ce of more than twenty men. Some
distance away on our right was The Gables, that sinister and deserted
mansion which we assumed, and with good reason, to be nothing less
than the gateway to the subterranean abode of Dr. Fu Manchu; before us
was the studio, which, if Nayland Smith's deductions were accurate,
concealed a second entrance to the same mysterious dwelling.

As my friend, glancing cautiously all about him, inserted the key in
the lock, an owl hooted dismally almost immediately above our heads. I
caught my breath sharply, for it might be a signal; but, looking
upward, I saw a great black shape float slantingly from the tree
beyond the studio into the coppice on the right which hemmed in The
Gables. Silently the owl winged its uncanny flight into the greater
darkness of the trees, and was gone. Smith opened the door and we
stepped into the studio. Our plans had been well considered, and in
accordance with these, I now moved up beside my friend, who was dimly
perceptible to me in the starlight which found access through the
glass roof, and pressed the catch of my electric pocket-lamp....

I suppose that by virtue of my self-imposed duty as chronicler of the
deeds of Dr. Fu Manchu--the greatest and most evil genius whom the
later centuries have produced, the man who dreamt of a universal
Yellow Empire--I should have acquired a certain facility in describing
bizarre happenings. But I confess that it fails me now as I attempt in
cold English to portray my emotions when the white beam from the
little lamp cut through the darkness of the studio, and shone fully
upon the beautiful face of _Karamaneh_!

Less than six feet away from me she stood, arrayed in the gauzy dress
of the harem, her fingers and slim white arms laden with barbaric
jewelry! The light wavered in my suddenly nerveless hand, gleaming
momentarily upon bare ankles and golden anklets, upon little
red-leather shoes.

I spoke no word, and Smith was as silent as I; both of us, I think,
were speechless rather from amazement than in obedience to the
evident wishes of Fu-Manchu's slave-girl. Yet I have only to close my
eyes at this moment to see her as she stood, one finger raised to her
lips, enjoining us to silence. She looked ghastly pale in the light of
the lamp, but so lovely that my rebellious heart threatened already to
make a fool of me.

So we stood in that untidy studio, with canvases and easels heaped
against the wall and with all sorts of lit