I was being carried along a dimly lighted, tunnel-like place, slung, sackwise, across the shoulder of a Burman.  He was not a big man, but he supported my considerable weight with apparent ease.  A deadly nausea held me, but the rough handling had served to restore me to consciousness.  My hands and feet were closely lashed.  I hung limply as a wet towel:  I felt that this spark of tortured life which had flickered up in me must ere long finally become extinguished.

A fancy possessed me, in these the first moments of my restoration to the world of realities, that I had been smuggled into China; and as I swung head downward I told myself that the huge, puffy things which strewed the path were a species of giant toadstool, unfamiliar to me and possibly peculiar to whatever district of China I now was in.

The air was hot, steamy, and loaded with a smell as of rotting vegetation.  I wondered why my bearer so scrupulously avoided touching any of the unwholesome-looking growths in passing through what seemed a succession of cellars, but steered a tortuous course among the bloated, unnatural shapes, lifting his bare brown feet with a catlike delicacy.

He passed under a low arch, dropped me roughly to the ground and ran back.  Half stunned, I lay watching the agile brown body melt into the distances of the cellars.  Their walls and roof seemed to emit a faint, phosphorescent light.

“Petrie!” came a weak voice from somewhere ahead. . . .  “Is that you, Petrie?”

It was Nayland Smith!

“Smith!” I said, and strove to sit up.  But the intense nausea overcame me, so that I all but swooned.

I heard his voice again, but could attach no meaning to the words which he uttered.  A sound of terrific blows reached my ears, too.  The Burman reappeared, bending under the heavy load which he bore.  For, as he picked his way through the bloated things which grew upon the floors of the cellars, I realized that he was carrying the inert body of Inspector Weymouth.  And I found time to compare the strength of the little brown man with that of a Nile beetle, which can raise many times its own weight.  Then, behind him, appeared a second figure, which immediately claimed the whole of my errant attention.

“Fu-Manchu!” hissed my friend, from the darkness which concealed him.

It was indeed none other than Fu-Manchu—­the Fu-Manchu whom we had thought to be helpless.  The deeps of the Chinaman’s cunning—­ the fine quality of his courage, were forced upon me as amazing facts.

He had assumed the appearance of a drugged opium-smoker so well as to dupe me—­a medical man; so well as to dupe Karamaneh—­ whose experience of the noxious habit probably was greater than my own.  And, with the gallows dangling before him, he had waited—­ played the part of a lure—­whilst a body of police actually surrounded the place!

I have since thought that the room probably was one which he actually used for opium debauches, and the device of the trap was intended to protect him during the comatose period.