When I say that horror, disillusionment, abject misery robbed me of speech, movement, almost of thought, I do not exaggerate the facts. My beliefs, my philosophy, my world, crumbled around me.
“Mr Kerrigan”—my dreadful visitor spoke softly—“do not hesitate to accept any order I may give.”
His right elbow rested upon his hip, his long yellow fingers held an object which resembled a silver fountain pen. I wrenched my glance away from those baleful eyes and stared at this thing.
“Death in the form of disintegration I hold in my hand,” he continued. “Step back. I will follow you.”
The little silver tube he pointed in my direction. I walked slowly along to the study. I heard Dr. Fu-Manchu close the front door and follow me in. I stood in front of the table, and turning, faced him. I avoided his eyes, but watched the long silver object which he held in his hand.
I despised myself completely. This man—I judged him to be not less than seventy years of age—held no weapon other than a small tube, yet had me cowed. I was afraid to attack him, afraid to defend myself—for behind this thing which he held I saw all the deadly armament of his genius.
But my weakness of spirit was not due entirely to cowardice, to fear of the dreadful Chinese doctor. It was due in great part to sudden recognition of the frightful duplicity of Ardatha! She, she whom I longed to worship, she had tricked me into opening my door to this awful being!
“Do not misjudge Ardatha.”
Those words had something of the effect of a flash of lightning. In the first place, they answered my unspoken thought (which alone was terrifying), and in the second place, they brought hope to a mind filled with black despair.
‘Tonight,” that strange impressive voice continued, “Ardatha lives, or Ardatha dies. One of my purposes is to be present at your interview, for I know that this interview is to take place.”
Love of a woman goes deep in a man as I learnt at that moment; for, clutching this slender thread of promise—a thread strengthened by Nayland Smith’s assurance that Dr. Fu-Manchu never lied—I found a new strength and a new courage. I raised my eyes.
“Make no fatal mistake, Mr. Kerrigan,” he said coldly, precisely. “You are weighing your weight against mine, youth against age. But consider this device which I hold in my hand. From a thing which once demanded heavy cables and arc lamps, it is now, as you see”—always pointing in my direction—“a small tube. I dislike that which is cumbersome. The apparatus with which I project those visible and audible images of which you have had experience can be contained in a suitcase. There are no masts, no busy engine rooms, no dynamos.”
I watched him, but did not move.
“This is Ericksen’s Ray, in its infancy at the so-called death of its inventor, Doctor Sven Ericksen—rather before your time, I think—but now, perfected. Allow me to demonstrate its powers.”
He pointed the thing, which I now decided resembled a hypodermic syringe, towards a vase which Mrs Merton had filled that morning with flowers.
“Do you value that vase, Mr Kerrigan?”
“Not particularly. Why?”
“Because I propose to use it as a demonstration. Watch.”
He appeared to press a button at the end of the silver tube. There was no sound, no light, but where the vase of flowers had been there appeared a momentary cloud, a patch of darkness. I became aware of an acrid smell…
Vase and flowers had disappeared!
“Ericksen is a genius. You will observe that I say ‘is.’ For although dead to the world, he lives—to work for me. You will realise now why I said that I held death in my hands. Ardatha is coming to see you. She loves you: and when any of my women becomes thus infatuated with one who does not belong to me, I deal with her as I see fit. If she has betrayed me she shall die… Stand still! If she merely loves, which is fallible but human, I may spare her. I am come in person, Mr Kerrigan, not for this purpose alone, but for that of recovering from you the letter of instruction signed by every member of the Council of Seven, which Sir Denis Nayland Smith—I have always recognised his qualities—secured this afternoon from a house in Surrey.”
I did not speak; I continued to watch the tube.
“Love so transforms a woman that even my powers of plumbing human nature may be defeated. I am uncertain how low Ardatha has fallen in disloyalty to the Si-Fan where you have been concerned. I shall learn this tonight. But first, where is the document?”
I glanced into the brilliant green eyes and quickly glanced aside.
“I don’t know.”
He was silent. That deadly tube remained pointed directly at my breast.
“No. I recognise the truth. He brought it here but left without it. He has concealed it. He was afraid that my agents would intercept him on the way. He was afraid of you. No matter. Answer me. He left it here?”
I stared dazedly at the tube. The hand of Dr. Fu-Manchu might have been carved of ivory: it was motionless.
“Look at me—answer!”
I raised my eyes. Dr. Fu-Manchu spoke softly:
“He left it. I thought so. I shall find it.”
My doorbell rang.
“This is Ardatha.” The voice became guttural, a voice of doom. “You have a fine mushrabîyeh screen here, Mr Kerrigan, which I believe you brought from Arabia when you went there on behalf of your newspaper last autumn. I shall stand behind this screen, and you will admit Ardatha. She has been followed; she is covered. Any attempt to leave the building would be futile. Do not dare to warn her of my presence. Bring her into this room and let her say what she has come to say. I shall be listening. Upon her words rest life or death. Always I am just.”
Fists clenched, bathed in clammy perspiration, I turned and walked to the door.
“No word, no hint of warning—or I shall not spare you!”
I opened the door. Ardatha stood on the landing.
“My dear!” I exclaimed.
God knows how I looked, how wild my eyes must have been, but she crept into my extended arms as into a haven.
“Darling! I cannot bear it any longer! I had to come to save you!”
I thought that our embrace would never end, except in death.