“The Gables—­will be watched?”

“At last, Petrie, I think we have Fu-Manchu—­in his own trap!”

CHAPTER XXVII

THE NIGHT OF THE RAID

“Dash it all, Petrie!” cried Smith, “this is most annoying!”

The bell was ringing furiously, although midnight was long past.  Whom could my late visitor be?  Almost certainly this ringing portended an urgent case.  In other words, I was not fated to take part in what I anticipated would prove to be the closing scene of the Fu-Manchu drama.

“Every one is in bed,” I said, ruefully; “and how can I possibly see a patient—­in this costume?”

Smith and I were both arrayed in rough tweeds, and anticipating the labors before us, had dispensed with collars and wore soft mufflers.  It was hard to be called upon to face a professional interview dressed thus, and having a big tweed cap pulled down over my eyes.

Across the writing-table we confronted one another in dismayed silence, whilst, below, the bell sent up its ceaseless clangor.

“It has to be done, Smith,” I said, regretfully.  “Almost certainly it means a journey and probably an absence of some hours.”

I threw my cap upon the table, turned up my coat to hide the absence of collar, and started for the door.  My last sight of Smith showed him standing looking after me, tugging at the lobe of his ear and clicking his teeth together with suppressed irritability.  I stumbled down the dark stairs, along the hall, and opened the front door.  Vaguely visible in the light of a street lamp which stood at no great distance away, I saw a slender man of medium height confronting me.  From the shadowed face two large and luminous eyes looked out into mine.  My visitor, who, despite the warmth of the evening, wore a heavy greatcoat, was an Oriental!

I drew back, apprehensively; then: 

“Ah!  Dr. Petrie!” he said in a softly musical voice which made me start again, “to God be all praise that I have found you!”

Some emotion, which at present I could not define, was stirring within me.  Where had I seen this graceful Eastern youth before?  Where had I heard that soft voice?

“Do you wish to see me professionally?” I asked—­yet even as I put the question, I seemed to know it unnecessary.

“So you know me no more?” said the stranger—­and his teeth gleamed in a slight smile.

Heavens!  I knew now what had struck that vibrant chord within me!  The voice, though infinitely deeper, yet had an unmistakable resemblance to the dulcet tones of Karamaneh—­of Karamaneh whose eyes haunted my dreams, whose beauty had done much to embitter my years.

The Oriental youth stepped forward, with outstretched hand.

“So you know me no more?” he repeated; “but I know you, and give praise to Allah that I have found you!”

I stepped back, pressed the electric switch, and turned, with leaping heart, to look into the face of my visitor.  It was a face of the purest Greek beauty, a face that might have served as a model for Praxiteles; the skin had a golden pallor, which, with the crisp black hair and magnetic yet velvety eyes, suggested to my fancy that this was the young Antinious risen from the Nile, whose wraith now appeared to me out of the night.  I stifled a cry of surprise, not unmingled with gladness.