of culture,
and probably of thug ancestry. I hit him--in the shoulder; but even then
he ran like a hare. We've searched the ship, without result. He may have
gone overboard and chanced the swim to shore..."

We stepped out onto the deck. Around us was that unforgettable
scene--Port Said by night. The ship was barely moving through the glassy
water, now. Smith took my arm and we walked forward. Above us was the
mighty peace of Egypt's sky ablaze with splendor; around and about us
moved the unique turmoil of the clearing-house of the Near East.

"I would give much to know the real identity of the bishop of Damascus,"
muttered Smith.

He stopped abruptly, snapping his teeth together and grasping my arm as
in a vise. Hard upon his words had followed the rattling clangor as the
great anchor was let go; but horribly intermingled with the metallic
roar there came to us such a fearful, inarticulate shrieking as to chill
one's heart.

The anchor plunged into the water of the harbor; the shrieking ceased.
Smith turned to me, and his face was tragic in the light of the arc lamp
swung hard by.

"We shall never know," he whispered. "God forgive him--he must be
in bloody tatters now. Petrie, the poor fool was hiding in the
chainlocker!"

A little hand stole into mine. I turned quickly. Karamaneh stood beside
me. I placed my arm about her shoulders, drawing her close; and I blush
to relate that all else was forgotten.

For a moment, heedless of the fearful turmoil forward, Nayland Smith
stood looking at us. Then he turned, with his rare smile, and walked
aft.

"Perhaps you're right, Petrie!" he said.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Return of Dr. Fu-Manchu, by Sax Rohmer

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