he be dead? Was this the end of his gallant fight with Dr.
Fu-Manchu and the murder group? If so, what did the future hold for
me--what had I to face?

He stirred beneath my trembling hands.

"Thank God!" I muttered, and I cannot deny that my joy was tainted
with selfishness. For, waking in that impenetrable darkness, and yet
obsessed with the dream I had dreamed, I had known what fear meant, at
the realization that alone, chained, I must face the dreadful Chinese
doctor in the flesh. Smith began incoherent mutterings.

"Sand-bagged! . . . Look out, Petrie! . . . He has us at last! . . .
Oh, Heavens!" . . . He struggled on to his knees, clutching at my hand.

"All right, old man," I said. "We are both alive! So let's be
thankful."

A moment's silence, a groan, then:

"Petrie, I have dragged you into this. God forgive me--"

"Dry up, Smith," I said slowly. "I'm not a child. There is no
question of being dragged into the matter. I'm here; and if I can be
of any use, I'm glad I am here!"

He grasped my hand.

"There were two Chinese, in European clothes--lord, how my head
throbs!--in that office door. They sand-bagged us, Petrie--think of
it!--in broad daylight, within hail of the Strand! We were rushed into
the car--and it was all over, before--" His voice grew faint. "God!
they gave me an awful knock!"

"Why have we been spared, Smith? Do you think he is saving us for--"

"Don't, Petrie! If you had been in China, if you had seen what I have
seen--"

Footsteps sounded on the flagged passage. A blade of light crept
across the floor towards us. My brain was growing clearer. The place
had a damp, earthen smell. It was slimy--some noisome cellar. A door
was thrown open and a man entered, carrying a lantern. Its light
showed my surmise to be accurate, showed the slime-coated walls of a
dungeon some fifteen feet square--shone upon the long yellow robe of
the man who stood watching us, upon the malignant, intellectual
countenance.

It was Dr. Fu-Manchu.

At last they were face to face--the head of the great Yellow Movement,
and the man who fought on behalf of the entire white race. How can I
paint the individual who now stood before us--perhaps the greatest
genius of modern times?

Of him it had been fitly said that he had a brow like Shakespeare and a
face like Satan. Something serpentine, hypnotic, was in his very
presence. Smith drew one sharp breath, and was silent. Together,
c