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.”