The Return of Dr. Fu-Manchu Read Online Free PDF Page B

to his death, Petrie," I heard dimly. "God
forgive me—God forgive me!"
    The words aroused me.
    "Smith"—my voice came as a whisper—"for one awful moment I
thought—"
    "So did some one else," he rapped. "Our poor sailor has met the
end designed for me, Petrie!"
    At that I realized two things: I knew why Forsyth's face had
struck me as being familiar in some puzzling way, and I knew why
Forsyth now lay dead upon the grass. Save that he was a fair man
and wore a slight mustache, he was, in features and build, the
double of Nayland Smith!

Chapter 5 THE NET
    We raised the poor victim and turned him over on his back. I
dropped upon my knees, and with unsteady fingers began to strike a
match. A slight breeze was arising and sighing gently through the
elms, but, screened by my hands, the flame of the match took life.
It illuminated wanly the sun-baked face of Nayland Smith, his eyes
gleaming with unnatural brightness. I bent forward, and the dying
light of the match touched that other face.
    "Oh, God!" whispered Smith.
    A faint puff of wind extinguished the match.
    In all my surgical experience I had never met with anything
quite so horrible. Forsyth's livid face was streaked with tiny
streams of blood, which proceeded from a series of irregular
wounds. One group of these clustered upon his left temple, another
beneath his right eye, and others extended from the chin down to
the throat. They were black, almost like tattoo marks, and the
entire injured surface was bloated indescribably. His fists were
clenched; he was quite rigid.
    Smith's piercing eyes were set upon me eloquently as I knelt on
the path and made my examination—an examination which that first
glimpse when Forsyth came staggering out from the trees had
rendered useless—a mere matter of form.
    "He's quite dead, Smith," I said huskily.
"It's—unnatural—it—"
    Smith began beating his fist into his left palm and taking
little, short, nervous strides up and down beside the dead man. I
could hear a car humming along the highroad, but I remained there
on my knees staring dully at the disfigured bloody face which but a
matter of minutes since had been that of a clean looking British
seaman. I found myself contrasting his neat, squarely trimmed
mustache with the bloated face above it, and counting the little
drops of blood which trembled upon its edge. There were footsteps
approaching. I stood up. The footsteps quickened; and I turned as a
constable ran up.
    "What's this?" he demanded gruffly, and stood with his fists
clenched, looking from Smith to me and down at that which lay
between us. Then his hand flew to his breast; there was a silvern
gleam and—
    "Drop that whistle!" snapped Smith—and struck it from the man's
hand. "Where's your lantern? Don't ask questions!"
    The constable started back and was evidently debating upon his
chances with the two of us, when my friend pulled a letter from his
pocket and thrust it under the man's nose.
    "Read that!" he directed harshly, "and then listen to my
orders."
    There was something in his voice which changed the officer's
opinion of the situation. He directed the light of his lantern upon
the open letter and seemed to be stricken with wonder.
    "If you have any doubts," continued Smith—"you may not be
familiar with the Commissioner's signature—you have only to ring up
Scotland Yard from Dr. Petrie's house, to which we shall now
return, to disperse them." He pointed to Forsyth. "Help us to carry
him there. We must not be seen; this must be hushed up. You
understand? It must not get into the press—"
    The man saluted respectfully; and the three of us addressed
ourselves to the mournful task. By slow stages we bore the dead man
to the edge of the common, carried him across the road and into my
house, without exciting attention even on the part of those
vagrants who nightly slept out in the neighborhood.
    We laid our burden upon the surgery table.
    "You will want to make an examination, Petrie," said Smith in
his