that
soft, melodious manner, but with deep seriousness. "I escaped, I, who
am swift of foot, hoping to bring help."--He shook his head
sadly--"But, except the All Powerful, who is so powerful as the
_Hakim_ Fu-Manchu? I hid, my gentlemen, and watched and waited,
one--two--three weeks. At last I saw her again, my sister Karamaneh;
but ah! she did not know me, did not know _me_, Aziz, her brother! She
was in an _arabeeyeh_, and passed me quickly along the _Sharia
en-Nahhasin_. I ran, and ran, and ran, crying her name, but although
she looked back, she did not know me--she did not know me! I felt that
I was dying, and presently I fell--upon the steps of the Mosque of
Abu."

He dropped the expressive hands wearily to his sides and sank his chin
upon his breast.

"And then?" I said huskily--for my heart was fluttering like a captive
bird.

"Alas! from that day to this I see her no more, my gentlemen. I travel
not only in Egypt but near and far, and still I see her no more until
in Rangoon I hear that which brings me to England again"--he extended
his palms naively--"and here I am--Smith Pasha."

Smith sprang upright again and turned to me.

"Either I am growing over-credulous," he said, "or Aziz speaks the
truth. But"--he held up his hand--"you can tell me all that at some
other time, Petrie! We must take no chances. Sergeant Carter is
downstairs with the cab; you might ask him to step up. He and Aziz can
remain here until our return."

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE SAMURAI'S SWORD

The muffled drumming of sleepless London seemed very remote from us,
as side by side we crept up the narrow path to the studio. This was a
starry but moonless night, and the little dingy white building with a
solitary tree peeping, in silhouette above its glazed roof, bore an
odd resemblance to one of those tombs which form a city of the dead so
near to the city of feverish life, on the slopes of the Mokattam
Hills. This line of reflection proved unpleasant, and I dismissed it
sternly from my mind.

The shriek of a train-whistle reached me, a sound which breaks the
stillness of the most silent London night, telling of the ceaseless,
febrile life of the great world-capital whose activity ceases not with
the coming of darkness. Around and about us a very great stillness
reigned, however, and the velvet dusk--which, with the star-jewelled
sky, was strongly suggestive of an Eastern night--gave up no sign to
show that it masked the presen