tter, I contented myself
with making a mental note of the name which appeared above the
establishment--J. Salaman--and walked on, my mind in a chaotic condition
and my heart beating with unusual rapidity.

CHAPTER XVI. THE QUESTING HANDS

Within my view, from the corner of the room where I sat in deepest
shadow, through the partly opened window (it was screwed, like our own)
were rows of glass-houses gleaming in the moonlight, and, beyond them,
orderly ranks of flower-beds extending into a blue haze of distance. By
reason of the moon's position, no light entered the room, but my eyes,
from long watching, were grown familiar with the darkness, and I could
see Burke quite clearly as he lay in the bed between my post and the
window. I seemed to be back again in those days of the troubled past
when first Nayland Smith and I had come to grips with the servants of
Dr. Fu-Manchu. A more peaceful scene than this flower-planted corner
of Essex it would be difficult to imagine; but, either because of my
knowledge that its peace was chimerical, or because of that outflung
consciousness of danger which, actually, or in my imagination, preceded
the coming of the Chinaman's agents, to my seeming the silence throbbed
electrically and the night was laden with stilly omens.

Already cramped by my journey in the market-cart, I found it difficult
to remain very long in any one position. What information had Burke
to sell? He had refused, for some reason, to discuss the matter that
evening, and now, enacting the part allotted him by Nayland Smith, he
feigned sleep consistently, although at intervals he would whisper to me
his doubts and fears.

All the chances were in our favor to-night; for whilst I could not doubt
that Dr. Fu-Manchu was set upon the removal of the ex-officer of New
York police, neither could I doubt that our presence in the farm was
unknown to the agents of the Chinaman. According to Burke, constant
attempts had been made to achieve Fu-Manchu's purpose, and had only been
frustrated by his (Burke's) wakefulness.

There was every probability that another attempt would be made to-night.

Any one who has been forced by circumstance to undertake such a vigil as
this will be familiar with the marked changes (corresponding with
phases of the earth's movement) which take place in the atmosphere, at
midnight, at two o'clock, and again at four o'clock. During those fours
hours falls a period wherein all life is at its lo