m, for years, to
weave his nefarious plots in the very heart of civilization, and
remain immune. Suddenly--

"That woman is a sorceress!" muttered Nayland Smith. "There is about
her something serpentine, at once repelling and fascinating. It would
be of interest, Petrie, to learn what State secrets have been filched
from the brains of habitues of this den, and interesting to know from
what unsuspected spy-hole Fu-Manchu views his nightly catch. If ..."

His voice died away, in a most curious fashion. I have since thought
that here was a case of true telepathy. For, as Smith spoke of
Fu-Manchu's spy-hole, the idea leapt instantly to my mind that _this_
was it--this strange platform upon which we stood!

I drew back from the rail, turned, stared at Smith. I read in his
face that our suspicions were identical. Then--

"Look! Look!" whispered Weymouth.

He was gazing at the trapdoor--which was slowly rising; inch by inch ...
inch by inch ... Fascinatedly, raptly, we all gazed. A head appeared
in the opening--and some vague, reflected light revealed two long,
narrow, slightly oblique eyes watching us. They were brilliantly green.

"By God!" came in a mighty roar from Weymouth. "It's Dr. Fu-Manchu!"

As one man we leapt for the trap. It dropped, with a resounding bang--
and I distinctly heard a bolt shot home.

A gutteral voice--the unmistakable, unforgettable voice of Fu-Manchu--
sounded dimly from below. I turned and sprang back to the rail of the
platform, peering down into the hashish house. The occupants of the
divans were making for the curtained doorway. Some, who seemed to be
in a state of stupor, were being assisted by the others and by the
man, Ismail, who had now appeared upon the scene.

Of Karamaneh, Zarmi, or Fu-Manchu there was no sign.

Suddenly, the lights were extinguished.

"This is maddening!" cried Nayland Smith--"maddening! No doubt they
have some other exit, some hiding-place--and they are slipping through
our hands!"

Inspector Weymouth blew a shrill blast upon his whistle, and Smith,
running to the rail of the platform, began to shatter the panes of the
skylight with his foot.

"That's hopeless, sir!" cried Weymouth. "You'd be torn to pieces on
the jagged glass."

Smith desisted, with a savage exclamation, and stood beating his right
fist into the palm of his left hand, and glaring madly at the Scotland
Yard man.

"I know I'm to blame," admitted Weymouth; "but the words were out
be