiles; there was a large table, apparently of Italian workmanship, magnificently inlaid, upon which were some open faded volumes and a number of scientific instruments.
One of the lacquer doors slid noiselessly open and a man came in. Sir Bertram hesitated for a moment and then stood up.
The newcomer was a singularly tall Chinaman who wore a plain yellow robe which accentuated the gaunt lines of his figure. A black cap surmounted by a bead crowned his massive skull. Introductions were superfluous: Sir Bertram Morgan knew that he stood in the presence of the Marquis Chang Hu.
The man radiated authority. He was impressive to a degree exceeding Sir Bertram’s experience. Perhaps the similarity of the profile of Madame Ingomar to that of the long-dead, beautiful Egyptian queen subconsciously prompted the image, but Sir Bertram thought, as others had thought before him, that the aged, ageless, majestic face of the man in the yellow robe resembled the face of the Pharaoh Seti I whose power, unex-ercised for four thousand years, may still be felt by anyone who bends over the glass case in Cairo which contains the mummy of that mighty king.
“You are welcome, Sir Bertram.” The tall Chinaman advanced, bowing formally. “Please be seated. I honour my daughter for arranging this interview.
“It is a pleasure to me, too, sir.”
Sir Bertram spoke sincerely. He was used to nobilities and to the off-shoots of imperial trees, but this survivor of the royal Manchus was a Prince indeed.
He wondered what he was doing in England. Knowing something of the situation in China, he wondered if the charming and promising adventure with Madame Ingomar had been no more than a lead-up to this; an attempt to enlist him in some hopeless campaign, financially to readjust the hopeless muddle which had taken the place of the once great Chinese Empire.
The Marquis Chang Hu seated himself behind the Italian table and Sir Betram dropped back into his armchair. He had never heard a voice quite like that of Chang Hu. It was harsh, but imperious. He spoke perfect English. Long after this strange interview, Sir Bertram recognized that the impres-siveness of the Marquis’s lightest words was due to one peculiarity:— Sir Bertram was old enough to have heard John Henry Newman speak; and in the diction of this majestic Chinaman he recognized later, the unalloyed beauty of our language as the poet-cardinal had spoken it.
“It is not my wish, Sir Bertram,” said his strange host, “to detain you any longer than is necessary.”
Sir Bertram’s chair was set very near to the big table, and Chang Hu, bending courteously across that glittering expanse, placed an ingot of metal in his visitor’s hand.
“You will have observed that I have some small facilities here. If you wish to make any tests, I shall be happy to assist you.”
Sir Bertram glanced at the ingot and then looked up. He closed his eyes swiftly. He had met a glance unlike any he had ever known. The eyes of Madame Ingomar were fascinating, hypnotic; the eyes of the Marquis, her father, held a power which was shattering.
Looking down again at the ingot in his hand:
“In the case of a man of my experience,” he replied, “tests are unnecessary. This is pure gold.”
CHAPTER 21
GALLAHO AND STERLING SET OUT
“Stop!” snapped Nayland Smith through the speaking tube. “Back into the lane we have just passed on the right.”
The driver of the C.I.D. car checked immediately, stopped and reversed. There was no trace of fog on this outskirt of London. The night was limpidly clear. The big car was backed into the narrow lane which Nayland Smith had indicated.
“Good,” growled Gallaho; “but what’s the next move, sir?”
“It’s almost certain,” said Sterling excitedly, “that this is Dr. Fu Manchu’s new base. It’s almost certain . . . that Fleurette is here.”
“Go easy.” Sir Denis grasped his shoulder. “We must think. A mistake, now, would be fatal.”
“I am wondering,” said Gallaho, “what madness brought Sir Bertram Morgan here to-night?”
“The madness,” Smith replied, “which has brought many men to disaster ... a woman.”
“Yes,” Gallaho admitted; “she’s a good looker. But I should have thought he was getting past it.”
“Sir Denis . . .” Sterling’s voice trembled. “We’re wasting time.”
They tumbled out of the car. They had sponged the makeup from their faces, but were still in the matter of dress, two rough-looking citizens. Smith stood there in the dusk of that silent by-way, tugging at the lobe of his left ear; then:
“I am wondering” he murmured. “Including the driver, Gallaho, we are only a party of four. . . .”
“What have you got in mind, sir?”
“I have this in mind. I propose to raid Rowan House.”
“While Sir Bertram Morgan is there?”
“Yes. Unless he comes out very soon.”
“You think . . . ?”
“I think nothing. I know. Dr. Fu Manchu is in that house! If Sir Bertram Morgan is in danger or not I cannot say, but the man we want is there. I take it you have the warrant in your pocket, Inspector?”
Chief detective-inspector Gallaho coughed loudly.
“You may take it that I have, sir,” he replied.
Nayland Smith grasped his arm in the darkness.
“I didn’t mean what you’re thinking, Inspector,” he said, “but we are so tied by red tape that any absurd formality overlooked might mean the wreck of the case.”
Gallaho replied almost apologetically.
“Thank you, sir; I entirely agree with you. Perhaps I was rather forgetting the fact that you have suffered from red tape as much as I have. But I take it you mean, sir, that we may meet with opposition.”
Sterling, clenching and unclenching his fists, was walking up and down in a fever of excitement, and:
“Sir Denis!” he exclaimed, “why are we delaying? Surely, with a woman’s life at stake . . . ?”
“Listen, Sterling,” snapped Sir Denis. “I understand and sympathize—but I’m in charge of this party, and you belong to it.”
“I am sorry,” said Sterling hoarsely.
The driver of the car, seated at the wheel, was watching the trio expectantly, and then:
“Listen, Gallaho,” said Nayland Smith, rapidly: “how far are we from a call-box?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know, sir. This is rather outside my area. Do you know?” addressing his question to the driver.