then took up the ‘phone and dialled the number. Nayland Smith’s man answered, and immediately brought Nayland Smith.
“Smith here. What’s up, Allen?” came the crisp voice.
The words nearly choked him, but Gregory gave the message which Dr Fu-Manchu had directed. His eyes remained fixed upon Mignon as he spoke, and he knew that he dared not risk any hint of warning.
“Good enough. Bad luck. Be with you in ten minutes.” Nayland Smith hung up.
Fu-Manchu uttered a guttural order; the knife was removed; Gregory’s guards retired; Mignon without a glance in his direction was led away. The doors closed. He found himself alone again with Dr Fu-Manchu. He dropped back on the divan.
He had done a thing with which he would reproach himself to his last day. To save a woman who had never truly meant anything in his life from suffering, he had betrayed an old, tried friend, into the power of a cruel and relentless enemy.
Fu-Manchu had resumed his annotations. He spoke without looking up.
“To do that which is unavoidable merits neither praise nor blame, Dr Allen. That curious superstition, the sanctity of woman which is, no doubt, a part of your American heritage, left you no alternative. I am transferring Mignon to another post, where I trust you will no longer be able to interfere with her normal efficiency.”
Gregory was reaching boiling point, but knew that he was helpless to avert the evil he had brought about. If he could have killed Fu-Manchu with his bare hands he would gladly have done it. But he knew, now, that he couldn’t hope to get within reach of him.
Nayland Smith was racing into a trap. In a matter of minutes he would be here.
A curious, high bell note broke the complete silence of the room.
Dr Fu-Manchu stood up, put the folio volume under his arm and, opening one of the doors, went out.
* * *
As the door closed behind the Chinese doctor, Gregory, risking everything, grabbed the phone and dialled Nayland Smith’s number.
There was no reply.
But no one had disturbed him; none of the doors had opened. He went to one at random, could find no means of opening it. He tried another, worked on it frantically. It was immovable. He stepped back and put his shoulder to the lacquer. Nothing happened.
Then, with a tearing crash, the silence was broken. The door by which Dr Fu-Manchu had gone out burst open, and the dark man in the white raincoat stared into the room.
Gregory counted himself lost, when the man turned and shouted back over his shoulder: “This way, sir! Here he is!” He stepped into the room. “Glad to see you still alive, Doctor.”
And Nayland Smith ran in behind him.
“You caught me only just in time, Allen,” Nayland Smith assured him. “Sergeant Ridley here—” he nodded to the man in the white coat—”has been shadowing you for nearly a week. You see, I knew you were trying to get in touch with the little redhead, and his orders were, if you succeeded, to transfer all his attention to the girl when she left you. He did so tonight and had no idea you were somewhere behind. He reported to me that Mignon had just gone into Ruskin Street.”
Gregory forced a smile. “Thank you, Sergeant,” he said.
“Scotland Yard’s crime map has a red ring drawn around this area,” Nayland Smith explained. “We have suspected that Fu-Manchu had a hideaway here. The Japanese artist who reconstructed this place disappeared six months ago, and a certain Dr Gottfeld took it over, though the name of Dr Steiner appears on the plate.”
“Of course,” Gregory broke in. “Gottfeld was the name the hotel manager called Fu-Manchu when they came to my suite. Have you got him?”
Nayland Smith shook his head. “I’m afraid he has done another of his vanishing tricks. The raid squad I brought along is searching. But my guess is that Fu-Manchu has slipped away to one of his old haunts near Limehouse.”
He motioned to the Sergeant, who brought in a man of perhaps fifty whose eyes had
“Smith here. What’s up, Allen?” came the crisp voice.
The words nearly choked him, but Gregory gave the message which Dr Fu-Manchu had directed. His eyes remained fixed upon Mignon as he spoke, and he knew that he dared not risk any hint of warning.
“Good enough. Bad luck. Be with you in ten minutes.” Nayland Smith hung up.
Fu-Manchu uttered a guttural order; the knife was removed; Gregory’s guards retired; Mignon without a glance in his direction was led away. The doors closed. He found himself alone again with Dr Fu-Manchu. He dropped back on the divan.
He had done a thing with which he would reproach himself to his last day. To save a woman who had never truly meant anything in his life from suffering, he had betrayed an old, tried friend, into the power of a cruel and relentless enemy.
Fu-Manchu had resumed his annotations. He spoke without looking up.
“To do that which is unavoidable merits neither praise nor blame, Dr Allen. That curious superstition, the sanctity of woman which is, no doubt, a part of your American heritage, left you no alternative. I am transferring Mignon to another post, where I trust you will no longer be able to interfere with her normal efficiency.”
Gregory was reaching boiling point, but knew that he was helpless to avert the evil he had brought about. If he could have killed Fu-Manchu with his bare hands he would gladly have done it. But he knew, now, that he couldn’t hope to get within reach of him.
Nayland Smith was racing into a trap. In a matter of minutes he would be here.
A curious, high bell note broke the complete silence of the room.
Dr Fu-Manchu stood up, put the folio volume under his arm and, opening one of the doors, went out.
* * *
As the door closed behind the Chinese doctor, Gregory, risking everything, grabbed the phone and dialled Nayland Smith’s number.
There was no reply.
But no one had disturbed him; none of the doors had opened. He went to one at random, could find no means of opening it. He tried another, worked on it frantically. It was immovable. He stepped back and put his shoulder to the lacquer. Nothing happened.
Then, with a tearing crash, the silence was broken. The door by which Dr Fu-Manchu had gone out burst open, and the dark man in the white raincoat stared into the room.
Gregory counted himself lost, when the man turned and shouted back over his shoulder: “This way, sir! Here he is!” He stepped into the room. “Glad to see you still alive, Doctor.”
And Nayland Smith ran in behind him.
“You caught me only just in time, Allen,” Nayland Smith assured him. “Sergeant Ridley here—” he nodded to the man in the white coat—”has been shadowing you for nearly a week. You see, I knew you were trying to get in touch with the little redhead, and his orders were, if you succeeded, to transfer all his attention to the girl when she left you. He did so tonight and had no idea you were somewhere behind. He reported to me that Mignon had just gone into Ruskin Street.”
Gregory forced a smile. “Thank you, Sergeant,” he said.
“Scotland Yard’s crime map has a red ring drawn around this area,” Nayland Smith explained. “We have suspected that Fu-Manchu had a hideaway here. The Japanese artist who reconstructed this place disappeared six months ago, and a certain Dr Gottfeld took it over, though the name of Dr Steiner appears on the plate.”
“Of course,” Gregory broke in. “Gottfeld was the name the hotel manager called Fu-Manchu when they came to my suite. Have you got him?”
Nayland Smith shook his head. “I’m afraid he has done another of his vanishing tricks. The raid squad I brought along is searching. But my guess is that Fu-Manchu has slipped away to one of his old haunts near Limehouse.”
He motioned to the Sergeant, who brought in a man of perhaps fifty whose eyes had
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