In all my experience of him, I had never seen Nayland Smith so utterly perplexed.  Between anger, distrust and dismay, he wavered; and each passing emotion was written legibly upon the lean bronzed features.  Rigid with surprise, he stared at the beautiful face of the girl.  She, although her hand still rested upon Smith’s arm, had her dark eyes turned upon me with that same enigmatical expression.  Her lips were slightly parted, and her breast heaved tumultuously.

This ten seconds of silence in which we three stood looking at one another encompassed the whole gamut of human emotion.  The silence was broken by Karamaneh.

“They will be coming back that way!” she whispered, bending eagerly toward me. (How, in the most desperate moments, I loved to listen to that odd, musical accent!) “Please, if you would save your life, and spare mine, trust me!”—­She suddenly clasped her hands together and looked up into my face, passionately—­“Trust me—­just for once—­and I will show you the way!”

Nayland Smith never removed his gaze from her for a moment, nor did he stir.

“Oh!” she whispered, tremulously, and stamped one little red slipper upon the floor.  “Won’t you heed me?  Come, or it will be too late!”

I glanced anxiously at my friend; the voice of Dr. Fu-Manchu, now raised in anger, was audible above the piping tones of the other Chinaman.  And as I caught Smith’s eye, in silent query—­the trap at my feet began slowly to lift!

Karamaneh stifled a little sobbing cry; but the warning came too late.  A hideous yellow face with oblique squinting eyes, appeared in the aperture.

I found myself inert, useless; I could neither think nor act.  Nayland Smith, however, as if instinctively, delivered a pitiless kick at the head protruding above the trap.

A sickening crushing sound, with a sort of muffled snap, spoke of a broken jaw-bone; and with no word or cry, the Chinaman fell.  As the trap descended with a bang, I heard the thud of his body on the stone stairs beneath.

But we were lost.  Karamaneh fled along one of the passages lightly as a bird, and disappeared as Dr. Fu-Manchu, his top lip drawn up above his teeth in the manner of an angry jackal, appeared from the other.

“This way!” cried Smith, in a voice that rose almost to a shriek—­ “this way!”—­and he led toward the room overhanging the steps.

Off we dashed with panic swiftness, only to find that this retreat also was cut off.  Dimly visible in the darkness was a group of yellow men, and despite the gloom, the curved blades of the knives which they carried glittered menacingly.  The passage was full of dacoits!

Smith and I turned, together.  The trap was raised again, and the Burman, who had helped to tie me, was just scrambling up beside Dr. Fu-Manchu, who stood there watching us, a shadowy, sinister figure.

“The game’s up, Petrie!” muttered Smith.  “It has been a long fight, but Fu-Manchu wins!”