aring, perhaps rather rudely, at the
object of our visit to the West Country.

"Mr. Van Roon," began my friend abruptly, "you will no doubt have seen
this paragraph. It appeared in this morning's Daily Telegraph."

He stood up, and taking out the cutting from his notebook, placed it on
the table.

"I have seen this--yes," said Van Roon, revealing a row of even, white
teeth in a rapid smile. "Is it to this paragraph that I owe the pleasure
of seeing you here?"

"The paragraph appeared in this morning's issue," replied Smith. "An
hour from the time of seeing it, my friend, Dr. Petrie, and I were
entrained for Bridgewater."

"Your visit delights me, gentlemen, and I should be ungrateful to
question its cause; but frankly I am at a loss to understand why you
should have honored me thus. I am a poor host, God knows; for what
with my tortured limb, a legacy from the Chinese devils whose secrets I
surprised, and my semi-blindness, due to the same cause, I am but sorry
company."

Nayland Smith held up his right hand deprecatingly. Van Roon tendered a
box of cigars and clapped his hands, whereupon the mulatto entered.

"I see that you have a story to tell me, Mr. Smith," he said; "therefore
I suggest whisky-and-soda--or you might prefer tea, as it is nearly tea
time?"

Smith and I chose the former refreshment, and the soft-footed half-breed
having departed upon his errand, my companion, leaning forward earnestly
across the littered table, outlined for Van Roon the story of Dr.
Fu-Manchu, the great and malign being whose mission in England at that
moment was none other than the stoppage of just such information as our
host was preparing to give to the world.

"There is a giant conspiracy, Mr. Van Roon," he said, "which had its
birth in this very province of Ho-Nan, from which you were so fortunate
to escape alive; whatever its scope or limitations, a great secret
society is established among the yellow races. It means that China,
which has slumbered for so many generations, now stirs in that age-long
sleep. I need not tell you how much more it means, this seething in the
pot..."

"In a word," interrupted Van Roon, pushing Smith's glass across the
table "you would say?--"

"That your life is not worth that!" replied Smith, snapping his fingers
before the other's face.

A very impressive silence fell. I watched Van Roon curiously as he sat
propped up among his cushions, his smooth face ghastly in the green
light fr