r, as she opened it, admitted a dull
light, against which her figure showed silhouetted for a moment. Then
the door was reclosed.

"We must risk the other windows," rapped Smith.

Before I had grasped the nature of his plan he was over and had dropped
almost noiselessly upon the casks outside. Again I followed his lead.

"You are not going to attempt anything, singlehanded--against him?" I
asked.

"Petrie--Eltham is in that house. He has been brought here to be put
to the question, in the medieval, and Chinese, sense! Is there time to
summon assistance?"

I shuddered. This had been in my mind, certainly, but so expressed it
was definitely horrible--revolting, yet stimulating.

"You have the pistol," added Smith--"follow closely, and quietly."

He walked across the tops of the casks and leaped down, pointing to that
nearest to the closed door of the house. I helped him place it under the
open window. A second we set beside it, and, not without some noise, got
a third on top.

Smith mounted.

His jaw muscles were very prominent and his eyes shone like steel; but
he was as cool as though he were about to enter a theater and not the
den of the most stupendous genius who ever worked for evil. I would
forgive any man who, knowing Dr. Fu-Manchu, feared him; I feared him
myself--feared him as one fears a scorpion; but when Nayland Smith
hauled himself up on the wooden ledge above the door and swung thence
into the darkened room, I followed and was in close upon his heels. But
I admired him, for he had every ampere of his self-possession in hand;
my own case was different.

He spoke close to my ear.

"Is your hand steady? We may have to shoot."

I thought of Karamaneh, of lovely dark-eyed Karamaneh whom this
wonderful, evil product of secret China had stolen from me--for so I now
adjudged it.

"Rely upon me!" I said grimly. "I..."

The words ceased--frozen on my tongue.

There are things that one seeks to forget, but it is my lot often to
remember the sound which at that moment literally struck me rigid with
horror. Yet it was only a groan; but, merciful God! I pray that it may
never be my lot to listen to such a groan again.

Smith drew a sibilant breath.

"It's Eltham!" he whispered hoarsely--"they're torturing--"

"No, no!" screamed a woman's voice--a voice that thrilled me anew, but
with another emotion--

"Not that, not--"

I distinctly heard the sound of a blow. Followed a sort of vague
scufflin