She raised her face to that of Inspector Weymouth, upon which was written awe and wonder.

The burly detective lifted the boy as tenderly as a woman, passed through the shadows to the stairway, ascended, and was swallowed up in the gloom.  Nayland Smith’s eyes gleamed feverishly.  He turned to Karamaneh.

“You are not playing with us?” he said harshly.  “We have done our part; it remains for you to do yours.”

“Do not speak so loudly,” the girl begged.  “He is near us—­ and, oh, God, I fear him so!”

“Where is he?” persisted my friend.

Karamaneh’s eyes were glassy with fear now.

“You must not touch him until the police are here,” she said—­ but from the direction of her quick, agitated glances I knew that, her brother safe now, she feared for me, and for me alone.  Those glances sent my blood dancing; for Karamaneh was an Eastern jewel which any man of flesh and blood must have coveted had he known it to lie within his reach.  Her eyes were twin lakes of mystery which, more than once, I had known the desire to explore.

“Look—­beyond that curtain”—­her voice was barely audible—­“but do not enter.  Even as he is, I fear him.”

Her voice, her palpable agitation, prepared us for something extraordinary.  Tragedy and Fu-Manchu were never far apart.  Though we were two, and help was so near, we were in the abode of the most cunning murderer who ever came out of the East.

It was with strangely mingled emotions that I crossed the thick carpet, Nayland Smith beside me, and drew aside the draperies concealing a door, to which Karamaneh had pointed.  Then, upon looking into the dim place beyond, all else save what it held was forgotten.

We looked upon a small, square room, the walls draped with fantastic Chinese tapestry, the floor strewn with cushions; and reclining in a corner, where the faint, blue light from a lamp, placed upon a low table, painted grotesque shadows about the cavernous face—­ was Dr. Fu-Manchu!

At sight of him my heart leaped—­and seemed to suspend its functions, so intense was the horror which this man’s presence inspired in me.  My hand clutching the curtain, I stood watching him.  The lids veiled the malignant green eyes, but the thin lips seemed to smile.  Then Smith silently pointed to the hand which held a little pipe.  A sickly perfume assailed my nostrils, and the explanation of the hushed silence, and the ease with which we had thus far executed our plan, came to me.  The cunning mind was torpid—­ lost in a brutish world of dreams.

Fu-Manchu was in an opium sleep!

The dim light traced out a network of tiny lines, which covered the yellow face from the pointed chin to the top of the great domed brow, and formed deep shadow pools in the hollows beneath his eyes.  At last we had triumphed.

I could not determine the depth of his obscene trance; and mastering some of my repugnance, and forgetful of Karamaneh’s warning, I was about to step forward into the room, loaded with its nauseating opium fumes, when a soft breath fanned my cheek.