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  Nayland Smith stood clicking his teeth together in irritable hesitation. I heard Karamaneh sigh, and, looking at her, I saw that her cheeks were regaining their natural color.

  She smiled in pathetic apology.

  “If he was here he is gone,” she said. “I am not afraid now.”

  Smith thanked the commissionaire for his information and we quitted the gallery.

  “Professor Jenner Monde,” muttered my friend, “has lived so long in China as almost to be a Chinaman. I have never met him — never seen him, before; but I wonder—”

  “You wonder what, Smith?”

  “I wonder if he could possibly be an ally, of the Doctor’s!”

  I stared at him in amazement.

  “If we are to attach any importance to the incident at all,” I said, “we must remember that the boy’s impression — and Karamaneh’s — was that Fu-Manchu was present in person.”

  “I DO attach importance to the incident, Petrie; they are naturally sensitive to such impressions. But I doubt if even the abnormal organization of Aziz could distinguish between the hidden presence of a creature of the Doctor’s and that of the Doctor himself. I shall make a point of calling upon Professor Jenner Monde.”

  But Fate had ordained that much should happen ere Smith made his proposed call upon the Professor.

  Karamaneh and her brother safely lodged in their hotel (which was watched night and day by four men under Smith’s orders), we returned to my quiet suburban rooms.

  “First,” said Smith, “let us see what we can find out respecting Professor Monde.”

  He went to the telephone and called up New Scotland Yard. There followed some little delay before the requisite information was obtained. Finally, however, we learned that the Professor was something of a recluse, having few acquaintances, and fewer friends.

  He lived alone in chambers in New Inn Court, Carey Street. A charwoman did such cleaning as was considered necessary by the Professor, who employed no regular domestic. When he was in London he might be seen fairly frequently at the British Museum, where his shabby figure was familiar to the officials. When he was not in London — that is, during the greater part of each year — no one knew where he went. He never left any address to which letters might be forwarded.

  “How long has he been in London now?” asked Smith.

  So far as could be ascertained from New Inn Court (replied Scotland Yard) roughly a week.

  My friend left the telephone and began restlessly to pace the room. The charred briar was produced and stuffed with that broad cut Latakia mixture of which Nayland Smith consumed close upon a pound a week. He was one of those untidy smokers who leave tangled tufts hanging from the pipe-bowl and when they light up strew the floor with smoldering fragments.

  A ringing came, and shortly afterwards a girl entered.

  “Mr. James Weymouth to see you, sir.”

  “Hullo!” rapped Smith. “What’s this?”

  Weymouth entered, big and florid, and in some respects singularly like his brother, in others as singularly unlike. Now, in his black suit, he was a somber figure; and in the blue eyes I read a fear suppressed.

  “Mr. Smith,” he began, “there’s something uncanny going on at Maple Cottage.”

  Smith wheeled the big arm-chair forward.

  “Sit down, Mr. Weymouth,” he said. “I am not entirely surprised. But you have my attention. What has occurred?”

  Weymouth took a cigarette from the box which I proffered and poured out a peg of whisky. His hand was not quite steady.

  “That knocking,” he explained. “It came again the night after you were there, and Mrs. Weymouth — my wife, I mean — felt that she couldn’t spend another night there, alone.”

  “Did she look out of the window?” I asked.

  “No, Doctor; she was afraid. But I spent last night downstairs in the sitting-room — and I looked out!”

  He took a gulp from his glass. Nayland Smith, seated on the edge of the table, his extinguished pipe in his hand, was watching him keenly.

  “I’ll admit I didn’t look out at once,” Weymouth resumed. “There was something so uncanny, gentlemen, in that knocking — knocking — in the dead of the night. I thought” — his voice shook— “of poor Jack, lying somewhere amongst the slime of the river — and, oh, my God! it came to me that it was Jack who was knocking — and I dare not think what he — what it — would look like!”

  He leaned forward, his chin in his hand. For a few moments we were all silent.

  “I know I funked,” he continued huskily. “But when the wife came to the head of the stairs and whispered to me: ‘There it is again. What in heaven’s name can it be’ — I started to unbolt the door. The knocking had stopped. Everything was very still. I heard Mary — HIS widow — sobbing, upstairs; that was all. I opened the door, a little bit at a time.”

  Pausing again, he cleared his throat, and went on:

  “It was a bright night, and there was no one there — not a soul. But somewhere down the lane, as I looked out into the porch, I heard most awful groans! They got fainter and fainter. Then — I could have sworn I heard SOMEONE LAUGHING! My nerves cracked up at that; and I shut the door again.”

  The narration of his weird experience revived something of the natural fear which it had occasioned. He raised his glass, with unsteady hand, and drained it.

  Smith struck a match and relighted his pipe. He began to pace the room again. His eyes were literally on fire.

  “Would it be possible to get Mrs. Weymouth out of the house before to-night? Remove her to your place, for instance?” he asked abruptly.

  Weymouth looked up in surprise.

  “She seems to be in a very low state,” he replied. He glanced at me. “Perhaps Dr. Petrie would give us an opinion?”

  “I will come and see her,” I said. “But what is your idea, Smith?”

  “I want to hear that knocking!” he rapped. “But in what I may see fit to do I must not be handicapped by the presence of a sick woman.”

  “Her condition at any rate will admit of our administering an opiate,” I suggested. “That would meet the situation?”

  “Good!” cried Smith. He was intensely excited now. “I rely upon you to arrange something, Petrie. Mr. Weymouth” — he turned to our visitor— “I shall be with you this evening not later than twelve o’clock.”

  Weymouth appeared to be greatly relieved. I asked him to wait whilst I prepared a draught for the patient. When he was gone:

  “What do you think this knocking means, Smith?” I asked.

  He tapped out his pipe on the side of the grate and began with nervous energy to refill it again from the dilapidated pouch.

  “I dare not tell you what I hope, Petrie,” he replied— “nor what I fear.”

  CHAPTER XXIX

  DUSK was falling when we made our way in the direction of Maple Cottage. Nayland Smith appeared to be keenly interested in the character of the district. A high and ancient wall bordered the road along which we walked for a considerable distance. Later it gave place to a rickety fence.

  My friend peered through a gap in the latter.

  “There is quite an extensive estate here,” he said, “not yet cut up by the builder. It is well wooded on one side, and there appears to be a pool lower down.”

  The road was a quiet one, and we plainly heard the tread — quite unmistakable — of an approaching policeman. Smith continued to peer through the hole in the fence, until the officer drew up level with us. Then:

  “Does this piece of ground extend down to the village, constable?” he inquired.

  Quite willing for a chat, the man stopped, and stood with his thumbs thrust in his belt.

  “Yes, sir. They tell me three new roads will be made through it between here and the hill.”

  “It must be a happy hunting ground for tramps?”

  “I’ve seen some suspicious-looking coves about at times. But after dusk an army might be inside there and nobody woul
d ever be the wiser.”

  “Burglaries frequent in the houses backing on to it?”

  “Oh, no. A favorite game in these parts is snatching loaves and bottles of milk from the doors, first thing, as they’re delivered. There’s been an extra lot of it lately. My mate who relieves me has got special instructions to keep his eye open in the mornings!” The man grinned. “It wouldn’t be a very big case even if he caught anybody!” “No,” said Smith absently; “perhaps not. Your business must be a dry one this warm weather. Good-night.”

  “Good-night, sir,” replied the constable, richer by half-a-crown— “and thank you.”

  Smith stared after him for a moment, tugging reflectively at the lobe of his ear.

  “I don’t know that it wouldn’t be a big case, after all,” he murmured. “Come on, Petrie.”

  Not another word did he speak, until we stood at the gate of Maple Cottage. There a plain-clothes man was standing, evidently awaiting Smith. He touched his hat.

  “Have you found a suitable hiding-place?” asked my companion rapidly.

  “Yes, sir,” was the reply. “Kent — my mate — is there now. You’ll notice that he can’t be seen from here.”

  “No,” agreed Smith, peering all about him. “He can’t. Where is he?”

  “Behind the broken wall,” explained the man, pointing. “Through that ivy there’s a clear view of the cottage door.”

  “Good. Keep your eyes open. If a messenger comes for me, he is to be intercepted, you understand. No one must be allowed to disturb us. You will recognize the messenger. He will be one of your fellows. Should he come — hoot three times, as much like an owl as you can.”

  We walked up to the porch of the cottage. In response to Smith’s ringing came James Weymouth, who seemed greatly relieved by our arrival.

  “First,” said my friend briskly, “you had better run up and see the patient.”

  Accordingly, I followed Weymouth upstairs and was admitted by his wife to a neat little bedroom where the grief-stricken woman lay, a wanly pathetic sight.

  “Did you administer the draught, as directed?” I asked.

  Mrs. James Weymouth nodded. She was a kindly looking woman, with the same dread haunting her hazel eyes as that which lurked in her husband’s blue ones.

  The patient was sleeping soundly. Some whispered instructions I gave to the faithful nurse and descended to the sitting-room. It was a warm night, and Weymouth sat by the open window, smoking. The dim light from the lamp on the table lent him an almost startling likeness to his brother; and for a moment I stood at the foot of the stairs scarce able to trust my reason. Then he turned his face fully towards me, and the illusion was lost.

  “Do you think she is likely to wake, Doctor?” he asked.

  “I think not,” I replied.

  Nayland Smith stood upon the rug before the hearth, swinging from one foot to the other, in his nervously restless way. The room was foggy with the fumes of tobacco, for he, too, was smoking.

  At intervals of some five to ten minutes, his blackened briar (which I never knew him to clean or scrape) would go out. I think Smith used more matches than any other smoker I have ever met, and he invariably carried three boxes in various pockets of his garments.

  The tobacco habit is infectious, and, seating myself in an arm-chair, I lighted a cigarette. For this dreary vigil I had come prepared with a bunch of rough notes, a writing-block, and a fountain pen. I settled down to work upon my record of the Fu-Manchu case.

  Silence fell upon Maple Cottage. Save for the shuddering sigh which whispered through the over-hanging cedars and Smith’s eternal match-striking, nothing was there to disturb me in my task. Yet I could make little progress. Between my mind and the chapter upon which I was at work a certain sentence persistently intruded itself. It was as though an unseen hand held the written page closely before my eyes. This was the sentence:

  “Imagine a person, tall, lean, and feline, high-shouldered, with a brow like Shakespeare and a face like Satan, a close-shaven skull, and long, magnetic eyes of the true cat-green: invest him with all the cruel cunning of an entire Eastern race, accumulated in one giant intellect…”

  Dr. Fu-Manchu! Fu-Manchu as Smith had described him to me on that night which now seemed so remotely distant — the night upon which I had learned of the existence of the wonderful and evil being born of that secret quickening which stirred in the womb of the yellow races.

  As Smith, for the ninth or tenth time, knocked out his pipe on a bar of the grate, the cuckoo clock in the kitchen proclaimed the hour.

  “Two,” said James Weymouth.

  I abandoned my task, replacing notes and writing-block in the bag that I had with me. Weymouth adjusted the lamp which had begun to smoke.

  I tiptoed to the stairs and, stepping softly, ascended to the sick room. All was quiet, and Mrs. Weymouth whispered to me that the patient still slept soundly. I returned to find Nayland Smith pacing about the room in that state of suppressed excitement habitual with him in the approach of any crisis. At a quarter past two the breeze dropped entirely, and such a stillness reigned all about us as I could not have supposed possible so near to the ever-throbbing heart of the great metropolis. Plainly I could hear Weymouth’s heavy breathing. He sat at the window and looked out into the black shadows under the cedars. Smith ceased his pacing and stood again on the rug very still. He was listening! I doubt not we were all listening.

  Some faint sound broke the impressive stillness, coming from the direction of the village street. It was a vague, indefinite disturbance, brief, and upon it ensued a silence more marked than ever. Some minutes before, Smith had extinguished the lamp. In the darkness I heard his teeth snap sharply together.

  The call of an owl sounded very clearly three times.

  I knew that to mean that a messenger had come; but from whence or bearing what tidings I knew not. My friend’s plans were incomprehensible to me, nor had I pressed him for any explanation of their nature, knowing him to be in that high-strung and somewhat irritable mood which claimed him at times of uncertainty — when he doubted the wisdom of his actions, the accuracy of his surmises. He gave no sign.

  Very faintly I heard a clock strike the half-hour. A soft breeze stole again through the branches above. The wind I thought must be in a new quarter since I had not heard the clock before. In so lonely a spot it was difficult to believe that the bell was that of St. Paul’s. Yet such was the fact.

  And hard upon the ringing followed another sound — a sound we all had expected, had waited for; but at whose coming no one of us, I think, retained complete mastery of himself.

  Breaking up the silence in a manner that set my heart wildly leaping it came — an imperative knocking on the door!

  “My God!” groaned Weymouth — but he did not move from his position at the window.

  “Stand by, Petrie!” said Smith.

  He strode to the door — and threw it widely open.

  I know I was very pale. I think I cried out as I fell back — retreated with clenched hands from before THAT which stood on the threshold.

  It was a wild, unkempt figure, with straggling beard, hideously staring eyes. With its hands it clutched at its hair — at its chin; plucked at its mouth. No moonlight touched the features of this unearthly visitant, but scanty as was the illumination we could see the gleaming teeth — and the wildly glaring eyes.

  It began to laugh — peal after peal — hideous and shrill.

  Nothing so terrifying had ever smote upon my ears. I was palsied by the horror of the sound.

  Then Nayland Smith pressed the button of an electric torch which he carried. He directed the disk of white light fully upon the face in the doorway.

  “Oh, God!” cried Weymouth. “It’s John!” — and again and again: “Oh, God! Oh, God!”

  Perhaps for the first time in my life I really believed (nay, I could not doubt) that a thing of another world stood before me. I am ashamed to confess the extent of the horror that came u
pon me. James Weymouth raised his hands, as if to thrust away from him that awful thing in the door. He was babbling — prayers, I think, but wholly incoherent.

  “Hold him, Petrie!”

  Smith’s voice was low. (When we were past thought or intelligent action, he, dominant and cool, with that forced calm for which, a crisis over, he always paid so dearly, was thinking of the woman who slept above.)

  He leaped forward; and in the instant that he grappled with the one who had knocked I knew the visitant for a man of flesh and blood — a man who shrieked and fought like a savage animal, foamed at the mouth and gnashed his teeth in horrid frenzy; knew him for a madman — knew him for the victim of Fu-Manchu — not dead, but living — for Inspector Weymouth — a maniac!

  In a flash I realized all this and sprang to Smith’s assistance. There was a sound of racing footsteps and the men who had been watching outside came running into the porch. A third was with them; and the five of us (for Weymouth’s brother had not yet grasped the fact that a man and not a spirit shrieked and howled in our midst) clung to the infuriated madman, yet barely held our own with him.

  “The syringe, Petrie!” gasped Smith. “Quick! You must manage to make an injection!”

  I extricated myself and raced into the cottage for my bag. A hypodermic syringe ready charged I had brought with me at Smith’s request. Even in that thrilling moment I could find time to admire the wonderful foresight of my friend, who had divined what would befall — isolated the strange, pitiful truth from the chaotic circumstances which saw us at Maple Cottage that night.

  Let me not enlarge upon the end of the awful struggle. At one time I despaired (we all despaired) of quieting the poor, demented creature. But at last it was done; and the gaunt, blood-stained savage whom we had known as Detective-Inspector Weymouth lay passive upon the couch in his own sitting-room. A great wonder possessed my mind for the genius of the uncanny being who with the scratch of a needle had made a brave and kindly man into this unclean, brutish thing.

  Nayland Smith, gaunt and wild-eyed, and trembling yet with his tremendous exertions, turned to the man whom I knew to be the messenger from Scotland Yard.