the peculiar glaze which showed he had been under Fu-Manchu’s hypnotic spell. “But at least we’ve rescued a man who may be able to give us a great deal of information about Fu-Manchu’s operations. Dr Allen, this is Dr Gaston Breon. Besides being a famous French entomologist, he is Mignon’s father.”
“Thank God you’ve saved him!” Gregory said, as he gripped the scientist’s limp hand. “But Smith, have you rescued Mignon?”
Nayland Smith slapped him on the shoulder. “We got her with two of Fu-Manchu’s henchmen who were trying to force her into a motor launch. I had her taken to my place.” As Gregory looked at him gratefully, he smiled that boyish grin. “She’s your responsibility now.”
Ten minutes later Gregory walked past a guard and into Nayland Smith’s large booklined study. Mignon sprang up from a chair near the window and ran to him, her eyes wild with terror.
“Gregory! You must compel them to let me go!” she cried “Fu-Manchu will kill my father if I do not return to him.”
She stared at Gregory in bewilderment. “Why do you smile?”
But Gregory was looking beyond her to the door, and Mignon turned. A sigh of joy escaped her as she ran to her father. “My child, my child,” Dr Breon muttered, awkwardly patting her shoulder. “The nightmare is finished, Mignon.”
“Oh, what they’ve done to you these past two years, my father,” she whispered.
Gregory crossed the room and stood at her side, his arm around her shoulders. “We’ll have him right in no time,” he promised. “All he needs is rest and the care we’ll give him.”
Mignon’s head came back, and the tears were gone. What was more, the look of infinite sadness he remembered from their first meeting was gone, too. In its place there was a sparkle that danced in the light of the lamps with swift invitation.
“I think it is quite safe for you now to love me, Gregory,” she said.
He took her into his arms.
THE WORD OF FU-MANCHU
Malcolm glanced aside at his companion, who drove the Jaguar both deftly and quickly. He studied the tall, lean man at the wheel, a clean shaven man, whose tanned skin and crisp, dark hair gave startling emphasis to the silver at his temples: he was sucking a briar pipe.
“I know what you’re thinking, Forbes.” The words were rapped out. “When I was a Commissioner at Scotland Yard, speed limits never troubled me. I formed bad habits.”
“Is there so much hurry, Sir Denis?”
Sir Denis Nayland Smith grunted and swung out to pass a taxi, then:
“There is!” he snapped. “I asked you to join me tonight because I want someone with me where we’re going. Also, as a young freelance journalist, you may be on the big story Fleet Street is waiting for.”
“What’s the story?”
“Dr Fu-Manchu. We’re going to see Sergeant Jack Kenealy, of the CID. He’s been on the case best part of the year. We have kept in touch. He called me an hour ago; said he had things to tell me which he couldn’t put on paper. Rather alarming. Hence the speed.”
“You think—”
“Nothing to think about until we get there.”
And Malcolm knew that Sir Denis didn’t want any further conversation to interfere with his urgent journey.
Ten minutes later they were skirting the north side of Clapham Common, a place of mysterious shadows this moonless night. He became aware of bottled-up excitement as Nayland Smith parked the car at a garage and took Malcolm’s arm.
“This is where we walk,” he announced.
They set out on the side opposite the Common. Sir Denis was silent, but Malcolm noted that he often glanced across at the shadowy expanse, as if, during his long battle against the Chinese genius who dreamed of becoming master of the world, he had learned that Fu-Manchu was a superman who might materialise from space anywhere, at any time. Malcolm’s excitement increased. They came to the next corner.
At which moment Nayland Smith, in the act of turning in, grabbed his arm
“Thank God you’ve saved him!” Gregory said, as he gripped the scientist’s limp hand. “But Smith, have you rescued Mignon?”
Nayland Smith slapped him on the shoulder. “We got her with two of Fu-Manchu’s henchmen who were trying to force her into a motor launch. I had her taken to my place.” As Gregory looked at him gratefully, he smiled that boyish grin. “She’s your responsibility now.”
Ten minutes later Gregory walked past a guard and into Nayland Smith’s large booklined study. Mignon sprang up from a chair near the window and ran to him, her eyes wild with terror.
“Gregory! You must compel them to let me go!” she cried “Fu-Manchu will kill my father if I do not return to him.”
She stared at Gregory in bewilderment. “Why do you smile?”
But Gregory was looking beyond her to the door, and Mignon turned. A sigh of joy escaped her as she ran to her father. “My child, my child,” Dr Breon muttered, awkwardly patting her shoulder. “The nightmare is finished, Mignon.”
“Oh, what they’ve done to you these past two years, my father,” she whispered.
Gregory crossed the room and stood at her side, his arm around her shoulders. “We’ll have him right in no time,” he promised. “All he needs is rest and the care we’ll give him.”
Mignon’s head came back, and the tears were gone. What was more, the look of infinite sadness he remembered from their first meeting was gone, too. In its place there was a sparkle that danced in the light of the lamps with swift invitation.
“I think it is quite safe for you now to love me, Gregory,” she said.
He took her into his arms.
THE WORD OF FU-MANCHU
Malcolm glanced aside at his companion, who drove the Jaguar both deftly and quickly. He studied the tall, lean man at the wheel, a clean shaven man, whose tanned skin and crisp, dark hair gave startling emphasis to the silver at his temples: he was sucking a briar pipe.
“I know what you’re thinking, Forbes.” The words were rapped out. “When I was a Commissioner at Scotland Yard, speed limits never troubled me. I formed bad habits.”
“Is there so much hurry, Sir Denis?”
Sir Denis Nayland Smith grunted and swung out to pass a taxi, then:
“There is!” he snapped. “I asked you to join me tonight because I want someone with me where we’re going. Also, as a young freelance journalist, you may be on the big story Fleet Street is waiting for.”
“What’s the story?”
“Dr Fu-Manchu. We’re going to see Sergeant Jack Kenealy, of the CID. He’s been on the case best part of the year. We have kept in touch. He called me an hour ago; said he had things to tell me which he couldn’t put on paper. Rather alarming. Hence the speed.”
“You think—”
“Nothing to think about until we get there.”
And Malcolm knew that Sir Denis didn’t want any further conversation to interfere with his urgent journey.
Ten minutes later they were skirting the north side of Clapham Common, a place of mysterious shadows this moonless night. He became aware of bottled-up excitement as Nayland Smith parked the car at a garage and took Malcolm’s arm.
“This is where we walk,” he announced.
They set out on the side opposite the Common. Sir Denis was silent, but Malcolm noted that he often glanced across at the shadowy expanse, as if, during his long battle against the Chinese genius who dreamed of becoming master of the world, he had learned that Fu-Manchu was a superman who might materialise from space anywhere, at any time. Malcolm’s excitement increased. They came to the next corner.
At which moment Nayland Smith, in the act of turning in, grabbed his arm
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