Around I came, in response to a shrill cry from behind me—­an inhuman cry, less a cry than the shriek of some enraged animal. . . .

With his left foot upon the first stair, Nayland Smith stood, his lean body bent perilously backward, his arms rigidly thrust out, and his sinewy fingers gripping the throat of an almost naked man—­a man whose brown body glistened unctuously, whose shaven head was apish low, whose bloodshot eyes were the eyes of a mad dog!  His teeth, upper and lower, were bared; they glistened, they gnashed, and a froth was on his lips.  With both his hands, he clutched a heavy stick, and once—­ twice, he brought it down upon Nayland Smith’s head!

I leaped forward to my friend’s aid; but as though the blows had been those of a feather, he stood like some figure of archaic statuary, nor for an instant relaxed the death grip which he had upon his adversary’s throat.

Thrusting my way up the stairs, I wrenched the stick from the hand of the dacoit—­for in this glistening brown man, I recognized one of that deadly brotherhood who hailed Dr. Fu-Manchu their Lord and Master.

* * * * *

I cannot dwell upon the end of that encounter; I cannot hope to make acceptable to my readers an account of how Nayland Smith, glassy-eyed, and with consciousness ebbing from him instant by instant, stood there, a realization of Leighton’s “Athlete,” his arms rigid as iron bars even after Fu-Manchu’s servant hung limply in that frightful grip.

In his last moments of consciousness, with the blood from his wounded head trickling down into his eyes, he pointed to the stick which I had torn from the grip of the dacoit, and which I still held in my hand.

“Not Aaron’s rod, Petrie!” he gasped hoarsely—­“the rod of Moses!—­ Slattin’s stick!”

Even in upon my anxiety for my friend, amazement intruded.

“But,” I began—­and turned to the rack in which Slattin’s favorite cane at that moment reposed—­had reposed at the time of his death.

Yes!—­there stood Slattin’s cane; we had not moved it; we had disturbed nothing in that stricken house; there it stood, in company with an umbrella and a malacca.

I glanced at the cane in my hand.  Surely there could not be two such in the world?

Smith collapsed on the floor at my feet.

“Examine the one in the rack, Petrie,” he whispered, almost inaudibly, “but do not touch it.  It may not be yet. . . .”

I propped him up against the foot of the stairs, and as the constable began knocking violently at the street door, crossed to the rack and lifted out the replica of the cane which I held in my hand.

A faint cry from Smith—­and as if it had been a leprous thing, I dropped the cane instantly.

“Merciful God!” I groaned.

Although, in every other particular, it corresponded with that which I held—­which I had taken from the dacoit—­which he had come to substitute for the cane now lying upon the floor—­in one dreadful particular it differed.