r, but with deep seriousness. "I escaped, I, who
am swift of foot, hoping to bring help."--He shook his head sadly--"But,
except the All Powerful, who is so powerful as the Hakim Fu-Manchu? I
hid, my gentlemen, and watched and waited, one--two--three weeks. At
last I saw her again, my sister, Karamaneh; but ah! she did not know me,
did not know me, Aziz her brother! She was in an arabeeyeh, and passed
me quickly along the Sharia en-Nahhasin. I ran, and ran, and ran, crying
her name, but although she looked back, she did not know me--she did not
know me! I felt that I was dying, and presently I fell--upon the steps
of the Mosque of Abu."

He dropped the expressive hands wearily to his sides and sank his chin
upon his breast.

"And then?" I said, huskily--for my heart was fluttering like a captive
bird.

"Alas! from that day to this I see her no more, my gentlemen. I travel,
not only in Egypt, but near and far, and still I see her no more until
in Rangoon I hear that which brings me to England again"--he extended
his palms naively--"and here I am--Smith Pasha."

Smith sprang upright again and turned to me.

"Either I am growing over-credulous," he said, "or Aziz speaks the
truth. But"--he held up his hand--"you can tell me all that at some
other time, Petrie! We must take no chances. Sergeant Carter is
downstairs with the cab; you might ask him to step up. He and Aziz can
remain here until our return."

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE SAMURAI'S SWORD

The muffled drumming of sleepless London seemed very remote from us,
as side by side we crept up the narrow path to the studio. This was a
starry but moonless night, and the little dingy white building with a
solitary tree peeping, in silhouette, above the glazed roof, bore an odd
resemblance to one of those tombs which form a city of the dead so near
to the city of feverish life on the slopes of the Mokattam Hills. This
line of reflection proved unpleasant, and I dismissed it sternly from my
mind.

The shriek of a train-whistle reached me, a sound which breaks the
stillness of the most silent London night, telling of the ceaseless,
febrile life of the great world-capital whose activity ceases not with
the coming of darkness. Around and about us a very great stillness
reigned, however, and the velvet dusk which, with the star-jeweled sky,
was strongly suggestive of an Eastern night--gave up no sign to show
that it masked the presence of more than twenty men. Some distance