The rats began squealing again.  They were fighting . . .

“Quick, Petrie!  Quick, man!  I am weakening . . . .”

I turned and took up the samurai sword.  My hands were very hot and dry, but perfectly steady, and I tested the edge of the heavy weapon upon my left thumb-nail as quietly as one might test a razor blade.  It was as keen, this blade of ghastly history, as any razor ever wrought in Sheffield.  I seized the graven hilt, bent forward in my chair, and raised the Friend’s Sword high above my head.  With the heavy weapon poised there, I looked into my friend’s eyes.  They were feverishly bright, but never in all my days, nor upon the many beds of suffering which it had been my lot to visit, had I seen an expression like that within them.

“The raising of the First Gate is always a crucial moment,” came the guttural voice of the Chinaman.  Although I did not see him, and barely heard his words, I was aware that he had stood up and was bending forward over the lower end of the cage.

“Now, Petrie! now!  God bless you . . . and good-by . . .”

From somewhere—­somewhere remote—­I heard a hoarse and animal-like cry, followed by the sound of a heavy fall.  I can scarcely bear to write of that moment, for I had actually begun the downward sweep of the great sword when that sound came—­a faint Hope, speaking of aid where I had thought no aid possible.

How I contrived to divert the blade, I do not know to this day; but I do know that its mighty sweep sheared a lock from Smith’s head and laid bare the scalp.  With the hilt in my quivering hands I saw the blade bite deeply through the carpet and floor above Nayland Smith’s skull.  There, buried fully two inches in the woodwork, it stuck, and still clutching the hilt, I looked to the right and across the room—­I looked to the curtained doorway.

Fu-Manchu, with one long, claw-like hand upon the top of the First Gate, was bending over the trap, but his brilliant green eyes were turned in the same direction as my own—­upon the curtained doorway.

Upright within it, her beautiful face as pale as death, but her great eyes blazing with a sort of splendid madness, stood Karamaneh!

She looked, not at the tortured man, not at me, but fully at Dr. Fu-Manchu.  One hand clutched the trembling draperies; now she suddenly raised the other, so that the jewels on her white arm glittered in the light of the lamp above the door.  She held my Browning pistol!  Fu-Manchu sprang upright, inhaling sibilantly, as Karamaneh pointed the pistol point blank at his high skull and fired. . . .

I saw a little red streak appear, up by the neutral colored hair, under the black cap.  I became as a detached intelligence, unlinked with the corporeal, looking down upon a thing which for some reason I had never thought to witness.