A faint sound made by an opening door failed to distract him.
The tall figure which had entered, that of a man also in white, stood silent, watching.
The student, without removing his eye from the instrument, scribbled something on a pad which lay near his hand. He looked a while longer, then standing up and completing the note he had made, sat down and turned to a globular lamp-glass, the top closed with cotton-wool, standing in a Petri dish. Several sheets of damp filter paper lay in the bottom. He took up a lens and stared intently into the glass globe.
“I see, Doctor,” came a sibilant voice from the shadowed doorway, “you are studying my new sandflies.”
“Yes.” The man addressed didn’t even glance aside.
“Are you satisfied?”
“Yes. But you won’t be.”
“Why?”
“They are not absorbing the virus.”
“It is fed to them.”
“It is here, on the filter-papers. But they reject it.” He looked up for the first time. Light-blue eyes blazed under shaggy eyebrows. “For your own filthy purpose these new imports are useless.”
Fu Manchu walked slowly into the room, stood over the seated man; smiling his icy smile.
“Your mulish obstinacy in ignoring my high purpose begins to annoy me.” He spoke softly. “You are well aware of the fact that I do not strike at random. Only the guilty suffer. You persist in confusing my aims with those of the crazy Communist fools who wrecked your mission hospital. You presume to classify my work with that of the ignorant, power-drunk demagogues who have forced their way into the Kremlin.”
“Your methods are much the same.”
There was a moment of tense silence, broken only by a rhythmic throbbing in the adjoining room. Fu Manchu’s clenched hands relaxed.
“You forget that I saved you from the mob who burned your home.”
“By arresting me and making me a prisoner here. It was you who inspired the mob—for that purpose alone.”
Fu Manchu’s voice was coldly calm when he spoke again. “Dr. Cameron-Gordon, I respect your knowledge. I respect your courage. But I cannot respect your blindness to the fact that our ideals are identical. My methods in achieving them are beyond your understanding. Be good enough to leave your work for an hour. I wish to talk to you.”
“When I undertake a thing, though I may loathe it, I carry it out. My work here is not finished.”
“You are dedicated to your studies, Doctor. That is why I admire you. Please come with me.”
Dr. Cameron-Gordon shrugged his shoulders and stood up. He followed the tall figure to the room at the end of the long, low building which Fu Manchu used as a rest room; sat down in a comfortable chair. Fu Manchu opened a closet.
“May I offer you a Scotch and soda, Doctor?”
“Thank you, no.” Cameron-Gordon sniffed. “But I have no objection to your smoking a pipe of opium. If you smoke enough the world will soon be rid of you.”
Dr. Fu Manchu smiled his mirthless smile. “If I told you for how many years I have used opium, you would not believe me. Opium will not rid the world of me.”
He closed the closet, sat down on the couch.
“That’s a pity,” Cameron-Gordon commented dryly
Fu Manchu took a pinch of snuff, then pressed the tips of his fingers together. “I have tried many times, since you have been my guest—,, Cameron-Gordon made a snorting sound—”to enlighten you concerning the aims of the Si-Fan. I have told you of the many distinguished men who work for the Order—”
“You mean who are slaves of the Order!”
“I mean convinced and enthusiastic members. It is unavoidable, Doctor, if the present so-called civilization is not to perish, that some intellectual group, such as that which I mention, should put an end to the pretensions of the gang of impudent impostors who seek to create a Communist world. This done, the rest is easy. And the Si-Fan can do this.”
“So you have told me. But your methods of doing it don’t appeal. My experience of the Si-Fan isn’t exactly encouraging!”
Fu Manchu continued calmly, “I have no desire to use coercion. Without difficulty, and by purely scientific means, I could exact your obedience.”
“You mean, you could drug me?”
“It would be simple. But it is a method which, in the case of a delicately adjusted brain such as yours, might impair your work. As I wish you to continue your researches during my absence, I have been thinking that your daughter—”
Cameron-Gordon came to his feet at a bound, fists clenched, eleven stones of dangerous Scot’s brawn fighting mad. In two strides he stood over Dr. Fu Manchu.
“By God! Speak another word of that threat and I’ll strangle you with my bare hands!”
Fu Manchu did not stir. He remained perfectly still, the lids half lowered over his strange eyes.
“I spoke no threat,” he said softly. “I was thinking that your daughter would be left unprovided for if any rash behavior on your part should make her an orphan.”
“In other words, unless I submit to you, I shall be liquidated.”
“I did not say so. You can join the Si-Fan whenever you wish. You will enjoy complete freedom. You can practice any form of religion which may appeal to you. Your place of residence will be of your own choosing. Your daughter can live with you. All that I shall call upon you to do will be to carry out certain experiments. Their purpose will not concern you. My object is to crush Communism. You can help me to attain that goal.”
Cameron-Gordon’s clenched hands relaxed. Dr. Fu Manchu’s sophistry had not deceived him, but it had made him reflect.
“Thanks for the explanation,” he said dourly “I’ll be thinking it over. Maybe I could get back to my work now?”
“By all means. Doctor.” Fu Manchu raised drooping lids and gave him a brief, piercing glance of his green eyes. “Return to your experiment . . .”
Chapter XVII
It was early next morning when Nayland Smith and Tony joined the stream of workers, many of them silk weavers, pouring through the narrow streets. Tony wore thick-rimmed glasses, a sufficient disguise. Shun-Hi hurried along ahead, and they kept her in sight.
On the outskirts of the town, she was joined by two companions, evidently fellow servants. And after passing a large factory in which the stream of workers were finally absorbed, they came to the country road leading to the summer villa of Huan Tsung-Chao. Sir Denis and Tony, and the three girls ahead, now alone remained of the former throng.
“Drop back a bit,” Nayland Smith cautioned. “Those other girls might think we’re following them from amorous motives.” He grabbed Tony’s arm. “In here!”
They stepped through an opening in a cactus hedge and found a path parallel to the road which bordered a large field of poppies.
“Gosh!” Tony exclaimed. “Here’s a crop!”
“The Reds have certainly stepped up the opium trade,” Nayland Smith rapped dryly
They went ahead, guided by the girls’ voices, and when these grew faint in the distance came out again on to the road. Shun-Hi and her friends had turned into a side-path. Tony caught a glimpse of the three figures just before they were lost in the shadows of a cypress grove.
“We must chance it,” Nayland Smith muttered. “Have to keep them in sight. I want a glimpse of this staff entrance Shun-Hi and Jeanie mentioned.”
But they had gone all of another mile before they saw the roof of a large house gleaming in the morning sun. It stood on a slight eminence in the middle of what was evidently a considerable estate, and the narrow lane along which, now, the girls were hurrying, was bordered by a high wall of similar construction to that
which enclosed the property of Lao Tse-Mung.
They had drawn up closer to the three, and suddenly: