radio research room caused a signal to appear in my study, and I knew that you had revived.”
His voice had a guttural quality, the sibilants being very stressed. He spoke deliberately, giving every syllable its full value. I suppose, in a way, he spoke perfect English, yet many words so treated sounded wholly unfamiliar so that I knew I had never heard them pronounced in that manner before.
I could think of nothing to say. I was helpless, and this man had come to mock me.
“You seem to have a disregard for the sanctity of human life,” he continued, “unusual in Englishmen. You killed one of my servants at the Villa Jasmin—a small matter. But your zeal for murder did not end there. Fortunately, I was less than half a mile behind at the time, and I had you carried to a place of safety before some passing motorist should be attracted by the spectacle of two bodies in the Corniche road. You mortally wounded Gana Ghat, head of my Burmese bodyguard.”
“I am glad to hear it,” I replied.
Those green eyes watched me immutably.
“Rejoice not unduly,” he said softly. “I wished you no harm, but you have thrust yourself upon me. As a result, you find yourself in China—”
“In China!”
I heard the note of horror in my own voice. My glance strayed swiftly around that incredible room, and returned again to the tall, impassive, yellow-robed figure.
Good heavens! It was a shattering idea—yet not wholly impossible. I had no means of knowing how long I had been unconscious. The dreadful theory flashed through my mind that this brilliant madman—for I could not account him sane—had, by means of drugs, kept me in a comatose condition, and had had me transported in some private vessel from France to China.
I tried to challenge those glittering green eyes—but the task was one beyond my powers.
“You left me no choice,” Dr. Fu-Manchu went on. “I can permit no stranger to intrude upon my experiments. It was a matter of deciding between your death—which would not have profited me—and your services, which may do so.”
He turned slowly and walked in the direction of the hidden glass door. He glanced at me over his shoulder.
“Follow,” he directed.
Since at the moment I could see no alternative to obedience, I stepped cautiously forward.
There was no shock when I passed the black line, but I continued to move warily across that silent floor, in the direction of the opening in which the Chinaman stood, glancing back at me.
The idea of springing upon him the moment I found myself within reach crossed my mind. But China ! If I should actually be in China, what fate awaited me in the event of my attack being successful?
I knew something of the Chinese, having met and employed many of them. I had found them industrious, kindly, and simple. My knowledge of the punishments inflicted by autocratic officials in the interior was confined entirely to hearsay. Certain stories came back to me now, counselling prudence. If Nayland Smith were correct, it would be a good deed to rid the world of this Chinese physician— even at the price of a horrible martyrdom.
But I might fail... and pay the price nevertheless.
These were my thoughts as I drew nearer and nearer to the glass door. I had almost reached it when Fu-Manchu spoke again.
“Dismiss any idea of personal attack,” he said in a soft voice, the sibilants more than usually pronounced. “Accept my assurance that it could not possibly succeed. Follow!”
He moved on, and I crossed the threshold into a small room furnished as a library. Many of the volumes burdening the shelves were in strange bindings, and their lettering in characters even less familiar. There was a commodious table upon which a number of books lay open. Also, there was a smell in the room which I thought I identified as that of burning opium; and a little jade pipe lying in a bronze tray served to confirm my suspicion.
The library was lighted by one silk-shaded lantern suspended
His voice had a guttural quality, the sibilants being very stressed. He spoke deliberately, giving every syllable its full value. I suppose, in a way, he spoke perfect English, yet many words so treated sounded wholly unfamiliar so that I knew I had never heard them pronounced in that manner before.
I could think of nothing to say. I was helpless, and this man had come to mock me.
“You seem to have a disregard for the sanctity of human life,” he continued, “unusual in Englishmen. You killed one of my servants at the Villa Jasmin—a small matter. But your zeal for murder did not end there. Fortunately, I was less than half a mile behind at the time, and I had you carried to a place of safety before some passing motorist should be attracted by the spectacle of two bodies in the Corniche road. You mortally wounded Gana Ghat, head of my Burmese bodyguard.”
“I am glad to hear it,” I replied.
Those green eyes watched me immutably.
“Rejoice not unduly,” he said softly. “I wished you no harm, but you have thrust yourself upon me. As a result, you find yourself in China—”
“In China!”
I heard the note of horror in my own voice. My glance strayed swiftly around that incredible room, and returned again to the tall, impassive, yellow-robed figure.
Good heavens! It was a shattering idea—yet not wholly impossible. I had no means of knowing how long I had been unconscious. The dreadful theory flashed through my mind that this brilliant madman—for I could not account him sane—had, by means of drugs, kept me in a comatose condition, and had had me transported in some private vessel from France to China.
I tried to challenge those glittering green eyes—but the task was one beyond my powers.
“You left me no choice,” Dr. Fu-Manchu went on. “I can permit no stranger to intrude upon my experiments. It was a matter of deciding between your death—which would not have profited me—and your services, which may do so.”
He turned slowly and walked in the direction of the hidden glass door. He glanced at me over his shoulder.
“Follow,” he directed.
Since at the moment I could see no alternative to obedience, I stepped cautiously forward.
There was no shock when I passed the black line, but I continued to move warily across that silent floor, in the direction of the opening in which the Chinaman stood, glancing back at me.
The idea of springing upon him the moment I found myself within reach crossed my mind. But China ! If I should actually be in China, what fate awaited me in the event of my attack being successful?
I knew something of the Chinese, having met and employed many of them. I had found them industrious, kindly, and simple. My knowledge of the punishments inflicted by autocratic officials in the interior was confined entirely to hearsay. Certain stories came back to me now, counselling prudence. If Nayland Smith were correct, it would be a good deed to rid the world of this Chinese physician— even at the price of a horrible martyrdom.
But I might fail... and pay the price nevertheless.
These were my thoughts as I drew nearer and nearer to the glass door. I had almost reached it when Fu-Manchu spoke again.
“Dismiss any idea of personal attack,” he said in a soft voice, the sibilants more than usually pronounced. “Accept my assurance that it could not possibly succeed. Follow!”
He moved on, and I crossed the threshold into a small room furnished as a library. Many of the volumes burdening the shelves were in strange bindings, and their lettering in characters even less familiar. There was a commodious table upon which a number of books lay open. Also, there was a smell in the room which I thought I identified as that of burning opium; and a little jade pipe lying in a bronze tray served to confirm my suspicion.
The library was lighted by one silk-shaded lantern suspended
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