The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu by Sax Rohmer Page B

over, and Sir Lionel
looked horrible. He was quite dead. Then Croxted-that's the man's
name-went over to this curtain. There was a glass door-shut. He
opened it, and it gave on a conservatory-a place stacked from the
tiled floor to the glass roof with more rubbish. It was dark
inside, but enough light came from the study-it's really a
drawing-room, by the way-as he'd turned all the lamps on, to give
him another glimpse of this green, crawling mist. There are three
steps to go down. On the steps lay a dead Chinaman."
    "A dead Chinaman!"
    "A dead CHINAMAN."
    "Doctor seen them?" rapped Smith.
    "Yes; a local man. He was out of his depth, I could see.
Contradicted himself three times. But there's no need for another
opinion-until we get the coroner's."
    "And Croxted?"
    "Croxted was taken ill, Mr. Smith, and had to be sent home in a
cab."
    "What ails him?"
    Detective-Inspector Weymouth raised his eyebrows and carefully
knocked the ash from his cigar.
    "He held out until I came, gave me the story, and then fainted
right away. He said that something in the conservatory seemed to
get him by the throat."
    "Did he mean that literally?"
    "I couldn't say. We had to send the girl home, too, of
course."
    Nayland Smith was pulling thoughtfully at the lobe of his left
ear.
    "Got any theory?" he jerked.
    Weymouth shrugged his shoulders.
    "Not one that includes the green mist," he said. "Shall we go in
now?"
    We crossed the Assyrian hall, where the members of that strange
household were gathered in a panic-stricken group. They numbered
four. Two of them were negroes, and two Easterns of some kind. I
missed the Chinaman, Kwee, of whom Smith had spoken, and the
Italian secretary; and from the way in which my friend peered about
the shadows of the hall I divined that he, too, wondered at their
absence. We entered Sir Lionel's study-an apartment which I despair
of describing.
    Nayland Smith's words, "an earthquake at Sotheby's
auction-rooms," leaped to my mind at once; for the place was simply
stacked with curious litter-loot of Africa, Mexico and Persia. In a
clearing by the hearth a gas stove stood upon a packing-case, and
about it lay a number of utensils for camp cookery. The odor of
rotting vegetation, mingled with the insistent perfume of the
strange night-blooming flowers, was borne in through the open
window.
    In the center of the floor, beside an overturned sarcophagus,
lay a figure in a neutral-colored dressing-gown, face downwards,
and arms thrust forward and over the side of the ancient Egyptian
mummy case.
    My friend advanced and knelt beside the dead man.
    "Good God!"
    Smith sprang upright and turned with an extraordinary expression
to Inspector Weymouth.
    "You do not know Sir Lionel Barton by sight?" he rapped.
    "No," began Weymouth, "but-"
    "This is not Sir Lionel. This is Strozza, the secretary."
    "What!" shouted Weymouth.
    "Where is the other-the Chinaman-quick!" cried Smith.
    "I have had him left where he was found-on the conservatory
steps," said the Inspector.
    Smith ran across the room to where, beyond the open door, a
glimpse might be obtained of stacked-up curiosities. Holding back
the curtain to allow more light to penetrate, he bent forward over
a crumpled-up figure which lay upon the steps below.
    "It is!" he cried aloud. "It is Sir Lionel's servant, Kwee."
    Weymouth and I looked at one another across the body of the
Italian; then our eyes turned together to where my friend,
grim-faced, stood over the dead Chinaman. A breeze whispered
through the leaves; a great wave of exotic perfume swept from the
open window towards the curtained doorway.
    It was a breath of the East-that stretched out a yellow hand to
the West. It was symbolic of the subtle, intangible power
manifested in Dr. Fu-Manchu, as Nayland Smith-lean, agile, bronzed
with the suns of Burma, was symbolic of the clean British
efficiency which sought to combat the insidious enemy.
    "One thing is evident," said Smith: "no one in the house,
Strozza excepted, knew