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“Sir Denis! Something has upset you. Whatever has happened?”

Nayland Smith turned aside irritably, crossed to the buffet and mixed himself a stiff drink. He dropped down in a chair, took a long draught, and then raised haggard eyes.

“The worst that could happen, in the circumstances. Dr. Fu Manchu is here!”

“Here!. You mean in New York?”

“Right here in Manhattan.” He emptied his glass. “In just a few hours the President will leave Washington. I shall find myself up against the master mind—and Fu Manchu will stick at nothing——”

He stood up and refilled his glass.

This was so unlike the abstemious, cool-brained Nayland Smith Brian had known that he was gripped by a swift and dismal foreboding. Sir Denis was afraidi

The idea chilled him. It was unthinkable—like something blasphemous. But many incidents passed in lightning parade across his mind, incidents which, individually, had shaken his faith at the time, but which collectively threatened to shatter it.

Suffering had broken this man of iron. It was a tragedy.

“You don’t suggest, Sir Denis, that the President may be in personal danger?”

“Now that Fu Manchu is here we are all in personal danger. Look, Merrick—I’m going up to see Dr. Hessian. It’s vital he should know. Go out and get some lunch. When you come back—and don’t hurry—I may be asleep. I had no sleep last night, so don’t disturb me. . . .”

* * *

Lingering over his lunch, feeling miserable and about as useful as a stray dog, Brian tried to muster his wandering ideas, to form some sort of positive picture.

Fu Manchu was in New York. And Nayland Smith had gone to pieces.

These two facts he must accept, for they stood for cause and effect. For the first he had been prepared; for the second he had not. As aide to Sir Denis (hitherto unemployed), the duty clearly fell upon him of taking over if his chief failed!

The responsibility thrilled, and at the same time chilled. He lacked almost every essential facility. Sir Denis hadn’t troubled to put him in touch with the F.B.I, operatives associated with them. He didn’t know one by sight. He had no more than a nodding acquaintance with Dr. Hessian; and, for all that scientist’s undoubted genius, found his personality strangely repellent.

Brian seriously considered calling his father, laying all the circumstances before that man of wide experience, and abiding by his advice. But the difficulty of doing so on a long-distance call, and an implied betrayal of the trust imposed upon him by Sir Denis, ruled this plan out.

The decision—what to do—rested squarely on himself. It was close on three o’clock when he went up to the suite. He found a “Do Not Disturb” card outside, but opened quietly and went in. A similar card hung on Nayland Smith’s bedroom door. There was a note, in block letters, on the desk. It said:

Do what you like until seven o’clock. But stay out of the Babylon-Lido until that hour. Don’t enter on any account. Then wait in the Paris Bar until I page you. Please regard this as an unavoidable order. D.N.S.

Chapter

14

When Brian went into the Paris Bar he found it empty, as he might have expected it to be at that hour. Conscientious by nature, he wasn’t sure that his being there didn’t amount to disobeying the orders of a senior officer.

He was still studying the problem when Lola came in.

“Lola!” There was no one in the place, not even a bartender, and he took her in his arms. “How very glad I am to see you!”

It was an impulse quite irresistible. He held her close and gave her a lingering kiss. Then he recovered himself as she drew back and looked up at him with that quizzical smile.

“So it seems, dear!” But her grey eyes didn’t register resentment; they invited. So did the tempting lips.

Their second kiss was so like one of mutual passion that Brian’s heart leapt. Lingering doubts were dispelled. Lola loved him!

“Let’s get out of here, dearest.” He spoke hoarsely. “I want to talk to you, quietly. Queer things are happening.” His arm was around Lola’s waist. “Where can we be alone—if only for half an hour?”

“Wel!”— Lola hesitated—”I have one of the tiniest apartments in the Babylon-Lido. Madame doesn’t squander dollars. We could go there, but—”

She glanced up at him.

“I promise to behave. I admit I’m mad about you, but I won’t break out again.”

The apartment was on the eighth floor; its windows commanded an excellent view of a brick wall. The living-room wasn’t much larger than either of the bathrooms in the lordly suite reserved for Sir Denis. Lola boiled water in an electric kettle to make tea, which she prepared with the manner of an experienced traveller. . . . “You can imagine you’re back at Oxford, Brian.”

It was all delightfully intimate, and Brian’s mood of depression magically dispersed. When, seated in an easy chair nursing a cup of tea, Lola offered him a cigarette, he felt that this was a foretaste of bliss.

He sparked his lighter; glanced at the cigarette—and paused.

“Please light mine,” Lola said sweetly. “They arrived this morning—enough to last me for two months! Your extravagant tastes need watching, Brian.”

The cigarettes were “Azizas”—those he had ordered in Cairo!

“Did you get my letter, Lola?”

“Yes. I got your letter. Thank you for everything, Brian. And now, what is it you want to talk about? I warned you, dear. I hadn’t much time. On the stroke of five I have to be off.”

“Then I’d better begin. What I want to say is strictly confidential. But I just have to say it to somebody—and there’s nobody else but you I can say it to. I’m worried about Sir Denis.”

“Why, Brian?” Lola drew her brows together in a frown of concentration. “Is he ill?”

“Yes.” Brian nodded, “Mentally ill, I’m afraid. His sufferings have shaken him badly. I think he’s losing his nerve.”

“From your account of Sir Denis, I supposed he had no nerves.”

“So did I. But today he seemed to fold up.”

“Why, Brian? Has something happened?”

Brian began to remember that it was his duty to keep his mouth shut. He must put a curb on his confidences. But he believed in Lola’s worldly wisdom, and desperately needed her advice.

He glanced at her. It had occurred to him almost from the moment of their meeting that she kept up her usual air of easy self-possession only by means of a sustained effort. Perhaps his passionate greeting had shaken her. But certainly, although she masked the fact, she was queerly keyed up;

kept glancing at her watch.

“Sir Denis seems to think some new danger has developed,” he told her.

“Danger? To whom?”

“To all of us, I guess.” He began to grope for words. “My father’s expected tonight, and some other important visitors. If this danger is real, I’m wondering if I should stop them.”

“Surely Sir Denis would have done so, if he couldn’t guarantee their safety.”

“You don’t know,” Brian assured her, “how completely he’s gone to pieces.”

“As your father is involved, surely you could at least discuss it with him.”

Brian shook his head wearily. “He’s asleep up there! And I have his written order. Look at this.” From his pocket he took out the note he had found on the desk. “They’ll be on their way before seven o’clock!”

Lola read the note, but made no comment; passed it back;

glanced at her wrist-watch.

“What would you advise me to do, Lola?”

She stood up. “In the first place, get a move on. I have to go. As for Sir Denis’s order, I advise you to do nothing—except obey it to the letter. . . .”