“But, Smith,” I began—­

“It would be useless, Petrie,” he interrupted me.  “You cannot suppose that I overlooked the possibility of some creature of the doctor’s being among the lascars.  I can assure you that not one of them answers to the description of the midnight assailant.  From the girl’s account we have to look (discarding the idea of a revivified mummy) for a man of unusual height—­and there’s no lascar of unusual height on board; and from the visible evidence, that he entered the stateroom through the porthole, we have to look for a man more than normally thin.  In a word, the servant of Dr. Fu-Manchu who attempted the life of Karamaneh is either in hiding on the ship, or, if visible, is disguised.”

With his usual clarity of vision, Nayland Smith had visualized the facts of the case; I passed in mental survey each one of the passengers, and those of the crew whose appearances were familiar to me, with the result that I had to admit the justice of my friend’s conclusions.  Smith began to pace the narrow strip of carpet between the dressing-table and the door.  Suddenly he began again.  “From our knowledge of Fu-Manchu and of the group surrounding him (and, don’t forget, surviving him)—­we may further assume that the wireless message was no gratuitous piece of melodrama, but that it was directed to a definite end.  Let us endeavor to link up the chain a little.  You occupy an upper deck berth; so do I. Experience of the Chinaman has formed a habit in both of us; that of sleeping with closed windows.  Your port was fastened and so was my own.  Karamaneh is quartered on the main deck, and her brother’s stateroom opens into the same alleyway.  Since the ship is in the Straits of Messina, and the glass set fair, the stewards have not closed the portholes nightly at present.  We know that that of Karamaneh’s stateroom was open.  Therefore, in any attempt upon our quartet, Karamaneh would automatically be selected for the victim, since failing you or myself she may be regarded as being the most obnoxious to Dr. Fu-Manchu.”

I nodded comprehendingly.  Smith’s capacity for throwing the white light of reason into the darkest places often amazed me.

“You may have noticed,” he continued, “that Karamaneh’s room is directly below your own.  In the event of any outcry, you would be sooner upon the scene than I should, for instance, because I sleep on the opposite side of the ship.  This circumstance I take to be the explanation of the wireless message, which, because of its hesitancy (a piece of ingenuity very characteristic of the group), led to your being awakened and invited up to the Marconi deck; in short, it gave the would-be assassin a better chance of escaping before your arrival.”

I watched my friend in growing wonder.  The strange events, seemingly having no link, took their places in the drama, and became well-ordered episodes in a plot that only a criminal genius could have devised.  As I studied the keen, bronzed face, I realized to the full the stupendous mental power of Dr. Fu-Manchu, measuring it by the criterion of Nayland Smith’s.  For the cunning Chinaman, in a sense, had foiled this brilliant man before me, whereby, if by nought else, I might know him a master of his evil art.