He knew that heaven had been good to him, and strode along confidently until he had a distant view of the gate of the town—but not the gate by which he had entered on a previous occasion. He pulled up, made a swift mental calculation, and got his bearings.
As he stepped aside from the high road into a tangle of bushes, a heavy wagon of market produce lumbered along, and from cover he saw, again, the red light spring up ahead.
Evidently, there was a guard at the gate. What was the reason of these unusual precautions? . . . And how had Nayland Smith been received?
Anxiety surged up in him like a hot spring.
He peered out. The big cart was being detained. He saw a number of men around it. He moved on. Still keeping parallel with the road, he tried to find some sort of path leading in the direction he wanted to go.
And, soon, he found one.
It was a footpath from the highroad, bearing north-westerly, just such a path as he had hoped to find. He sighed with relief; began to trudge along.
But, fifty yards from the road, he stopped. His heart seemed to stop, too.
A Ford car (and he couldn’t mistake it!) stood beside the narrow footpath!
He sprang forward. The car was empty. It had been deserted.
His brain began to behave like a windmill, and he broke into a run. What did it mean? What had happened? This was the car Nayland Smith had been driving. Where was Nayland Smith—and where was Moon Flower?
The path led into a patch of dense shadow, deserted by moonlight. He ran on.
A steely grasp on his ankle! He was thrown—pinned down!
Tony twisted, threw off his unseen enemy, nearly got on to his knees, when a strangle-hold ended the struggle.
“The light—quick!” came a snappy command.
A light flashed dazzlingly on to Tony’s face.
“Chi Foh!” Moon Flower’s voice!
“Damn it, McKay! I’m awfully sorry!”
He had been captured by Nayland Smith . . .
* * *
“I thought my maneuver had been spotted,” Sir Denis explained. “Hearing someone apparently in pursuit, I naturally acted promptly.”
“You did!” Tony admitted. “I’m getting quite used to being strangled!”
“You see, McKay, in sight of the town gate, I saw a loaded cart being examined there; several lanterns were brought out. By great good luck, I recognized one of the searchers—the big Nubian! That settled it. I looked for an opening where I could turn in, scrapped the old Ford and went ahead on foot.”
“I understand. I did the same thing; and I think, but I’m not sure, that you have picked the right path. If so, we haven’t far to walk. But what’s going on in Niu-fo-Tu? Is Fu Manchu expecting us?”
They were walking ahead cautiously, speaking in low tones.
“That’s what bothers me,” Nayland Smith confessed. “I don’t understand it.”
Moon Flower had said little for some time, but now she broke her silence. “As we have the mysterious manuscript, surely Fu Manchu would expect us to get away and not to come back here.”
“I agree,” Sir Denis said. “There may be some other reason for these strange precautions.”
They came out from the shadow of trees. The path led sharply right, and silvered by moonlight, they saw the scattered houses of Niu-fo-Tu. The house of the Lama, Dr. Li Wu Chang, was easy to identify, and Tony recognized the door by which he had escaped.
“Is the Lama expecting us?” he asked Nayland Smith.
“Yes. He has been advised. Hurry! We can be seen from several points now.”
m less than two minutes they were at the door. It was a teak door with a grille. It was locked.
Nayland Smith fumbled about urgently, and presently found what he was looking for. A faint bell note sounded inside the house.
“I think someone is coming along this way,’ Moon Flower whispered. “Perhaps we have been seen!”
The grille opened. There was an outline of a face behind the bars.
“Nayland Smith!” Sir Denis snapped.
The door was opened. They hurried in, and the old woman who had opened the door reclosed and barred it.
At that moment the lama came out of his study, hands extended.
“You are welcome. I was growing anxious. My sister, who looks after me, will take charge of Miss Cameron-Gordon, and presently we will all share a frugal supper . . .”
Later in the Lama’s study, with its church-like smell, and refreshed by a bottle of excellent wine: “I have brought you a problem. Doctor,” Nayland Smith said, “which I know will appeal to you. Guard it carefully—for its solution may determine the fate of China.”
And he handed the Lama the Chinese manuscript.
The old Lama glanced over a few pages, smiled, looked up.
“It is unusual. Sir Denis, but I don’t despair. No doubt you have a
copy?”
Nayland Smith nodded. “I had one made at Lao Tse-Mung’s.” “I received a message from him. He called to learn if you had arrived. It seems that a Cold Man entered his house to steal this document, but that the attempt was frustrated and the creature killed?” “Correct,” Nayland Smith agreed. “He was also buried.” “So I understand. Sir Denis. Lao Tse-Mung informs me that his chief mechanic, a very faithful and intelligent servant, reported to him shortly after you had departed that he had heard voices and strange sounds from the cypress grove in which the burial had taken place. He asked for permission to investigate. It was granted.”
“Wong’s a good man,” Nayland Smith said, his grey eyes lighting up. “I don’t know another of them all that would go near that grave at night. What did he find?”
“He found the grave reopened—and empty!”
* * *
A blue light went out in the small cabinet which faced Dr. Fu Manchu. He glanced across at General Huan who sat watching him. “Mahmud reports that the consignment from Lung Chang has passed through Niu-fo-Tu. On the outskirts of the town it will be transferred to the motor wagon and should be here very shortly.”
General Huan took a pinch of snuff, “m my ignorance. Master, it seems to me that to employ your great powers upon a matter which cannot advance our cause—”
Fu Manchu raised his hand, stood up slowly. His eyes became fixed in an almost maniacal stare, his fingers seemed to quiver.
“Cannot advance our cause?” The words were hissed. “How do you suppose, Tsung-Chao, that I have accomplished even so little? Is it because I am a master politician? No. Because I am a great soldier? No. Why do I stand before you, alive? Because I was chosen by the gods to outlive my normal span of years? No!”
His voice rose to a guttural cry. He clenched his hands.
“I regret my clumsy words. Master. I would have said—”
“You would have spoken folly. It is because I have explored more secrets of nature than any man living today. The fools who send rockets into space: what cause do these toys advance? I constructed a machine thirty years ago which defies the law of gravity. What of those who devise missiles with destructive warheads to reach distant targets? I could erase human life from the face of the earth without employing such a clumsy device.”
Fu Manchu dropped back into his chair, breathing heavily.
“Forgive me. I had no wish to disturb you.”
“I am not disturbed, Tsung-Chao. I am disappointed to find that our long association has not shown you that it is my supremacy as a scientist which alone can carry our projects to success. And what is my greatest achievement to this present hour? The creation of the Cold Men. You may not know, therefore I tell you, that the Cold Men are dead men.”
Huan Tsung-Chao stirred uneasily, looked aside.