The Island of Fu-Manchu Read Online Free PDF Page A

Good God! What’s that?”
    I think I began to reply, but the words perished on my tongue.
    It was one of those sounds which it is good to forget; a sound which otherwise might haunt one’s dreams. It was a strangled cry, the cry of a strong man in the grip of mortal terror. It died away. From leafless limbs of trees stretching over us came the drip-drip-drip of falling water.
    Smith grasped my arm so hard that I winced.
    “That was Barton!” he said, hoarsely. “God forgive me if they—”
    His voice broke. Shining the torchlight on the path, he set out headlong for the house.
    I have often wondered since what he had planned to do—what would have happened if that Fate which bound two destinies together had not intervened. I can only record what occurred.
    We were scrambling across a thorny patch which I judged to be a rose-bed when Smith pulled up, turned, and threw me flat on the ground! His nervous strength in moments of excitement was astounding: I was down before I realized it was he who had thrown me!
    “Quiet!” he hissed in my ear; he lay prone beside me. “Look!”
    A door had been opened, I saw a silhouette—I should have known it a mile away—that of a girl who seemed to be in wild distress. She raised her arms as if in a gesture of supplication, then pressed her hands over her ears and ran out, turning swiftly right, then vanished.
    Smith was breathing as rapidly as I, but:
    “Ardatha has opened the door for us,” he said quietly. “Come on, Kerrigan.”
    As we ran across and stepped into a lighted lobby Smith was as self-possessed as though we were paying a formal call; I, knowing that we challenged the greatest genius who ever worked for Satan, admired him.
    “Gun ready,” he whispered. “Don’t hesitate to shoot.”
    Something vaguely familiar about the place in which we stood was explained when I saw an open door beyond which was an empty room, its French windows draped with sombre velvet. This was the lobby I had seen from the other side of the house. It was well furnished, the floor strewn with rugs, and oppressively hot. The air was heavy with the perfume of hyacinths, several bowls of which decorated the place. A grandfather clock ticked solemnly before the newel post of a carpeted staircase. I found myself watching the swing of the pendulum as we stood there, listening. The illumination was scanty, and from beside a partly-opened door in a recess left of the stairs light shone out.
    In the room beyond a voice was speaking. Smith exchanged a swift glance with me and advanced, tip-toe. The speaker was Dr. Fu-Manchu!
    “I warned you as long as six months ago,” came that singular voice—who, hearing, could ever forget it! “But my warning was not heeded. I have several times attempted, and as often failed, to recover Christophe’s chart from your house in Norfolk. Tonight, my agents did not fail—”
    A bearskin rug had deadened the sound of our approach: now Smith was opening the door by decimals of an inch per move.
    “You fought for its possession. I do not blame you. I must respect a man of spirit. You might even have succeeded if Dr. Oster had not managed to introduce an intra muscular injection of
crataegusin
which produced immediate crataegus katatonia—or shall I say, stupor—”
    Smith had opened the door nearly six inches. I obtained a glimpse of the room beyond. It looked like a study, and on a long, narrow writing-table a struggling man lay bound: I could not see his face.
    “Since this occurred in the street, it necessitated your removal. And now. Sir Lionel, I have decided that your undoubted talents, plus the dangers attendant upon a premature discovery of your body, entitle you to live—and to serve the Si-Fan. My plans for departure are complete. Dr. Oster will operate again, and your perspective be adjusted. Proceed.”
    Smith now had the door half open. I saw that the bound man was Barton. They had gagged him. His eyes, wild with horror, were turned to the