Dashing blindly across, I pulled up sharply on the threshold of a room. It was, I think, a horribly familiar perfume which checked me—that of hawthorn blossom! I clutched at Nayland Smith, staring, staring at what I saw . . .
It was the room with the lotus floor!
We had entered it from the other side, and at that door through which I had stepped into oblivion, Ardatha stood, her eyes widely open, her face pale!
“Mercy of God!” she said, “but how did you get here? Don’t move. Stay where you are.”
No word came from Nayland Smith. For a moment I could hear his hard breathing, then:
“Go round it, Kerrigan,” he said. “Stick to the black border. Don’t be afraid, Ardatha, you had nothing to do with this.”
As I reached the other side of the room and stood beside her:
“Ardatha!” I threw my arm about her shoulders. “Come with me! I can’t bear it!”
“No!” She freed herself, her face remained very pale. “Not yet!”
“Go ahead, Kerrigan.” Smith was making his way around the room. “Leave Ardatha to me; she’s in safe hands.”
With one last look into the amethyst eyes, I hurried on—but at the top of the steps which led to the wine cellar paused, stepped back and:
“It’s unnecessary to go the whole way,” I said. “The door of the Palazzo Mori is not locked. For God’s sake, don’t linger, Smith.”
He was standing looking down at her; she made no attempt to retreat . . .
My flashlamp had gone the way of my automatic, but a box of matches for some obscure reason had been left in my pocket. With the aid of these I groped my way through to that noisome passage which led to the old palace. Along I went, moving very slowly and working my way match by match. I wondered why Smith delayed, what he had in mind. Some quibble of conscience, I thought, for clearly it was his duty to arrest Ardatha.
My plan was to learn if the exit by way of the water were still practicable. I knew it must be very late, and I wondered if it would be possible to attract the attention of a passing gondolier. Otherwise we should have to swim for it.
The door remained unfastened as the police had left it Outside the wind howled through a dark night. The surface of the Grand Canal was like a miniature ocean. I could see no sign of any craft.
I confess that that second tunnel which led under the canal presented terrors from which I shrank.
Propping the great door open so that some dim light penetrated to the tomb-like hall, I began to retrace my steps. Approaching me, a ghostly figure, I saw Nayland Smith groping his way by the aid of a tiny torch—none other than his lighter!
He was alone . . .
As we stood together on the steps, buffeted by that keen breeze, and still at the mercy of the enemy should we be attacked from the rear:
“Smith,” I said, for the thought was uppermost in my mind, “what became of her?”
“She had a second set of keys—God knows where she had found them—and was on her way to release us . . . I hadn’t the heart to arrest her.”
We stood there in the stormy night for three, four, five minutes, but no sort of craft was abroad.
“Nothing else to it,” snapped Smith. “We must go through the tunnel. To delay longer would be madness.”
“But the door at this end may be locked!”
“It is—but I have the key”
“You got it from Ardatha?”
“Yes.”
“What of the padlock at the other end?”
“That is unfastened.”
“Which means—someone is expected to go out tonight?”
“Exactly. I leave the identity of that someone to your imagination.”
We groped across the clammy echoing hall. With the key Ardatha had given him, Smith opened the door to that last gruesome tunnel. He locked it behind him.
“That was stipulated,” he explained drily. “It also protects us from the rear.”
We hurried as fast as we could through the fetid passage and up the steps at the end. The trap was open.
As we came out into that black and narrow lane which led to freedom:
“You must be worn to death, Smith,” I said.
“I confess to a certain weariness, Kerrigan. But since frankly I had accepted the fact that I must lose my identity and be transported to some point selected by Doctor Fu Manchu to carry out the duties of another life, this freedom is glorious! But remember: Rudolf Adion!”
“He had an hour—”
“We have less . . . if we are to save him.”
In The Palazzo Brioni
Colonel Correnti sprang up like a man who sees a ghost. Even the diplomatic poise of Sir George Herbert had deserted him. These were the small hours of the morning, but police headquarters hummed with the feverish activity of a hive disturbed.
“The good God be praised!” Correnti cried, and the points of his grey moustache seemed to quiver. “It is Sir Denis Nayland Smith and Mr. Kerrigan!”
“Glad to see you, Smith,” said Sir George drily.
“Quick!” Smith looked from face to face. “The latest news of Adion?”
The chief of police dropped back into his chair and extended his palms eloquently.
“Tragedy!”
“What? Tell me quickly!”
“He disappeared from the suite allotted to him at the palace—it has a private exit—some time during the night. No one can say when. It was certainly a love tryst—for Mr. Kerrigan saw the appointment made. But, he has not returned!”
“He will never return,” said Nayland Smith grimly, “if we waste a moment. I want a party—at least twenty men.”
“You know where he is?” Sir George Herbert was the speaker.
The chief of police sprang up, his eyes mad with excitement.
“I know where he was\”
“But where? Tell me!”
“In a room in the Palazzo Brioni—”
“But Palazzo Brioni belongs to Mr. Brownlow Wilton, the American!”
“No matter. Rudolf Adion was there less than half an hour ago.”
As the necessary men were assembled Smith began to issue rapid orders. One party under a Carabinieri captain hurried off to the old stone boathouse. A second party proceeded to the water gate of the Palazzo Mori, a third covered both palaces from the land side. Ourselves, with the main party and the chief of police, set out for the Palazzo Brioni.
It was not clear to me how Smith had determined that this was the scene of our recent horrible adventure, but:
“I counted my paces as I went—and returned—along the passage,” he explained. “There is no shadow of doubt. The room in which we saw Doctor Fu Manchu and Rudolf Adion is in the Palazzo Brioni . . .
Against that keen breeze which shrieked eerily along the Grand Canal, the black police launch headed for the palace. As we slowed up against the water steps, no light showed anywhere; the great door was closed. Persistent ringing and knocking, however, presently resulted in a light springing up in the hallway.
When at last, preceded by the shooting of several bolts, the door opened, I saw a half-clad and very frightened manservant staring out.
“I represent the police,” said Nayland Smith rapidly. “I must speak immediately to Mr. James Brownlow Wilton. Be good enough to inform him.”
We all crowded into the hallway, a beautiful old place in which I had glimpses of fine pictures, statuary and furniture, every item of which I recognized to be museum pieces. The man, pulling his dressing gown about him, stared pathetically from face to face.
“But, please, I don’t understand,” he said. He was Italian, but spoke fair English. “What is this? What has happened?”
In that dimly lighted hall as we stood about him, wind howling at the open door, I could well believe that his bewilderment was not assumed.
“First, who are you?” Smith demanded.