It was Aziz—­the brother of Karamaneh!

Never could the entrance of a figure upon the stage of a drama have been more dramatic than the coming of Aziz upon this night of all nights.  I seized the outstretched hand and drew him forward, then reclosed the door and stood before him a moment in doubt.

A vaguely troubled look momentarily crossed the handsome face; with the Oriental’s unerring instinct, he had detected the reserve of my greeting.  Yet, when I thought of the treachery of Karamaneh, when I remember how she, whom we had befriended, whom we had rescued from the house of Fu-Manchu, now had turned like the beautiful viper that she was to strike at the hand that caressed her; when I thought how to-night we were set upon raiding the place where the evil Chinese doctor lurked in hiding, were set upon the arrest of that malignant genius and of all his creatures, Karamaneh amongst them, is it strange that I hesitated?  Yet, again, when I thought of my last meeting with her, and of how, twice, she had risked her life to save me . . .

So, avoiding the gaze of the lad, I took his arm, and in silence we two ascended the stairs and entered my study . . . where Nayland Smith stood bolt upright beside the table, his steely eyes fixed upon the face of the new arrival.

No look of recognition crossed the bronzed features, and Aziz who had started forward with outstretched hands, fell back a step and looked pathetically from me to Nayland Smith, and from the grim commissioner back again to me.  The appeal in the velvet eyes was more than I could tolerate, unmoved.

“Smith,” I said shortly, “you remember Aziz?”

Not a muscle visibly moved in Smith’s face, as he snapped back: 

“I remember him perfectly.”

“He has come, I think, to seek our assistance.”

“Yes, yes!” cried Aziz laying his hand upon my arm with a gesture painfully reminiscent of Karamaneh—­“I came only to-night to London.  Oh, my gentlemen!  I have searched, and searched, and searched, until I am weary.  Often I have wished to die.  And then at last I come to Rangoon . . .”

“To Rangoon!” snapped Smith, still with the gray eyes fixed almost fiercely upon the lad’s face.

“To Rangoon—­yes; and there I heard news at last.  I hear that you have seen her—­have seen Karamaneh—­that you are back in London.”  He was not entirely at home with his English.  “I know then that she must be here, too.  I ask them everywhere, and they answer ‘yes.’  Oh, Smith Pasha!”—­he stepped forward and impulsively seized both Smith’s hands —­“You know where she is—­take me to her!”

Smith’s face was a study in perplexity, now.  In the past we had befriended the young Aziz, and it was hard to look upon him in the light of an enemy.  Yet had we not equally befriended his sister?—­and she . . .

At last Smith glanced across at me where I stood just within the doorway.