The Hand of Fu Manchu Read Online Free PDF Page B

evening's program."
    He glanced at his watch.
    "Ah! I must be off. If you will oblige me, Petrie, by putting the
brass box into my smaller portmanteau, whilst I slip my coat on,
perhaps Weymouth, on his way out, will be good enough to order a taxi.
I shall venture to breathe again once our unpleasant charge is safely
deposited in the bank vaults!"

Chapter VI - The Si-Fan Move
*
    A slight drizzling rain was falling as Smith entered the cab which
the hall-porter had summoned. The brown bag in his hand contained the
brass box which actually was responsible for our presence in London.
The last glimpse I had of him through the glass of the closed window
showed him striking a match to light his pipe—which he rarely allowed
to grow cool.
    Oppressed with an unaccountable weariness of spirit, I stood within
the lobby looking out upon the grayness of London in November. A
slight mental effort was sufficient to blot out that drab prospect and
to conjure up before my mind's eye a balcony overlooking the Nile—a
glimpse of dusty palms, a white wall overgrown with purple blossoms,
and above all the dazzling vault of Egypt. Upon the balcony my
imagination painted a figure, limning it with loving details, the
figure of Kâramaneh; and I thought that her glorious eyes would be
sorrowful and her lips perhaps a little tremulous, as, her arms resting
upon the rail of the balcony, she looked out across the smiling river
to the domes and minarets of Cairo—and beyond, into the hazy distance;
seeing me in dreary, rain-swept London, as I saw her, at Gezîra
beneath the cloudless sky of Egypt.
    From these tender but mournful reflections I aroused myself, almost
angrily, and set off through the muddy streets towards Charing Cross;
for I was availing myself of the opportunity to call upon Dr. Murray,
who had purchased my small suburban practice when (finally, as I
thought at the time) I had left London.
    This matter occupied me for the greater part of the afternoon, and I
returned to the New Louvre Hotel shortly after five, and seeing no one
in the lobby whom I knew, proceeded immediately to our apartment.
Nayland Smith was not there, and having made some changes in my attire
I descended again and inquired if he had left any message for me.
    The booking-clerk informed me that Smith had not returned; therefore I
resigned myself to wait. I purchased an evening paper and settled down
in the lounge where I had an uninterrupted view of the entrance doors.
The dinner hour approached, but still my friend failed to put in an
appearance. Becoming impatient, I entered a call-box and rang up
Inspector Weymouth.
    Smith had not been to Scotland Yard, nor had they received any message
from him. Perhaps it would appear that there was little cause for alarm
in this, but I, familiar with my friend's punctual and exact habits,
became strangely uneasy. I did not wish to make myself ridiculous,
but growing restlessness impelled me to institute inquiries regarding
the cabman who had driven my friend. The result of these was to
increase rather than to allay my fears.
    The man was a stranger to the hall-porter, and he was not one of the
taximen who habitually stood upon the neighboring rank; no one seemed
to have noticed the number of the cab.
    And now my mind began to play with strange doubts and fears. The driver,
I recollected, had been a small, dark man, possessing remarkably
well-cut olive-hued features. Had he not worn spectacles he would
indeed have been handsome, in an effeminate fashion.
    I was almost certain, by this time, that he had not been an Englishman;
I was almost certain that some catastrophe had befallen Smith. Our
ceaseless vigilance had been momentarily relaxed—and this was the
result!
    At some large bank branches there is a resident messenger. Even
granting that such was the case in the present instance, I doubted if
the man could help me, unless, as was possible, he chanced to be
familiar with my friend's appearance, and had actually seen him