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

down upon me.
    “Kerrigan!” came Barton’s voice, “the damned lights have gone out!”
    “This way!” I cried, and was about to step back to guide him, when I saw something.
    One of the flower-bowls lay smashed on the floor. A draught of cold, damp air bore the exotic scent of the blooms to my nostrils. The door by which we had entered, the door to the garden, was wide open; and now from out of the blackness beyond came the wail of a police whistle.
    “Make your way through to the garden!” I shouted. “Smith is out there—and he needs help!”
    Something in the scent of the hyacinths, in the atmosphere of the house, spoke to me of that Eastern mist out of which Dr. Fu-Manchu had materialized. It was a commonplace London house, but it had sheltered the Chinese master of evil, and his aura lay heavy upon it. I ran out into the garden as one escaping. Dimly the words reached my ears:
    “Go ahead! I can take care of myself…”
    The skirl of the whistle had died away, but it had seemed to come from a point far to the right of the route which Smith and I had followed when we had approached the house. Now, using my torch freely, I saw that a gravelled path led from the door in that direction: a short distance ahead there were glasshouses.
    I grasped a probable explanation; the garage. Fu-Manchu was making for the car. Smith had followed!
    As I ran down the path—it sloped sharply—I was mentally calculating the time that had elapsed since Sims, the Yard driver, had gone for a raid squad, and asking myself, over and over again, if Smith had been ambushed. I was by no means blind to my own danger; the friendly Colt was ready in my hand as I passed the glass-houses. Beyond them I pulled up.
    Except for a dismal dripping of moisture from the trees the night was uneasily still. I could hear no sound from Barton; but I had heard another sound, and this it was which had pulled me up sharply… a low whistle on three minor notes.
    Switching off my light, I stood there waiting. The whistle was repeated, from somewhere nearer; I heard footsteps. And now came a soft call: I could not catch the words.
    Then, a faint glimmer of light showed in the darkness.
    A high, red-bricked wall surrounded the garden; the forcing-houses were built against it. There was an arched opening, in which perhaps at some time there had been a gate.
    There, where reflected rays from the lamp she held struck witch from her disordered hair, stood Ardatha!
    Certainly, I had never known, nor have known since, any wild conflict of emotions such as that which shook me. The expression in those wonderful eyes, their deep blue seeming lustrous black in the darkness, was so compounded of terror and of appeal that I knew I must act quickly. I had given my heart to a soulless wanton—and she held it still.
    She had seen me, and at the moment that she extinguished the lamp I saw that she carried what looked like a shawl. She turned to run, but I was too swift for her. A vigour not wholly of heaven drove me tonight; things witnessed in that hyacinth-scented house, the ghastly face of Dr. Oster (for whose end I experienced not one jot of remorse)—these had taught me the meaning of “seeing red”.
    I leapt through the archway, seized the hooded cape streaming out behind as she ran. She slipped free of it. I stumbled—sprang again—and had her!
    As I locked my arms around her she quivered and panted like a wild creature trapped; her head was drumming against mine.
    “Let me go!” she cried; “let me go!” and beat at me with clenched fists, nor were the blows light ones.
    But I held her remorselessly, perhaps harshly; for her struggles ceased and her words ended on a sound like a sob. She lay, lithe, slender and helpless in my grip. My heart-throbs matched her own as I crushed her to me so that my face touched her hair—and its fragrance intoxicated me.
    “Ardatha—Ardatha!” I groaned. “My God, how I love you! How could you do it!”
    That beating