Dazed by the apparent sincerity in the voice of our lovely captive—­ vacant from wonder of it all—­I opened the door, felt for, and found, a key.

We left Karamaneh crouching against the wall; her great eyes were turned towards me fascinatedly.  Smith locked the door with much care.  We began a tip-toed progress along the dimly lighted passage.

From beneath a door on the left, and near the end, a brighter light shone.  Beyond that again was another door.  A voice was speaking in the lighted room; yet I could have sworn that Karamaneh had come, not from there but from the room beyond—­from the far end of the passage.

But the voice!—­who, having once heard it, could ever mistake that singular voice, alternately guttural and sibilant!

Dr. Fu-Manchu was speaking!

“I have asked you,” came with ever-increasing clearness (Smith had begun to turn the knob), “to reveal to me the name of your correspondent in Nan-Yang.  I have suggested that he may be the Mandarin Yen-Sun-Yat, but you have declined to confirm me.  Yet I know” (Smith had the door open a good three inches and was peering in) “that some official, some high official, is a traitor.  Am I to resort again to the question to learn his name?”

Ice seemed to enter my veins at the unseen inquisitor’s intonation of the words “the question.”  This was the Twentieth Century, yet there, in that damnable room . . .

Smith threw the door open.

Through a sort of haze, born mostly of horror, but not entirely, I saw Eltham, stripped to the waist and tied, with his arms upstretched, to a rafter in the ancient ceiling.  A Chinaman who wore a slop-shop blue suit and who held an open knife in his hand, stood beside him.  Eltham was ghastly white.  The appearance of his chest puzzled me momentarily, then I realized that a sort of tourniquet of wire-netting was screwed so tightly about him that the flesh swelled out in knobs through the mesh.  There was blood—­

“God in heaven!” screamed Smith frenziedly—­“they have the wire-jacket on him!  Shoot down that damned Chinaman, Petrie!  Shoot!  Shoot!”

Lithely as a cat the man with the knife leaped around—­but I raised the Browning, and deliberately—­with a cool deliberation that came to me suddenly—­shot him through the head.  I saw his oblique eyes turn up to the whites; I saw the mark squarely between his brows; and with no word nor cry he sank to his knees and toppled forward with one yellow hand beneath him and one outstretched, clutching—­clutching—­ convulsively.  His pigtail came unfastened and began to uncoil, slowly, like a snake.

I handed the pistol to Smith; I was perfectly cool, now; and I leaped forward, took up the bloody knife from the floor and cut Eltham’s lashings.  He sank into my arms.

“Praise God,” he murmured, weakly.  “He is more merciful to me than perhaps I deserve.  Unscrew . . . the jacket, Petrie . . .  I think . . .  I was very near to . . .. weakening.  Praise the good God, Who . . . gave me . . . fortitude . . .”