Dr Fu Manchu seated himself at the table and held out his hand for the phial. Watched by the Arab physician, he removed the stopper and inserted a glass dipper. The unerring delicacy of touch displayed by those long-nailed fingers was miraculous. He replaced the stopper and smeared a spot from the dipper on to a slide, putting the slide into place in a large microscope. Stooping, he stared through the lens, which he slightly adjusted. Without looking up:
"You are sure of hormone B?" he challenged harshly.
"Positive, Excellency. I extracted it myself."
Then Fu Manchu raised his head and pressed one of several studs on a switchboard. A door opened and a young Japanese came in. He wore a chemist's white tunic. Fu Manchu indicated the phial.
"The missing elements, at last, Matsukata. Use sparingly." He spoke in Japanese. "Above all, watch the temperature. Innoculate a rat, a guinea pig and two rabbits. Report to me at ten minute intervals. Proceed."
Matsukata took the phial, three of the test tubes, bowed, and went out. Dr. Fu Manchu turned to the Arab physician.
"How long have you known me, hakim?"
He spoke softly.
The old Arab stroked his beard as if in meditation.
"Since I was twenty years of age. Excellency."
"And what age was I then?"
"I could not say."
"What age did I appear to be?"
"As you appear now. Excellency."
Fu Manchu stood up.
"Follow."
They returned to the long saloon. Fu Manchu crossed to the screen set before a mushrabiyeh window and moved it aside.
In the recess, motionless in a silk-padded basket, lay a tiny grey marmoset!
"My little friend, Peko." Dr Fu Manchu spoke in a sibilant whisper. "The companion of my wanderings."
The old physician conquered his astonishment. Unmistakably, Dr Fu Manchu was deeply moved.
"He is asleep?"
"No. He is dying."
"Of tuberculosis? These creatures are subject to it."
"No. Of senility."
"What, then, is his age, Excellency?"
"The same as my own."
"What do you say?… Pardon me. Excellency. I was startled. Such a thing seems impossible."
Dr Fu Manchu replaced the screen. They stepped down again into the saloon; and the Arab physician found himself called upon to sustain the fixed regard of those hypnotic eyes.
"Peko had already reached his normal, alloted span of years at the time that I completed my long experiments so vainly attempted by the old alchemists. Yes — I had discovered what they termed the Elixir Vitae: The Elixir of Life! Upon Peko I made the first injection; upon myself, the second."
"And now?" It was a hushed murmur.
"Failure threatens my science. Peko was not due for treatment until next spring. Yet — you see? I found myself unprovided with the materials. I searched Cairo. I laboured in the laboratory day and night. Can you understand?"
His voice rose harshly on a note of frenzy. His eyes blazed.
"Yes, Excellency… I do understand."
"If death claims him, I am defeated. A plan upon which may rest the peace of the world, even the survival of man, demands my presence in America. But, if I fail to fan that tiny spark which still smoulders within Peko into a flame of life, this means that I too — I, Fu Manchu — may die at any hour!"
Weather remained fresh, but clear and fine throughout the Lauretania's run. Thurston, that unimaginative man of business, had no suspicion as yet of the role for which Fate had cast him. But he found a magnetic attraction in the personality of Mrs van Roordon.
This beautiful enigma, always correctly but exquisitely dressed, engrossed his attention to the exclusion of everybody else on board. Nor was he alone in this. Mrs van Roorden would have become a focus of interest in any community.
She was much in the company of Mr Fordwich. He was a man of middle height and spare build, his skin yellowed as if by long residence in the tropics. A heavy stick with a rubber ferule was never far from his hand, for he was afflicted by a slight limp. His keen, dark eyes lighted up at times, as if a laughing dare-devil lay hidden under the cool facade which he showed to the world. Without being handsome in the Hollywood sense, Thurston could well believe that Fordwich might be attractive to women. They were an intriguing pair.
Mrs van Roorden rarely permitted her graceful languor to become disturbed. She possessed an aura of sublime self-confidence, as if some invulnerable power protected her from any intrusion upon her queenly serenity. Sometimes, when in Ford-wich's company, she smiled. It was a strange smile, secretly voluptuous. But it promised little and revealed nothing.
There was acid comment amongst the passengers and ship's officers concerning the strange arrangement whereby no one was permitted to enter Mrs van Roorden's cabin except her dangerous looking Burmese manservant. Whenever she took one of her leisurely constitutional strolls, a barrage of glances fell upon her from the massed batteries of deckchairs.
The Sphinx could not have shown more perfect indifference.
Thurston, in his quest of information, seized every opportunity to talk to Mr Fordwich, with whom he sometimes had a drink in the smoking room. But Mr Fordwich proved himself a master of reticence.
Arid so it was not until their last night at sea that Thurston met Mrs van Roorden. She was one of the guests at a cocktail party in the purser's quarters. Somewhat to his surprise, Mr Fordwich was not present. Mrs van Roorden wore a green backless frock entirely justified by her faultless ivory arms and shoulders. A band of emeralds was clasped around her throat.
Bums presented his friend, at the same time treating him to a sly wink.
"I'm very glad to meet you at last, Mrs van Roorden," Thurston declared. "It would be annoying to have to leave the ship without making the acquaintance of the most beautiful woman on board."
That vague smile curved disdainful lips as she glanced at him when he sat down beside her. Her eyes slanted very slightly.
"A compliment from an Englishman is as unexpected as an Ave Maria from a tabby."
What a lovely voice she had, Thurston thought! A wall-lamp just behind her touched bronze highlights in her hair, which he had believed to be quite black.
"A compliment may sometimes be a fact. Are you staying in New York, Mrs van Roorden?"
She shrugged slightly.
"Perhaps for a little while. This journey is not of my choosing. But there are some duties which must override personal inclination."
"Then what does personal inclination suggest?"
She turned and looked at him directly. He started, rebuked himself. He was an experienced man of the world…. But he had the utmost difficulty in meeting that penetrating gaze. Then Mrs van Roorden seemed to be satisfied. She turned her head aside again, languidly.
"I belong to the old world. The new world has little to offer me."
Thurston recovered himself.
"You are too young to be cynical."
"I am too old to embrace shadows. Truth is dying today. We are all so smug, although we dance on the edge of a precipice. Where are the men who can see — the great adventurers who put self last?"
"Not all dead, I assure you! I should like you to meet my friend, Nayland Smith, for instance."
Mrs van Roorden seemed to become quite still, statuesque. At last, she stirred, turned her head, and again he found himself claimed by those jade-green eyes.
"Sir Denis Nayland Smith?"
"Yes. Do you know him?"
Her lips curved in that provocative, voluptuous yet impersonal smile. She glanced aside as a steward offered a selection of cocktails. Taking one:
"I used to know him," she replied, a deep, caressing note in her musical voice. "Were you ever in Java, Mr Thurston?"