“I have seen this—­yes,” said Van Roon, revealing a row of even, white teeth in a rapid smile.  “Is it to this paragraph that I owe the pleasure of seeing you here?”

“The paragraph appeared in this morning’s issue,” replied Smith.  “An hour from the time of seeing it, my friend, Dr. Petrie, and I were entrained for Bridgewater.”

“Your visit delights me, gentlemen, and I should be ungrateful to question its cause; but frankly I am at a loss to understand why you should have honored me thus.  I am a poor host, God knows; for what with my tortured limb, a legacy from the Chinese devils whose secrets I surprised, and my semi-blindness, due to the same cause, I am but sorry company.”

Nayland Smith held up his right hand deprecatingly.  Van Roon tendered a box of cigars and clapped his hands, whereupon the mulatto entered.

“I see that you have a story to tell me, Mr. Smith,” he said; “therefore I suggest whisky-and-soda—­or you might prefer tea, as it is nearly tea time?”

Smith and I chose the former refreshment, and the soft-footed half-breed having departed upon his errand, my companion, leaning forward earnestly across the littered table, outlined for Van Roon the story of Dr. Fu-Manchu, the great and malign being whose mission in England at that moment was none other than the stoppage of just such information as our host was preparing to give to the world.

“There is a giant conspiracy, Mr. Van Roon,” he said, “which had its birth in this very province of Ho-Nan, from which you were so fortunate to escape alive; whatever its scope or limitations, a great secret society is established among the yellow races.  It means that China, which has slumbered for so many generations, now stirs in that age-long sleep.  I need not tell you how much more it means, this seething in the pot . . .”

“In a word,” interrupted Van Roon, pushing Smith’s glass across the table “you would say?—­”

“That your life is not worth that!” replied Smith, snapping his fingers before the other’s face.

A very impressive silence fell.  I watched Van Roon curiously as he sat propped up among his cushions, his smooth face ghastly in the green light from the lamp-shade.  He held the stump of a cigar between his teeth, but, apparently unnoticed by him, it had long since gone out.  Smith, out of the shadows, was watching him, too.  Then: 

“Your information is very disturbing,” said the American.  “I am the more disposed to credit your statement because I am all too painfully aware of the existence of such a group as you mention, in China, but that they had an agent here in England is something I had never conjectured.  In seeking out this solitary residence I have unwittingly done much to assist their designs . . .  But—­my dear Mr. Smith, I am very remiss!  Of course you will remain tonight, and I trust for some days to come?”

Smith glanced rapidly across at me, then turned again to our host.