He turned, and in the glare of the globular light upon the floor crossed to the door and disappeared.
Nayland Smith, fists clenched, glared in through the bullet-proof glass.
“Hepburn,” he said, “I have been blind and mad. Forgive me.”
“Smith! Smith!” Hepburn grasped his arm. “I have been trying to tell you . . . ! You know what we’re supposed to be here for?”
“The lightning conductor. What the hell does it matter now!”
“It matters everything. Look!”
Hepburn pointed downwards. Nayland Smith stared in the direction indicated.
The cable of a lightning conductor attached from point to point passed down immediately beside the balcony to a dim parapet below . . .
“God help us!” Smith whispered, “will it bear a man’s weight?”
Chapter 34
“THE SEVEN”
“The history of America,” said the Abbot of Holy Thorn, “has acquired several surprising Chapters since our last meeting, Sir Denis.”
Nayland Smith, standing at the window of the abbot’s high-set study staring out at a sun-bathed prospect, turned slightly and nodded. Every detail of his former visit had recurred in his memory. And at this hour, while the fate of the United States hung in the balance, he was really no nearer to success than on the night when first he had entered this room! His briar was fuming like a furnace. Abbot Donegal lighted another cigarette. . . .
The explosion at the Stratton Building in New York was already ancient history. Amid the feverish excitement now sweeping the country, a piece of news must be sensational indeed to survive for longer than forty-eight hours.
Fragments of the dome had fallen at almost incredible distances from the scene of the explosion. The huge building had rocked upon its foundations, great gaps appearing in the masonry. The firemen, faced with a number of problems unique in their experience, had worked like demons. The total loss was difficult to compute, but, miraculously, there had been few serious casualties.
Their descent of the dome by means of the lightning conductor was a thing to haunt a man’s dreams, but Smith and Hepburn had accomplished it. Then had come that race along the narrow parapet to the window of the office occupied by the police party: finally, a wild dash down the stairs—for the elevator could not accommodate all. . . .
The mystery of the origin of the explosion had not been publicly explained to this day.
“Those amazing financial resources controlled by Salvaletti,” said the abbot, “have enabled him to make heavy inroads. He has stolen many of my converts: the Brotherhood of National Equality has suffered. My poor friend Orwin Prescott, as you know, has set out upon a world cruise. This most damnable campaign, this secret poisoning, unlike anything the world has known since the days of the Borgias, has wrecked that fine career. The other victims are countless: I doubt, Sir Denis, if even you know their number.”
“On several occasions,” Smith replied grimly, “I have narrowly escaped being added to their number. You also, I need not remind you. Your references on the radio last night to certain secret stirrings in the Asiatic colonies throughout the States created a profound sensation. It resulted in my presence here to-day. . . .” He rested his hands on the table, looking into the upraised eyes of the abbot. “Only because you have been silent have you remained immune so long.”
That silence had to be broken,” said the priest sternly.
“I should have preferred that you awaited the word from me,” rapped Nayland Smith, standing upright and beginning to pace the floor. “I have insufficient men at my disposal for the work of protection they are called upon to do. Washington, you know as well as I, is an armed camp. The country is in a state of feverish unrest, unparalleled even in war time. Big names, now, are deserting to the enemy!”
“I am painfully aware of the fact, Sir Denis,” the abbot replied sadly. “But I am informed that the circumstance under which some of these desertions took place have been peculiar.”
He stared in an odd way at Nayland Smith.
“Your information is correct! Cruel forms of coercion have been employed in many instances. And the purpose of my visit is this”—he paused before the desk at which the abbot was seated. “You intimated that you intended to touch upon this phase of the campaign in your next address on Wednesday night. You implied that other revelations were to follow. As a result of those words, Dom Patrick Donegal, your life at this moment is in grave danger. I ask you as man to man: How much do you know? What do you intend to say?”
The abbot, his chin resting on an upraised hand, stared unseeingly before him. He resembled the figure of some medieval monk who out of the reluctant ether sought to conjure up the Great Secret. Nayland Smith watched him silently.
He had real respect for Patrick Donegal, and despite the slightness of their acquaintance something resembling friendship. His sincerity, if he had ever doubted it, he doubted no longer: he was deeply read, fearless, unshakable in his faith. And that the abbot had sources of information denied to the Department of Justice Nayland Smith knew quite well.
“I know,” said the abbot, at last, speaking very slowly and with a studious distinctness, “the character of the man who, remorselessly and over many murdered bodies, has driven Paul Salvaletti forward to the place which he holds. I do not know his name. He is a member of a very old Chinese family, and a man of great culture. He controls, or at least he has a voice in the councils of a secret society based in Tibet, but represented in all parts of the world where Eastern nationals are to be found.”
“Do you know the name of this society?” Nayland Smith asked.
“I do not. Our missionaries in the East, who sometimes refer to it as ‘The Seven,’ regard it as the power of Satan manifested in evil-minded men. The Mafia in Italy was for generations a thorn in the side of the Church. An old friend of mine working in Japan tells me that the Society of the Black Dragon exercises a firmer hold over the imagination of the people than any religion has ever secured. But . . . ‘The Seven’. . .” He paused and glanced up.
Nayland Smith nodded.
“Their wealth is incalculable, I am told. Men in high places wielding great social and political influence, are among the members. And all their resources have been rallied to support this attack among the Constitution of the United States. You see, Sir Denis”—he smiled—”my inquiries have made great headway!”
“They have!” rapped Nayland Smith, and again paced the floor.
The Intelligence Department of Abbot Donegal’s Church went up a notch higher. Never before this hour had he realized that the Rock of St. Peter was behind him in his fight against the powers of Dr. Fu Manchu.
“Satan in person is on earth,” said the priest. His face bore the rapt look of the mystic—his voice rose upon a note of inspiration. “His works are manifest. Ours are the humble hands chosen to cast him down!”
Abruptly his expression changed; he became again the practical man of the world.
“We are together in this,” he said, smiling—”Federal Agent 56! Now I am prepared to listen to your advice: I do not undertake to accept it.”
Nayland Smith stared out of the window. Far away to the right, through crystal-clear air, he could catch a glimpse of a wide river. He twitched at the lobe of his ear and turned.
“I never waste advice,” he said rapidly. “You have set your course; I am powerless to alter it. But if, as you say, we work together, there are certain things upon which I must insist.”
He rested his hands on the desk; steely eyes pierced into guarded recesses of the abbot’s mind.
“I am responsible for your personal safety. You must help me. Your life from now onward is dedicated to our common cause. I shall make certain arrangements for your protection;