across one end of a spacious apartment. Together we stood high up
there in the shadows, and looked down upon such a scene as I never
could have imagined to exist within many a mile of that district.

The place below was even more richly appointed than the room into which
first we had come. Here, as there, piles of cushions formed splashes
of gaudy color about the floor. Three lamps hung by chains from the
ceiling, their light softened by rich silk shades. One wall was almost
entirely occupied by glass cases containing chemical apparatus, tubes,
retorts and other less orthodox indications of Dr. Fu-Manchu's
pursuits, whilst close against another lay the most extraordinary
object of a sufficiently extraordinary room--a low couch, upon which
was extended the motionless form of a boy. In the light of a lamp
which hung directly above him, his olive face showed an almost
startling resemblance to that of Karamaneh--save that the girl's
coloring was more delicate. He had black, curly hair, which stood out
prominently against the white covering upon which he lay, his hands
crossed upon his breast.

Transfixed with astonishment, I stood looking down upon him. The
wonders of the "Arabian Nights" were wonders no longer, for here, in
East-End London, was a true magician's palace, lacking not its
beautiful slave, lacking not its enchanted prince!

"It is Aziz, my brother," said Karamaneh.

We passed down a stairway on to the floor of the apartment. Karamaneh
knelt and bent over the boy, stroking his hair and whispering to him
lovingly. I, too, bent over him; and I shall never forget the anxiety
in the girl's eyes as she watched me eagerly whilst I made a brief
examination.

Brief, indeed, for even ere I had touched him I knew that the comely
shell held no spark of life. But Karamaneh fondled the cold hands, and
spoke softly in that Arabic tongue which long before I had divined must
be her native language.

Then, as I remained silent, she turned and looked at me, read the truth
in my eyes, and rose from her knees, stood rigidly upright, and
clutched me tremblingly.

"He is not dead--he is NOT dead!" she whispered, and shook me as a
child might, seeking to arouse me to a proper understanding. "Oh, tell
me he is not--"

"I cannot," I replied gently, "for indeed he is."

"No!" she said, wild-eyed, and raising her hands to her face as though
half distraught. "You do not understand--yet you are a doctor. You do
not