Nayland Smith was not blind to the facts of the complicated situation.  I can truthfully assert that he was the only man of my acquaintance who, having come in contact with Karamaneh, had kept his head.

We endeavored to divert her mind from the recent tragedies by a round of amusements, though with poor Weymouth’s body still at the mercy of unknown waters Smith and I made but a poor show of gayety; and I took a gloomy pride in the admiration which our lovely companion everywhere excited.  I learned, in those days, how rare a thing in nature is a really beautiful woman.

One afternoon we found ourselves at an exhibition of water colors in Bond Street.  Karamaneh was intensely interested in the subjects of the drawings—­which were entirely Egyptian.  As usual, she furnished matter for comment amongst the other visitors, as did the boy, Aziz, her brother, anew upon the world from his living grave in the house of Dr. Fu-Manchu.

Suddenly Aziz clutched at his sister’s arm, whispering rapidly in Arabic.  I saw her peachlike color fade; saw her become pale and wild-eyed—­ the haunted Karamaneh of the old days.

She turned to me.

“Dr. Petrie—­he says that Fu-Manchu is here!”

“Where?”

Nayland Smith rapped out the question violently, turning in a flash from the picture which he was examining.

“In this room!” she whispered glancing furtively, affrightedly about her.  “Something tells Aziz when he is near—­and I, too, feel strangely afraid.  Oh, can it be that he is not dead!”

She held my arm tightly.  Her brother was searching the room with big, velvet black eyes.  I studied the faces of the several visitors; and Smith was staring about him with the old alert look, and tugging nervously at the lobe of his ear.  The name of the giant foe of the white race instantaneously had strung him up to a pitch of supreme intensity.

Our united scrutinies discovered no figure which could have been that of the Chinese doctor.  Who could mistake that long, gaunt shape, with the high, mummy-like shoulders, and the indescribable gait, which I can only liken to that of an awkward cat?

Then, over the heads of a group of people who stood by the doorway, I saw Smith peering at someone—­at someone who passed across the outer room.  Stepping aside, I, too, obtained a glimpse of this person.

As I saw him, he was a tall, old man, wearing a black Inverness coat and a rather shabby silk hat.  He had long white hair and a patriarchal beard, wore smoked glasses and walked slowly, leaning upon a stick.

Smith’s gaunt face paled.  With a rapid glance at Karamaneh, he made off across the room.

Could it be Dr. Fu-Manchu?

Many days had passed since, already half-choked by Inspector Weymouth’s iron grip, Fu-Manchu, before our own eyes, had been swallowed up by the Thames.  Even now men were seeking his body, and that of his last victim.  Nor had we left any stone unturned.  Acting upon information furnished by Karamaneh, the police had searched every known haunt of the murder group.  But everything pointed to the fact that the group was disbanded and dispersed; that the lord of strange deaths who had ruled it was no more.