The scene of our return to Graywater Park is destined to live in my memory for ever. The storm, of which the violet rainfall had been a prelude, gathered blackly over the hills. Ebon clouds lowered upon us as we came racing to the gates. Then the big car was spinning around the carriage sweep, amid a deathly stillness of Nature indescribably gloomy and ominous. I have said, a stillness of nature; but, as Kennedy leapt out and ran up the steps to the door, from the distant cages wherein Sire Lionel kept his collection of rare beasts proceeded the angry howling of the leopards and such a wild succession of roars from the African lioness that I stared at our eccentric host questioningly.
“It’s the gathering storm,” he explained. “These creatures are peculiarly susceptible to atmospheric disturbances.”
Now the door was thrown open, and, standing in the lighted hall, a picture fair to look upon in her dainty kimono and little red, high-heeled slippers, stood Kâramaneh!
I was beside her in a moment; for the lovely face was pale and there was a wildness in her eyes which alarmed me.
“He is somewhere near!” she whispered, clinging to me. “Some great danger threatens. Where have you been?—what has happened?”
“Smith was attacked on his way back from London,” I replied. “But, as you see, he is quite recovered. We are in no danger; and I insist that you go back to bed. We shall tell you all about it in the morning.”
Rebellion blazed up in her wonderful eyes instantly—and as quickly was gone, leaving them exquisitely bright. Two tears, like twin pearls, hung upon the curved black lashes. It made my blood course faster to watch this lovely Eastern girl conquering the barbaric impulses that sometimes flamed up within, her, because I willed it; indeed this was a miracle that I never tired of witnessing.
Mrs. Oram, the white-haired housekeeper, placed her arm in motherly fashion about the girl’s slim waist.
“She wants to stay in my room until the trouble is all over,” she said in her refined, sweet voice.
“You are very good, Mrs. Oram,” I replied. “Take care of her.”
One long, reassuring glance I gave Kâramaneh, then turned and followed Smith and Sir Lionel up the winding oak stair. Kennedy came close behind me, carrying one of the acetylene headlamps of the car. And—
“Just listen to the lioness, sir!” he whispered. “It’s not the gathering storm that’s making her so restless. Jungle beasts grow quiet, as a rule, when there’s thunder about.”
The snarling of the great creature was plainly audible, distant though we were from her cage.
“Through your room, Barton!” snapped Nayland Smith, when we gained the top corridor.
He was his old, masterful self once more, and his voice was vibrant with that suppressed excitement which I knew well. Into the disorderly sleeping apartment of the baronet we hurried, and Smith made for the recess near the bed which concealed a door in the paneling.
“Cautiously here!” cried Smith. “Follow immediately behind me, Kennedy, and throw the beam ahead. Hold the lamp well to the left.”
In we filed, into that ancient passage which had figured in many a black deed but had never served the ends of a more evil plotter than the awful Chinaman who so recently had rediscovered it.
Down we marched, and down, but not to the base of the tower, as I had anticipated. At a point which I judged to be about level with the first floor of the house, Smith—who had been audibly counting the steps—paused, and began to examine the seemingly unbroken masonry of the wall.
“We have to remember,” he muttered, “that this passage may be blocked up or otherwise impassable, and that Fu-Manchu may know of another entrance. Furthermore, since the plan is lost, I have to rely upon my memory for the exact position of the door.”
He was feeling about in the crevices between the stone blocks of which the wall was constructed.
“Twenty-one steps,” he muttered; “I feel certain.”
Suddenly it seemed that his quest had proved successful.
“Ah!” he cried—“the ring!”
I saw that he had drawn out a large iron ring from some crevice in which it had been concealed.
“Stand back, Kennedy!” he warned.
Kennedy moved on to a lower step—as Smith, bringing all his weight to bear upon the ring, turned the huge stone slab upon its hidden pivot, so that it fell back upon the stair with a reverberating boom.
We all pressed forward to peer into the black cavity. Kennedy moving the light, a square well was revealed, not more than three feet across. Footholes were cut at intervals down the further side.
“H’m!” said Smith—“I was hardly prepared for this. The method of descent that occurs to me is to lean back against one side and trust one’s weight entirely to the footholes on the other. A shaft appeared in the plan, I remember, but I had formed no theory respecting the means provided for descending it. Tilt the lamp forward, Kennedy. Good! I can see the floor of the passage below; only about fifteen feet or so down.”
He stretched his foot across, placed it in the niche and began to descend.
“Kennedy next!” came his muffled voice, “with the lamp. Its light will enable you others to see the way.”
Down went Kennedy without hesitation, the lamp swung from his right arm.
“I will bring up the rear,” said Sir Lionel Barton.
Whereupon I descended. I had climbed down about halfway when, from below, came a loud cry, a sound of scuffling, and a savage exclamation from Smith. Then—
“We’re right, Petrie! This passage was recently used by Fu-Manchu!”
I gained the bottom of the well, and found myself standing in the entrance to an arched passage. Kennedy was directing the light of the lamp down upon the floor.
“You see, the door was guarded,” said Nayland Smith.
“What!”
“Puff adder!” he snapped, and indicated a small snake whose head was crushed beneath his heel.
Sir Lionel now joined us; and, a silent quartette, we stood staring from the dead reptile into the damp and evil-smelling tunnel. A distant muttering and rumbling rolled, echoing awesomely along it.
“For Heaven’s sake what was that, sir?” whispered Kennedy.
“It was the thunder,” answered Nayland Smith. “The storm is breaking over the hills. Steady with the lamp, my man.”
We had proceeded for some three hundred yards, and, according to my calculation, were clear of the orchard of Graywater Park and close to the fringe of trees beyond; I was taking note of the curious old brickwork of the passage, when—
“Look out, sir!” cried Kennedy—and the light began dancing madly. “Just under your feet! Now it’s up the wall!—mind your hand, Dr. Petrie!”
The lamp was turned, and, since it shone fully into my face, temporarily blinded me.
“On the roof over your head, Barton!”—this from Nayland Smith. “What can we kill it with?”
Now my sight was restored to me, and looking back along the passage, I saw, clinging to an irregularity in the moldy wall, the most gigantic scorpion I had ever set eyes upon! It was fully as large as my open hand.
Kennedy and Nayland Smith were stealthily retracing their steps, the former keeping the light directed upon the hideous insect, which now began running about with that horrible, febrile activity characteristic of the species. Suddenly came a sharp, staccato report.... Sir Lionel had scored a hit with his Browning pistol.
In waves of sound, the report went booming along the passage. The lamp, as I have said, was turned in order to shine back upon us, rendering the tunnel ahead a mere black mouth—a veritable inferno, held by inhuman guards. Into that black cavern I stared, gloomily fascinated by the onward rolling sound storm; into that blackness I looked ... to feel my scalp tingle horrifically, to know the crowning horror of the horrible journey.
The blackness was spangled with watching, diamond eyes!—with tiny insect eyes that moved; upon the floor, upon the walls, upon the ceiling! A choking cry rose to my lips.
“Smith! Barton! for God’s sake, look! The place is alive with scorpions!”
Around we all came, panic plucking at our hearts, around swept the beam of the big lamp; and there, retreating before the light, went a veritable army of venomous creatures! I counted no fewer than three of the giant red centipedes whose poisonous touch, called “the zayat kiss,” is certain death; several species of scorpion were represented; and some kind of bloated, unwieldy spider, so gross of body that its short, hairy legs could scarce support it, crawled, hideous, almost at my feet.
What other monstrosities of the insect kingdom were included in that obscene host I know not; my skin tingled from head to feet; I experienced a sensation as if a million venomous things already clung to me—unclean things bred in the malarial jungles of Burma, in the corpse-tainted mud of China’s rivers, in the fever spots of that darkest East from which Fu-Manchu recruited his shadow army.
I was perilously near to losing my nerve when the crisp, incisive tones of Nayland Smith’s voice came to stimulate me like a cold douche.
“This wanton sacrifice of horrors speaks eloquently of a forlorn hope! Sweep the walls with light, Kennedy; all those filthy things are nocturnal and they will retreat before us as we advance.”
His words proved true. Occasioning a sort of rustling sound—a faint sibilance indescribably loathsome—the creatures gray and black and red darted off along the passage. One by one, as we proceeded, they crept into holes and crevices of the ancient walls, sometimes singly, sometimes in pairs—the pairs locked together in deadly embrace.
“They cannot live long in this cold atmosphere,” cried Smith. “Many of them will kill one another—and we can safely leave the rest to the British climate. But see that none of them drops upon you in passing.”
Thus we pursued our nightmare march, on through that valley of horror. Colder grew the atmosphere and colder. Again the thunder boomed out above us, seeming to shake the roof of the tunnel fiercely, as with Titan hands. A sound of falling water, audible for some time, now grew so loud that conversation became difficult. All the insects had disappeared.
“We are approaching the River Starn!” roared Sir Lionel. “Note the dip of the passage and the wet walls!”
“Note the type of brickwork!” shouted Smith.
Largely as a sedative to the feverish excitement which consumed me, I forced myself to study the construction of the tunnel; and I became aware of an astonishing circumstance. Partly the walls were natural, a narrow cavern traversing the bed of rock which upcropped on this portion of the estate, but partly, if my scanty knowledge of archaeology did not betray me, they were Phoenician!
“This stretch of passage,” came another roar from Sir Lionel, “dates back to Roman days or even earlier! By God! It’s almost incredible!”
And now Smith and Kennedy, who lid, were up to their knees in a running tide. An icy shower-bath drenched us from above; ahead was a solid wall of falling water. Again, and louder, nearer, boomed and rattled the thunder; its mighty voice was almost lost in the roar of that subterranean cataract. Nayland Smith, using his hands as a megaphone, cried;—
“Failing the evidence that others have passed this way, I should not dare to risk it! But the river is less than forty feet wide at the point below Monkswell; a dozen paces should see us through the worst!”
I attempted no reply. I will frankly admit that the prospect appalled me. But, bracing himself up as one does preparatory to a high dive, Smith, nodding to Kennedy to proceed, plunged into the cataract ahead....