Night had come, and upon its wings had descended again that demon Fog. Wisps streaked the room. . . .
And the night wore on—until ghostly spears of dawn broke through the shaded windows.
Dr. Fu Manchu suddenly opened his eyes.
Their brilliant greeness was oddly filmed; a husky whisper reached Petrie’s ears:
“Success!”
He had never believed that he could touch without loathing the person of the Chinese physician, but now, again, he tested his pulse, and as he did so:
“You observe the change?” the weak voice continued. “I have challenged Fate, Dr. Petrie, but again I have won. The crisis is past.”
Petrie stated at him in amazement. Not only his pulse, but his voice, indicated a phenomenal return of vitality.
“The life property—which is the sun.” said Dr. Fu Manchu, “revivifies swiftly. You are surprised.”
The queer film left his eyes. It appeared to the amazed stare of Petrie that the hollows in those yellow cheeks already were filling out. . . .
“Of the Western physicians whom chance has thrown in my path, I have not yet met your peer. You are a modest man, Dr. Petrie. True healers are rare—but you are one of these. If ever you join me it will be voluntarily. From this day onward you have nothing to fear from any plans I may deem necessary to undertake.”
The treatment which Dr. Petrie had administered to Fu Manchu was one which, personally, he should have described as imbecile. The B. M. A. would have disowned any physician employing such measures. He had been unable to discover any element of sanity, any trace of unity in the drugs which he had been directed to assemble.
The queer oil, with its faint violet tinge, was the only element in the strange prescription which he could not identify. Yes; it was magic!—something transcending the knowledge of the Western world!
Dr. Fu Manchu was growing younger, hour by hour. . . .
“You are amazed, Dr. Petrie.” The harsh voice was beginning to regain its normal quality. “Any physician of Europe or America would be amazed. Perhaps you do not realize, even yet, that the old herbalists were not all mad. There is an essential oil—you have used it to-night—which contains those properties the alchemists sought. It is the other ingredients, and they are simple, which convert it into that elixir vitae found only once in the Middle Ages.”
He sat up!
Petrie started back. Before the Fu Manchu against whom he had fought for so many years, the vital, powerful Fu Manchu, he found himself an enemy. He faced a menace which had all but wrecked his own happiness; which yet might wreck the structure of Western society.
“My compliments, Dr. Petrie. I had not overestimated your accomplishments.”
Ten years—twenty years—a hundred years—had been shed by the speaker, as a snake discards its old skin. The man who now sat upright in the bed fixing the gaze of his green eyes upon Dr. Petrie, was a phenomenon; the Phoenix had arisen from its ashes.
A vision of what this might mean to the world crossed Petrie’s mind:—a battle-piece red with blood and violence; a ghastly picture of death and destruction.
“You have played your part honourably,” said Dr. Fu Manchu.
He reached out a long, yellow hand, and pressed a bell. Ibrahim entered—and, realizing the miracle which had taken place, prostrated himself upon the carpet and pronounced a prayer of thanksgiving.
There were sounds of movement in the corridor outside. Vaguely, Petrie recalled that a similar disturbance had occurred during the previous evening—but it had reached him as through a fog.
Ibrahim was followed by a man wearing morning dress—a clean-shaven man whose lined face seemed out of keeping with his jet black hair. At Dr. Petrie—who still wore the make-up imposed by Mr. Yusaki—this man stared amazedly.
“This is Companion Grassland,” said Dr. Fu Manchu sibi-lantly. “His counterfeit presentment intrigues him. Companion Crossland has resigned his place in the world which knew him. I am ready.”
He moved towards the door.
“Ibrahim will assist you to resume your normal appearance. I ask for your word that you will remain here until Ibrahim tells you it is time to go.”
“I agree.”
“Dr. Petrie, I salute you—and bid you farewell. . . .”
CHAPTER
63
A LACQUER CABINET
Relays of detectives had been on duty all night, watching every exit from the building. Nayland Smith was pacing up and down the sitting-room when Gallaho was announced. He had paced up and down all night. Fleurette, ignoring the orders of the nurse, had joined him. She was curled up in the big armchair. Alan Sterling had ‘phoned twice.
“Any news, sir?”
“No.”
Gallaho leaned on the mantelshelf.
“It’s beginning to occur to me that we may be wrong.”
“Always a possibility, Gallaho. . . .”
The detective taking reports from the men on duty, had observed that the remainder of the incoming tenant’s furniture was being delivered. A secretary, wearing smart morning dress, had taken charge of operations. One of Staple’s large green vans was outside the service entrance; a smaller one was drawn up behind it.
“Those mahogany chairs,” the secretary had said as Gallaho had lingered for a moment, “and the large lacquer cabinet are to be brought down again. There is no room for them. Put them on the small van. . . .”
“I mean,” Gallaho went on doggedly, “we may have been barking up the wrong tree. There’s the possibility . . .”
The door bell had been ringing, but Gallaho had failed to hear it. Fey had opened the front door. And now:
“Darling!” cried Fleurette—
She leapt from the armchair and threw herself into her father’s arms. . . .
For Dr. Petrie had walked in!
Fleurette broke down completely.
She was still crying like a little child, but crying happily, when a small covered van which had left the building some ten minutes before was pulled up in a builder’s yard in Chelsea.
A man wearing a morning suit and a soft black hat got down from his place beside the driver and ran around to the rear of the van. Its load consisted of a set of mahogany chairs and a tall blue lacquer Japanese cabinet.
Climbing into the van, he opened the door of this Cabinet.
Dr. Fu Manchu stepped out.
“Companion Grassland,” he said, “you have earned merit—”
The End