“The divine afflatus should never be neglected,”
announced Nayland Smith didactically, “wild
though its promptings may seem.”
THE NOTE ON THE DOOR
I saw little of Nayland Smith for the remainder of
that day. Presumably he was following those “promptings”
to which he had referred, though I was unable to conjecture
whither they were leading him. Then, towards
dusk he arrived in a perfect whirl, figuratively sweeping
me off my feet.
“Get your coat on, Petrie!” he cried;
“you forget that we have a most urgent appointment!”
Beyond doubt I had forgotten that we had any appointment
whatever that evening, and some surprise must have
shown upon my face, for—
“Really you are becoming very forgetful!”
my friend continued. “You know we can no
longer trust the ’phone. I have to leave
certain instructions for Weymouth at the rendezvous!”
There was a hidden significance in his manner, and,
my memory harking back to an adventure which we had
shared in the past, I suddenly glimpsed the depths
of my own stupidity.
He suspected the presence of an eavesdropper!
Yes! incredible though it might appear, we were spied
upon in the New Louvre; agents of the Si-Fan, of Dr.
Fu-Manchu, were actually within the walls of the great
hotel!
We hurried out into the corridor, and descended by
the lift to the lobby. M. Samarkan, long famous
as maitre d’hotel of one of Cairo’s
fashionable khans, and now principal of the
New Louvre, greeted us with true Greek courtesy.
He trusted that we should be present at some charitable
function or other to be held at the hotel on the following
evening.
“If possible, M. Samarkan—if possible,”
said Smith. “We have many demands upon
our time.” Then, abruptly, to me: “Come,
Petrie, we will walk as far as Charing Cross and take
a cab from the rank there.”
“The hall-porter can call you a cab,”
said M. Samarkan, solicitous for the comfort of his
guests.
“Thanks,” snapped Smith; “we prefer
to walk a little way.”
Passing along the Strand, he took my arm, and speaking
close to my ear—
“That place is alive with spies, Petrie,”
he said; “or if there are only a few of them
they are remarkably efficient!”
Not another word could I get from him, although I
was eager enough to talk; since one dearer to me than
all else in the world was in the hands of the damnable
organization we knew as the Si-Fan; until, arrived
at Charing Cross, he walked out to the cab rank, and—
“Jump in!” he snapped.
He opened the door of the first cab on the rank.
“Drive to J—— Street, Kennington,”
he directed the man.
In something of a mental stupor I entered and found
myself seated beside Smith. The cab made off
towards Trafalgar Square, then swung around into Whitehall.
