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Page 96
At last it was done, and the pallid face of Lord Southery questioned
the intruding light. Nayland Smith's hand was as steady as a rigid bar
when he raised the lantern. Later, I knew, there would be a sudden
releasing of the tension of will--a reaction physical and mental--
but not until his work was finished.
That my own hand was steady I ascribed to one thing solely--
professional zeal. For, under conditions which, in the event
of failure and exposure, must have led to an unpleasant
inquiry by the British Medical Association, I was about
to attempt an experiment never before essayed by a physician
of the white races.
Though I failed, though I succeeded, that it ever came before the B.M.A., or
any other council, was improbable; in the former event, all but impossible.
But the knowledge that I was about to practice charlatanry, or what any one
of my fellow-practitioners must have designated as such, was with me. Yet so
profound had my belief become in the extraordinary being whose existence was
a danger to the world that I reveled in my immunity from official censure.
I was glad that it had fallen to my lot to take at least one step--
though blindly--into the FUTURE of medical science.
So far as my skill bore me, Lord Southery was dead. Unhesitatingly, I
would have given a death certificate, save for two considerations.
The first, although his latest scheme ran contrary from the interests
of Dr. Fu-Manchu, his genius, diverted into other channels,
would serve the yellow group better than his death. The second,
I had seen the boy Aziz raised from a state as like death as this.
From the phial of amber-hued liquid which I had with me,
I charged the needle syringe. I made the injection, and waited.
"If he is really dead!" whispered Smith. "It seems incredible
that he can have survived for three days without food.
Yet I have known a fakir to go for a week."
Mr. Henderson groaned.
Watch in hand, I stood observing the gray face.
A second passed; another; a third. In the fourth the miracle began.
Over the seemingly cold clay crept the hue of pulsing life.
It came in waves--in waves which corresponded with the throbbing
of the awakened heart; which swept fuller and stronger;
which filled and quickened the chilled body.
As we rapidly freed the living man from the trappings of
the dead one, Southery, uttering a stifled scream, sat up,
looked about him with half-glazed eyes, and fell back.
"My God!" cried Smith.
"It is all right," I said, and had time to note how my voice
had assumed a professional tone. "A little brandy from my flask
is all that is necessary now."
"You have two patients, Doctor," rapped my friend.
Mr. Henderson had fallen in a swoon to the floor of the vault.
"Quiet," whispered Smith; "HE is here."
He extinguished the light.
I supported Lord Southery. "What has happened?" he kept moaning.
"Where am I? Oh, God! what has happened?"
I strove to reassure him in a whisper, and placed my traveling
coat about him. The door at the top of the mausoleum steps we
had reclosed but not relocked. Now, as I upheld the man whom
literally we had rescued from the grave, I heard the door reopen.
To aid Henderson I could make no move. Smith was breathing hard beside me.
I dared not think what was about to happen, nor what its effects
might be upon Lord Southery in his exhausted condition.
Through the Memphian dark of the tomb cut a spear of light,
touching the last stone of the stairway.
A guttural voice spoke some words rapidly, and I knew that Dr. Fu-Manchu
stood at the head of the stairs. Although I could not see my friend,
I became aware that Nayland Smith had his revolver in his hand,
and I reached into my pocket for mine.
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