As he set out to follow, another figure passed under the lamp, close behind Mignon — the white-coated figure of the dark man.
Gregory hurried on. Mignon was being covered. But if he could find out where she was going, Nayland Smith could do the rest. For Gregory was determined now to get Mignon away from Fu Manchu even if he had to kidnap her.
The cape disappeared around a corner not far from the Gallery. The white coat closed up and disappeared also.
Gregory raced to the corner. He was just in time to see Mignon turn into one of the many narrow streets which abounded in this district. The white-coated man followed no farther. He went straight ahead.
Gregory ran on to the head of the street where she had turned. He could see no sign of the scarlet cloak. It was dark in the opening, but there were some lighted windows beyond. He stood listening for the sound of an opening or closing door. He heard nothing — then moved in cautiously.
No sound warned him of his danger. No blow was struck. He suffered a sudden sharp pain — and remembered no more… Except for a slight headache, he felt no discomfort when he woke up. He took one look around, then closed his eyes again. This must be a dream!
He lay on a divan in an Oriental room. The walls were decorated with a number of beautiful lacquer panels. The ceiling consisted of silk tapestry, and in and out of its intricate pattern gold dragons crept. The appointments were mainly Chinese. Rugs covered the floor: There was a faint smell resembling that of stale incense. At a long, narrow desk facing the divan a man sat writing. He wore a yellow robe and a black cap topped with a coral bead.
This man's face possessed a sort of satanic beauty. The features were those of an aristocrat, an intellectual aristocrat. And an aura of assured power seemed to radiate from the whole figure.
It was Dr Pu Manchu.
"Good evening, Dr Alien," he said, without looking up. "I am happy to have you as my guest. I anticipate a long and mutually satisfactory association." Gregory swung his legs off the divan. Fu Manchu didn't stir. "I beg you to attempt no vulgar violence. Even if it succeeded, you would be strangled thirty seconds later."
Gregory sat upright, his fists clenched, watching, fascinated.
"To all intents and purposes, Dr Alien, you find yourself in China — although this room, which has several remarkable qualities, was designed by a clever Japanese artist; for you must not fall into the error of supposing that my organisation is purely Chinese in character. I assure you that I have enthusiastic workers of all races in the Order of the SiFan, of which I am president."
This statement Dr Fu Manchu made without once glancing up from the folio volume in which he was writing marginal notes. Gregory sat still, watching and waiting.
"For instance," the strange voice continued, "this room is soundproof. It was formerly a studio. The Chinese silk conceals top lights. The seven lacquer panels are in fact seven doors. I use the place as a pied-a-terre when my affairs detain me in London. I am much sought after, Dr Alien — particularly by officials of Scotland Yard. And, this apartment has useful features. Will you take tea with me?"
"No, thank you."
"As you please. Your unusual researches into the means of increasing vigorous life prove of great value to my own. I am no longer young, my dear doctor, but your unexpected visit here inspired me to hope that in addition to securing your services, I may induce a mutual friend to call upon us."
Dr Pu Manchu laid his pen down, and for the first time looked up. Gregory found himself subjected to the fixed regard of the strangest human eyes he had ever seen. They were long, narrow, only slightly oblique, and were brilliantly green. Their gaze threatened to take command of his will and he averted his glance.
"When you followed a member of my staff, Dr Alien, whom you know as Mignon, I was informed of this — at the time that you left the Tate Gallery — and took suitable steps. A Judo expert awaited your arrival and dealt with you by a simple nerve pressure with which, as a physician, you may be familiar. I am aware that Mignon made a secret appointment to meet you. She awaits her punishment. What it shall be rests with you."
Gregory experienced an unpleasant fluttering in the stomach. He sensed what was coming, and wondered how he should face up to the ordeal. He said nothing.
"There is a telephone on the small table beside you," Fu Manchu told him, softly. "Be good enough to call Sir Denis Nayland Smith. Tell him that you have met with an accident on Chelsea Embankment and are lying in the house of a neighbouring doctor who was passing at the time. This apartment is rented by a certain Dr Steiner. His plate is outside. His surgery adjoins this room. One of the seven doors leads to it. The address is Ruskin Mews. Request Sir Denis to bring his car here for you at once."
Gregory stood up. "I refuse."
Lacquer doors to the left and right of him opened silently, as if motivated by his sudden movement. Two short, thickset Asiatics came in. They carried knives. Holding them poised in their hands for a throw, they watched him — waited.
"I deplore this barbarous behaviour, Dr Alien. At my headquarters I have more subtle measures available."
"To hell with your measures! You can kill me, but you can't make me obey your orders."
Fu Manchu sighed. One long yellow finger moved onto his desk; and a third door, almost facing Gregory, opened. Mignon came in. Another member of the gang, who presumably acted as a bodyguard, grasped her by the wrist. In his other hand the man carried a whip.
Beret and scarlet cape were gone. Mignon wore a black skirt and a white blouse. Her auburn hair framed her pale face. One glance of entreaty she flashed at him, then lowered her head.
"You daren't do it!" Gregory blazed in a white fury. "You may consider yourself to be in China, but if you attempt this outrage, you'll find you're still in England. We'll rouse the neighbourhood."
The point of a knife touched his throat. One of the pair guarding him had moved closer. Fu Manchu shook his head.
"You forget, Dr Alien, that this room is soundproof. Be so wise as to call Sir Denis. I am advised that he is at home at present and Whitehall Court, where he resides, is no great distance away. But he may be going out to dine. We are wasting time. I think you'll find the number is written by the 'phone."
Gregory cast a last glance round the room, then took up the *phone and dialled the number. Nayland Smith's man answered, and immediately brought Nayland Smith.
"Smith here. What's up. Alien?" came the crisp voice.
The words nearly choked him, but Gregory gave the message which Dr Fu Manchu had directed. His eyes remained fixed upon Mignon as he spoke, and he knew that he dared not risk any hint of warning.
"Good enough. Bad luck. Be with you in ten minutes." Nay-land Smith hung up.
Fu Manchu uttered a guttural order; the knife was removed; Gregory's guards retired; Mignon without a glance in his direction was led away. The doors closed. He found himself alone again with Dr Fu Manchu. He dropped back on the divan.
He had done a thing with which he would reproach himself to his last day. To save a woman who had never truly meant anything in his life from suffering, he had betrayed an old, tried friend, into the power of a cruel and relentless enemy.
Fu Manchu had resumed his annotations. He spoke without looking up.
"To do that which is unavoidable merits neither praise nor blame, Dr Alien. That curious superstition, the sanctity of woman which is, no doubt, a part of your American heritage, left you no alternative. I am transferring Mignon to another post, where I trust you will no longer be able to interfere with her normal efficiency."
Gregory was reaching boiling point, but knew that he was helpless to avert the evil he had brought about. If he could have killed Fu Manchu with his bare hands he would gladly have done it. But he knew now, that he couldn't hope to get within reach of him.