The Insidious Dr. Fu Manchu | Page 9

Power, but I may say that
representations are shortly to be made to that Power's ambassador in
London."
He paused and glanced back towards the pursuing cab.
"There is little to fear until we arrive home," he said calmly.
"Afterwards there is much. To continue: This man, whether a fanatic or
a duly appointed agent, is, unquestionably, the most malign and
formidable personality existing in the known world today. He is a
linguist who speaks with almost equal facility in any of the civilized
languages, and in most of the barbaric. He is an adept in all the arts and
sciences which a great university could teach him. He also is an adept
in certain obscure arts and sciences which no university of to-day can
teach. He has the brains of any three men of genius. Petrie, he is a
mental giant."
"You amaze me!" I said.
"As to his mission among men. Why did M. Jules Furneaux fall dead in
a Paris opera house? Because of heart failure? No! Because his last
speech had shown that he held the key to the secret of Tongking. What
became of the Grand Duke Stanislaus? Elopement? Suicide? Nothing
of the kind. He alone was fully alive to Russia's growing peril. He
alone knew the truth about Mongolia. Why was Sir Crichton Davey
murdered? Because, had the work he was engaged upon ever seen the
light it would have shown him to be the only living Englishman who
understood the importance of the Tibetan frontiers. I say to you
solemnly, Petrie, that these are but a few. Is there a man who would
arouse the West to a sense of the awakening of the East, who would

teach the deaf to hear, the blind to see, that the millions only await their
leader? He will die. And this is only one phase of the devilish campaign.
The others I can merely surmise."
"But, Smith, this is almost incredible! What perverted genius controls
this awful secret movement?"
"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,
with all the resources of science past and present, with all the resources,
if you will, of a wealthy government-- which, however, already has
denied all knowledge of his existence. Imagine that awful being, and
you have a mental picture of Dr. Fu-Manchu, the yellow peril incarnate
in one man."
CHAPTER III
I SANK into an arm-chair in my rooms and gulped down a strong peg
of brandy.
"We have been followed here," I said. "Why did you make no attempt
to throw the pursuers off the track, to have them intercepted?"
Smith laughed.
"Useless, in the first place. Wherever we went, HE would find us. And
of what use to arrest his creatures? We could prove nothing against
them. Further, it is evident that an attempt is to be made upon my life
to-night-- and by the same means that proved so successful in the case
of poor Sir Crichton."
His square jaw grew truculently prominent, and he leapt stormily to his
feet, shaking his clenched fists towards the window.
"The villain!" he cried. "The fiendishly clever villain! I suspected that
Sir Crichton was next, and I was right. But I came too late, Petrie! That

hits me hard, old man. To think that I knew and yet failed to save him!"
He resumed his seat, smoking hard.
"Fu-Manchu has made the blunder common to all men of unusual
genius," he said. "He has underrated his adversary. He has not given me
credit for perceiving the meaning of the scented messages. He has
thrown away one powerful weapon--to get such a message into my
hands--and he thinks that once safe within doors, I shall sleep,
unsuspecting, and die as Sir Crichton died. But without the indiscretion
of your charming friend, I should have known what to expect when I
receive her `information'-- which by the way, consists of a blank sheet
of paper."
"Smith," I broke in, "who is she?"
"She is either Fu-Manchu's daughter, his wife, or his slave. I am
inclined to believe the last, for she has no will but his will,
except"--with a quizzical glance--"in a certain instance."
"How can you jest with some awful thing--Heaven knows what--
hanging over your head? What is the meaning of these perfumed
envelopes? How did Sir Crichton die?"
"He died of the Zayat Kiss. Ask me what that is and I reply 'I do not
know.' The zayats are the Burmese caravanserais, or rest-houses. Along
a certain route--upon which I set eyes, for the first and only time, upon
Dr. Fu-Manchu--travelers