“Even if you had the dexterity of a Mexican knife-thrower,” came the guttural voice of Fu-Manchu, “you would be unable to reach me, dear Dr. Petrie.”

The Chinaman had read my thoughts.

Smith turned his eyes upon me momentarily, only to look away again in the direction of Fu-Manchu.  My friend’s face was slightly pale beneath the tan, and his jaw muscles stood out with unusual prominence.  By this fact alone did he reveal his knowledge that he lay at the mercy of this enemy of the white race, of this inhuman being who himself knew no mercy, of this man whose very genius was inspired by the cool, calculated cruelty of his race, of that race which to this day disposes of hundreds, nay! thousands, of its unwanted girl-children by the simple measure of throwing them down a well specially dedicated to the purpose.

“The weapon near your hand,” continued the Chinaman, imperturbably, “is a product of the civilization of our near neighbors, the Japanese, a race to whose courage I prostrate myself in meekness.  It is the sword of a samurai, Dr. Petrie.  It is of very great age, and was, until an unfortunate misunderstanding with myself led to the extinction of the family, a treasured possession of a noble Japanese house . . .”

The soft voice, into which an occasional sibilance crept, but which never rose above a cool monotone, gradually was lashing me into fury, and I could see the muscles moving in Smith’s jaws as he convulsively clenched his teeth; whereby I knew that, impotent, he burned with a rage at least as great as mine.  But I did not speak, and did not move.

“The ancient tradition of seppuku,” continued the Chinaman, “or hara-kiri, still rules, as you know, in the great families of Japan.  There is a sacred ritual, and the samurai who dedicates himself to this honorable end, must follow strictly the ritual.  As a physician, the exact nature of the ceremony might possibly interest you, Dr. Petrie, but a technical account of the two incisions which the sacrificant employs in his self-dismissal, might, on the other hand, bore Mr. Nayland Smith.  Therefore I will merely enlighten you upon one little point, a minor one, but interesting to the student of human nature.  In short, even a samurai—­and no braver race has ever honored the world—­sometimes hesitates to complete the operation.  The weapon near to your hand, my dear Dr. Petrie, is known as the Friend’s Sword.  On such occasions as we are discussing, a trusty friend is given the post—­an honored one of standing behind the brave man who offers himself to his gods, and should the latter’s courage momentarily fail him, the friend with the trusty blade (to which now I especially direct your attention) diverts the hierophant’s mind from his digression, and rectifies his temporary breach of etiquette by severing the cervical vertebrae of the spinal column with the friendly blade—­which you can reach quite easily, Dr. Petrie, if you care to extend your hand.”