CHAPTER XII

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      IT was the night following that of the double tragedy at Rowan House. Nayland Smith, with Inspector Weymouth, was engaged in some mysterious inquiry at the docks, and I had remained at home to resume my strange chronicle. And — why should I not confess it? — my memories had frightened me.

      I was arranging my notes respecting the case of Sir Lionel Barton. They were hopelessly incomplete. For instance, I had jotted down the following queries: — (1) Did any true parallel exist between the death of M. Page le Roi and the death of Kwee, the Chinaman, and of Strozza? (2) What had become of the mummy of Mekara? (3) How had the murderer escaped from a locked room? (4) What was the purpose of the rubber stopper? (5) Why was Kwee hiding in the conservatory? (6) Was the green mist a mere subjective hallucination — a figment of Croxted's imagination — or had he actually seen it?

      Until these questions were satisfactorily answered, further progress was impossible. Nayland Smith frankly admitted that he was out of his depth. "It looks, on the face of it, more like a case for the Psychical Research people than for a plain Civil Servant, lately of Mandalay," he had said only that morning.

      "Sir Lionel Barton really believes that supernatural agencies were brought into operation by the opening of the high priest's coffin. For my part, even if I believed the same, I should still maintain that Dr. Fu-Manchu controlled those manifestations. But reason it out for yourself and see if we arrive at any common center. Don't work so much upon the datum of the green mist, but keep to the FACTS which are established."

      I commenced to knock out my pipe in the ash-tray; then paused, pipe in hand. The house was quite still, for my landlady and all the small household were out.

      Above the noise of the passing tramcar I thought I had heard the hall door open. In the ensuing silence I sat and listened.

      Not a sound. Stay! I slipped my hand into the table drawer, took out my revolver, and stood up.

      There WAS a sound. Someone or something was creeping upstairs in the dark!

      Familiar with the ghastly media employed by the Chinaman, I was seized with an impulse to leap to the door, shut and lock it. But the rustling sound proceeded, now, from immediately outside my partially opened door. I had not the time to close it; knowing somewhat of the horrors at the command of Fu-Manchu, I had not the courage to open it. My heart leaping wildly, and my eyes upon that bar of darkness with its gruesome potentialities, I waited — waited for whatever was to come. Perhaps twelve seconds passed in silence.

      "Who's there?" I cried. "Answer, or I fire!"

      "Ah! no," came a soft voice, thrillingly musical. "Put it down — that pistol. Quick! I must speak to you."

      The door was pushed open, and there entered a slim figure wrapped in a hooded cloak. My hand fell, and I stood, stricken to silence, looking into the beautiful dark eyes of Dr. Fu-Manchu's messenger — if her own statement could be credited, slave. On two occasions this girl, whose association with the Doctor was one of the most profound mysteries of the case, had risked — I cannot say what; unnameable punishment, perhaps — to save me from death; in both cases from a terrible death. For what was she come now?

      Her lips slightly parted, she stood, holding her cloak about her, and watching me with great passionate eyes.

      "How — " I began.

      But she shook her head impatiently.

      "HE has a duplicate key of the house door," was her amazing statement. "I have never betrayed a secret of my master before, but you must arrange to replace the lock."

      She came forward and rested her slim hands confidingly upon my shoulders. "I have come again to ask you to take me away from him," she said simply.

      And she lifted her face to me.

      Her words struck a chord in my heart which sang with strange music, with music so barbaric that, frankly, I blushed to find it harmony. Have I said that she was beautiful? It can convey no faint conception of her. With her pure, fair skin, eyes like the velvet darkness of the East, and red lips so tremulously near to mine, she was the most seductively lovely creature I ever had looked upon. In that electric moment my heart went out in sympathy to every man who had bartered honor, country, all for a woman's kiss.

      "I will see that you are placed under proper protection," I said firmly, but my voice was not quite my own. "It is quite absurd to talk of slavery here in England. You are a free agent, or you could not be here now. Dr. Fu-Manchu cannot control your actions."

      "Ah!" she cried, casting back her head scornfully, and releasing a cloud of hair, through whose softness gleamed a jeweled head-dress. "No? He cannot? Do you know what it means to have been a slave? Here, in your free England, do you know what it means — the razzia, the desert journey, the whips of the drivers, the house of the dealer, the shame. Bah!"

      How beautiful she was in her indignation!

      "Slavery is put down, you imagine, perhaps? You do not believe that to-day — TO-DAY — twenty-five English sovereigns will buy a Galla girl, who is brown, and" — whisper — "two hundred and fifty a Circassian, who is white. No, there is no slavery! So! Then what am I?"

      She threw open her cloak, and it is a literal fact that I rubbed my eyes, half believing that I dreamed. For beneath, she was arrayed in gossamer silk which more than indicated the perfect lines of her slim shape; wore a jeweled girdle and barbaric ornaments; was a figure fit for the walled gardens of Stamboul — a figure amazing, incomprehensible, in the prosaic setting of my rooms.

      "To-night I had no time to make myself an English miss," she said, wrapping her cloak quickly about her. "You see me as I am." Her garments exhaled a faint perfume, and it reminded me of another meeting I had had with her. I looked into the challenging eyes.

      "Your request is but a pretense," I said. "Why do you keep the secrets of that man, when they mean death to so many?"

      "Death! I have seen my own sister die of fever in the desert — seen her thrown like carrion into a hole in the sand. I have seen men flogged until they prayed for death as a boon. I have known the lash myself. Death! What does it matter?"

      She shocked me inexpressibly. Enveloped in her cloak again, and with only her slight accent to betray her, it was dreadful to hear such words from a girl who, save for her singular type of beauty, might have been a cultured European.

      "Prove, then, that you really wish to leave this man's service. Tell me what killed Strozza and the Chinaman," I said.

      She shrugged her shoulders.

      "I do not know that. But if you will carry me off" — she clutched me nervously — "so that I am helpless, lock me up so that I cannot escape, beat me, if you like, I will tell you all I do know. While he is my master I will never betray him. Tear me from him — by force, do you understand, BY FORCE, and my lips will be sealed no longer. Ah! but you do not understand, with your 'proper authorities' — your police. Police! Ah, I have said enough."

      A clock across the common began to strike. The girl started and laid her hands upon my shoulders again. There were tears glittering among the curved black lashes.

      "You do not understand," she whispered. "Oh, will you never understand and release me from him! I must go. Already I have remained too long. Listen. Go out without delay. Remain out — at a hotel, where you will, but do not stay here."

      "And Nayland Smith?"

      "What is he to me, this Nayland Smith? Ah, why will you not unseal my lips? You are in danger — you hear me, in danger! Go away from here to-night."

      She dropped her hands and ran from