“That’s the end of their report,” exclaimed Smith.

He referred to the two C.I.D. men who had joined the Andaman at the moment of her departure from Tilbury.

He carefully lighted his pipe.

“Is it a victory for China, Petrie?” he said softly.

“Until the great war reveals her secret resources—­and I pray that the day be not in my time—­we shall never know,” I replied.

Smith began striding up and down the room.

“Whose name,” he jerked abruptly, “stands now at the head of our danger list?”

He referred to a list which we had compiled of the notable men intervening between the evil genius who secretly had invaded London and the triumph of his cause—­the triumph of the yellow races.

I glanced at our notes.  “Lord Southery,” I replied.

Smith tossed the morning paper across to me.

“Look,” he said shortly.  “He’s dead.”

I read the account of the peer’s death, and glanced at the long obituary notice; but no more than glanced at it.  He had but recently returned from the East, and now, after a short illness, had died from some affection of the heart.  There had been no intimation that his illness was of a serious nature, and even Smith, who watched over his flock—­ the flock threatened by the wolf, Fu-Manchu—­with jealous zeal, had not suspected that the end was so near.

“Do you think he died a natural death, Smith?” I asked.

My friend reached across the table and rested the tip of a long finger upon one of the sub-headings to the account: 

“Sir frank Narcombe summoned too late.”

“You see,” said Smith, “Southery died during the night, but Sir Frank Narcombe, arriving a few minutes later, unhesitatingly pronounced death to be due to syncope, and seems to have noticed nothing suspicious.”

I looked at him thoughtfully.

“Sir Frank is a great physician,” I said slowly; “but we must remember he would be looking for nothing suspicious.”

“We must remember,” rapped Smith, “that, if Dr. Fu-Manchu is responsible for Southery’s death, except to the eye of an expert there would be nothing suspicious to see.  Fu-Manchu leaves no clews.”

“Are you going around?” I asked.

Smith shrugged his shoulders.

“I think not,” he replied.  “Either a greater One than Fu-Manchu has taken Lord Southery, or the yellow doctor has done his work so well that no trace remains of his presence in the matter.”

Leaving his breakfast untasted, he wandered aimlessly about the room, littering the hearth with matches as he constantly relighted his pipe, which went out every few minutes.

“It’s no good, Petrie,” he burst out suddenly; “it cannot be a coincidence.  We must go around and see him.”

An hour later we stood in the silent room, with its drawn blinds and its deathful atmosphere, looking down at the pale, intellectual face of Henry Stradwick, Lord Southery, the greatest engineer of his day.  The mind that lay behind that splendid brow had planned the construction of the railway for which Russia had paid so great a price, had conceived the scheme for the canal which, in the near future, was to bring two great continents, a full week’s journey nearer one to the other.  But now it would plan no more.