rew whose appearances were familiar to me, with the result
that I had to admit the justice of my friend's conclusions. Smith
began to pace the narrow strip of carpet between the dressing-table
and the door. Suddenly he began again.

"From our knowledge of Fu-Manchu--and of the group surrounding him
(and, don't forget, _surviving_ him)--we may further assume that the
wireless message was no gratuitous piece of melodrama, but that it was
directed to a definite end. Let us endeavour to link up the chain a
little. You occupy an upper-berth; so do I. Experience of the Chinaman
has formed a habit in both of us: that of sleeping with closed
windows. Your port was fastened and so was my own. Karamaneh is
quartered on the main deck, and her brother's stateroom opens into the
same alleyway. Since the ship is in the Straits of Messina, and the
glass set fair, the stewards have not closed the port-holes nightly
at present. We know that that of Karamaneh's stateroom was open.
Therefore, in any attempt upon our quarter, Karamaneh would
automatically be selected for the victim, since failing you or myself
she may be regarded as being the most obnoxious to Dr. Fu-Manchu."

I nodded comprehendingly. Smith's capacity for throwing the white
light of reason into the darkest places often amazed me.

"You may have noticed," he continued, "that Karamaneh's room is
directly below your own. In the event of any outcry, you would be
sooner upon the scene than I should, for instance, because I sleep on
the opposite side of the ship. This circumstance I take to be the
explanation of the wireless message, which, because of its hesitancy
(a piece of ingenuity very characteristic of the group), led to your
being awakened and invited up to the Marconi deck; in short, it gave
the would-be assassin a better chance of escaping before your
arrival."

I watched my friend in growing wonder. The strange events, seemingly
having no link, took their place in the drama, and became well-ordered
episodes in a plot that only a criminal genius could have devised. As
I studied the keen, bronzed face, I realized to the full the
stupendous mental power of Dr. Fu-Manchu, measuring it by the
criterion of Nayland Smith's. For the cunning Chinaman, in a sense,
had foiled this brilliant man before me, whereby if by naught else I
might know him a master of his evil art.

"I regard the episode," continued Smith, "as a posthumous attempt of
the Doctor's; a legacy of hate