She seemed completely a part of the Bohemian Paris that he loved. Gregory took out a sketching block and a soft pencil. He began to draw a figure. His knowledge of anatomy had helped him in the life class, and he drew sweeping, confident lines, blocked in the features with bold touches of light and shade. At last, he held the drawing away for a critical look — and saw a rough but recognisable sketch of Mignon.
One thing was wrong. He had captured her pose, the slim lines of her figure, the oval face and smiling lips. But her eyes had defeated his pencil.
He had been subconsciously aware for some time of a sound which resembled muffled footsteps, but had ignored it. And at this moment he became aware of the footsteps again.
They were soft but continuous. There was something furtive in this ceaseless padding, something eerie. At one moment he thought it came from a room above; at another from the passage outside his own room — a sort of phantom patrol. Once, when the footfalls seemed to be passing his door, he ran and opened it, and saw no one.
Gregory took a look out of the window. He felt nervous and decided that a brisk walk would be good for him. The rain had stopped.
His mood was an odd one, an unhappy one. He had succeeded in his chosen profession, had earned the respect of older scientists, whose accomplishments he revered. His researches had won him wide recognition. Yet tonight he wished he had chosen to be a painter; he longed to escape from his accepted self, to be his natural self. He was still young, and there was a world outside the world of science, a world in which there remained room for romance, for beauty.
In the lobby he paused to light a cigarette. A wave of self-contempt swept over him. Had he, a trained scientist, fallen for that romantic myth, love at first sight? He left a message at the desk that he would be back in half an hour, swung the door open and stepped out into the street.
He was greeted by a flash of lightning which changed the gloomy night into a sort of blue-white day. Then came a volley of thunder so awesome that it might have heralded the end of the world. It prefaced a fresh deluge.
Gregory retired inside the porch. Left and right the street was deserted, until a figure came running through the downpour, a girl caught in the storm.
She dashed into the shelter of the porch, and Gregory found himself looking down at the piquant face, wet with rain, into the blue eyes of Mignon.
They stood for a moment watching the rain and then went to Gregory's small suite.
She sat in the only comfortable chair which the living room offered. The expression in her eyes was almost tragic, but she forced a smile.
"It is the thunderstorm. They affect me very much."
Gregory sat on a hassock, looking at her. There came another electric flicker through the shaded window, a shattering crash of thunder. Mignon flinched; tried to control herself. Gregory took her hand reassuringly. "I don't know what you were doing out on such a night, Mignon."
"I came to look for you. At Dover you disappear. I don*
"Mignon!"
And in the sudden silence which fell as the thunder died, Gregory heard the footsteps again.
But their pattern had altered. At regular intervals the patrol was halted, and three deliberate beats came. Now, as he felt Mignon's grip tighten, he glanced back at her; and before she could lower her lashes, he caught an expression of such frantic compassion that it frightened him.
"Mignon, there's no danger," he said. "The storm is passing. It was very good of you to come."
But he knew that whatever she feared, it wasn't the storm. She opened her eyes, still clasping his hand.
"I am silly, Gregory. Try to forgive me. Why, oh why, didn't you stay an artist?"
Her manner, her disjointed phrases, told a story of nervous tension for which he could find no explanation.
"Listen, Mignon. Take it easy. Let me give you a cigarette and a little drink, so we can talk quietly."
"No, no!" She held onto his hand, detaining him. "I don't want a drink — yet. I want to talk to you — yes. But it is so hard."
"What do you want to tell me? That we're not going to see one another again?"
He knew that the words betrayed his secret dreams, but he didn't care; for he knew, now, that Mignon wasn't indifferent and he meant to hear the truth.
"No," she whispered
Three soft taps sounded distinctly.
Gregory was on the point of asking Mignon if she had heard the queer sound when a third flicker of lightning came and another crack of thunder. She closed her eyes.
"Let's go downstairs," Gregory proposed, "and have a drink in the lounge. This room is suffocating."
He pulled her up from the chair and they moved toward the door. The three muffled taps were repeated.
It seemed to Gregory that Mignon stopped as suddenly as if unseen hands had grasped her.
"Oh, Gregory, I feel so — swimmy! I think I will have a drink now, after all."
Her manner certainly suggested that she needed one, as she turned and dropped back into the chair. Gregory poured out two drinks, glanced at Mignon's pale face, and hurried into the bathroom for water.
When he returned he found Mignon had recovered herself a little, and was looking at the sketch he had roughed out. She drank from her glass and looked at the sketch again.
"Is it very bad?" he asked.
She didn't look up. "No, it's very good. It was sweet of you."
Mignon raised her eyes as she spoke, and he had only time to see that they were cloudy with tears when the phone buzzed. Puzzled and bewildered, he took up the receiver.
"Gregory Alien?" a familiar voice demanded.
"Here, Sir Denis." The caller was Nayland Smith.
"Good. Listen. I have just arrived. Followed you by plane. This is urgent: Don't leave your apartment until I get there. On no account allow anyone in."
Gregory hung up, turned — and saw Mignon through a mist. He staggered to'the couch, gulped the rest of the brandy. What was the word Mignon had used? Swimmy. Yes, that was what he felt, too.
He fell back. His mind began to wander. He tried to call Mignon, to explain to her — but his voice would not come. He tried to rise. He couldn't move. But he could hear Mignon's voice — as from a distance.
With one arm she supported his head. Her fingers caressed his hair. Something wetted his cheek. He looked up, and into her eyes. Mignon was crying. He wanted to console her, to warn her. But he couldn't speak, couldn't move a muscle.
"You must try to forgive me," she whispered. "Try to understand. One day, you will. How sorry I am… "
She had gone. He didn't see her go, for he couldn't turn his head. All he could see was the ceiling above him and part of the wall. His brain now was clear enough; but his heart was sick — for at last he guessed the truth. She had doped his drink, and those uncanny footsteps were drawing nearer.
A number of people came in. He recognised the voice of the hotel manager. "How lucky you were in the hotel, Dr Gott-feld."
Someone bent over Gregory: a tall man. He wore black silk gloves and tinted glasses, with a delicate thumb and forefinger he raised Gregory's lids. Then he removed the glasses and stared down at him with brilliant green eyes. And Gregory knew he was face to face with Dr Fu Manchu.
"Very lucky." The words were spoken with a guttural German accent. "I see from his baggage labels that he is recently in lower Egypt. There was a mild outbreak there of plague two weeks ago. Do not be alarmed. There is no danger — yet. But we must act quickly."
Conscious — seeing, hearing, but incapable of speech or movement — Gregory heard the man they called Dr Gottfeld volunteer to drive him in his own car to the London Hospital for Tropical Diseases — "Where they know me well," he explained.