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Page 45
"Did he mean that literally?"
"I couldn't say. We had to send the girl home, too, of course."
Nayland Smith was pulling thoughtfully at the lobe of his left ear.
"Got any theory?" he jerked.
Weymouth shrugged his shoulders.
"Not one that includes the green mist," he said.
"Shall we go in now?"
We crossed the Assyrian hall, where the members of that strange
household were gathered in a panic-stricken group. They numbered four.
Two of them were negroes, and two Easterns of some kind. I missed
the Chinaman, Kwee, of whom Smith had spoken, and the Italian secretary;
and from the way in which my friend peered about the shadows
of the hall I divined that he, too, wondered at their absence.
We entered Sir Lionel's study--an apartment which I despair of describing.
Nayland Smith's words, "an earthquake at Sotheby's auction-rooms,"
leaped to my mind at once; for the place was simply stacked
with curious litter--loot of Africa, Mexico and Persia.
In a clearing by the hearth a gas stove stood upon a packing-case,
and about it lay a number of utensils for camp cookery.
The odor of rotting vegetation, mingled with the insistent
perfume of the strange night-blooming flowers, was borne
in through the open window.
In the center of the floor, beside an overturned sarcophagus,
lay a figure in a neutral-colored dressing-gown, face downwards,
and arms thrust forward and over the side of the ancient
Egyptian mummy case.
My friend advanced and knelt beside the dead man.
"Good God!"
Smith sprang upright and turned with an extraordinary expression
to Inspector Weymouth.
"You do not know Sir Lionel Barton by sight?" he rapped.
"No," began Weymouth, "but--"
"This is not Sir Lionel. This is Strozza, the secretary."
"What!" shouted Weymouth.
"Where is the other--the Chinaman--quick!" cried Smith.
"I have had him left where he was found--on the conservatory steps,"
said the Inspector.
Smith ran across the room to where, beyond the open door,
a glimpse might be obtained of stacked-up curiosities.
Holding back the curtain to allow more light to penetrate,
he bent forward over a crumpled-up figure which lay upon
the steps below.
"It is!" he cried aloud. "It is Sir Lionel's servant, Kwee."
Weymouth and I looked at one another across the body of the Italian;
then our eyes turned together to where my friend, grim-faced, stood
over the dead Chinaman. A breeze whispered through the leaves;
a great wave of exotic perfume swept from the open window towards
the curtained doorway.
It was a breath of the East--that stretched out a yellow hand to the West.
It was symbolic of the subtle, intangible power manifested in Dr. Fu-Manchu,
as Nayland Smith--lean, agile, bronzed with the suns of Burma, was symbolic
of the clean British efficiency which sought to combat the insidious enemy.
"One thing is evident," said Smith: "no one in the house, Strozza excepted,
knew that Sir Lionel was absent."
"How do you arrive at that?" asked Weymouth.
"The servants, in the hall, are bewailing him as dead.
If they had seen him go out they would know that it must
be someone else who lies here."
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