Daughter of Fu-Manchu Read Online Free PDF Page B

to stray again. Had I been blind? And where I had been blind, had Rima seen?
    “Who is this woman?”
    Weymouth’s tense query brought me back to the job in hand.
    Forester laughed dryly, and:
    “A question I have often put to Greville,” he replied, “but which I know he was no more able to answer than anyone else, except the chief.”
    “Oh, I see. A friend of Sir Lionel’s?”
    I nodded. Weymouth was staring in my direction.
    “What nationality?”
    I shook my head blankly.
    “I always said Hungarian,” Forester declared. “Simply because of her name. Greville thought she was Japanese.”
    “Japanese!” Dr. Petrie rapped the word out with startling suddenness. “Why Japanese?”
    “Well,” said Forester, “it wasn’t an unreasonable guess, because her eyes did slant slightly.’
    Weymouth exchanged a rapid glance with Dr. Petrie and stood up.
    “An attractive woman—young?” he challenged—for the words were spoken almost like a challenge.
    “Undoubtedly,” I replied. “Smart, cultured, and evidently well-to-do.”
    “Dark?”
    “Very.”
    “What coloured eyes?”
    “Jade-green,” said Forester.
    Again I detected a rapid exchange of glances between Petrie and Weymouth.
    “Tall?” asked the former.
    “Yes, unusually tall.”
    “An old friend of Sir Lionel’s?”
    “We were given to understand,” said Forester, “that she was the widow of a certain Dr. Ingomar whom the chief knew well at one time.”
    “Was she staying at one of the Luxor hotels?” Weymouth asked.
    “I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” I replied. “She wasn’t staying at the Winter Palace.”
    “You mean neither of you know. Does Miss Barton know?”
    “I have never asked her.”
    “When was she last here?”
    “On Monday,” Forester answered promptly—“the day the chief switched the quarters around and put up barricades.”
    “But did Sir Lionel never speak of her?” asked Dr. Petrie.
    “No,” I said. “He was a man who gave few confidences, as you are aware.”
    “Was there any suggestion of intimacy between them?” Weymouth was the speaker. “Did Sir Lionel show any jealousy, for instance?”
    “Not that I ever noticed,” Forester replied. “He treated her as he treated everybody—with good-humoured tolerance! After all, the chief must have said good-bye to sixty, Weymouth!”
    “Stranger things have happened,” Petrie commented dryly. “I think, Weymouth, our next step is to establish the identity of this Madame Ingomar. Do you agree with me?”
    “I do,” said Weymouth, “absolutely”—and his expression had grown very grim.
    He stared from me to Forester, and:
    “You’re both getting annoyed,” he said. ‘I can see it. You know that the doctor here and I have a theory which we haven’t shared with you. Very well, you shall know the facts. Ask Rima Barton to join us, and arm Ali Mahmoud. Tell him to mount guard and shoot anything he sees moving!”
    “What on earth does this mean?” Forester demanded.
    “It means,” said Petrie, “that we are dealing with agents of Dr. Fu-Manchu…”
    Dr. Fu-Manchu! When that story was told, the story which Weymouth unfolded in the hut in the wâdi, whilst I can’t answer for Forester, personally I was amazed beyond belief.
    Rima’s sweet face, where she sat half in shadow, was a fascinating study. She had ridden up from Kûrna with Ali Mahmoud. In the tent, when I had found her in my arms, she had worn riding kit; but now she had changed into a simple frock and had even made some attempt to straighten the tangle of her windblown hair. The night ride had whipped a wild colour into her tanned cheeks; her grave Irish eyes seemed even brighter than usual as she listened spellbound.
    Some of the things Weymouth spoke of aroused echoes in my memory. I had been too young at the time to associate these events one with another. But I remembered having heard of them. I was considering the advantages of a legal calling when the war disturbed my