In a chair piled high with dragon-covered cushions a man sat behind this table.  The light from the swinging lamp fell fully upon one side of his face, as he leaned forward amid the jumble of weird objects, and left the other side in purplish shadow.  From a plain brass bowl upon the corner of the huge table smoke writhed aloft and at times partially obscured that dreadful face.

From the instant that my eyes were drawn to the table and to the man who sat there, neither the incredible extent of the room, nor the nightmare fashion of its mural decorations, could reclaim my attention.  I had eyes only for him.

For it was Dr. Fu-Manchu!

Something of the delirium which had seemed to fill my veins with fire, to people the walls with dragons, and to plunge me knee-deep in the carpet, left me.  Those dreadful, filmed green eyes acted somewhat like a cold douche.  I knew, without removing my gaze from the still face, that the walls no longer lived, but were merely draped in exquisite Chinese dragon tapestry.  The rich carpet beneath my feet ceased to be as a jungle and became a normal carpet—­extraordinarily rich, but merely a carpet.  But the sense of vastness nevertheless remained, with the uncomfortable knowledge that the things upon the table and overflowing about it were all, or nearly all, of a fashion strange to me.

Then, and almost instantaneously, the comparative sanity which I had temporarily experienced began to slip from me again; for the smoke faintly penciled through the air—­from the burning perfume on the table—­ grew in volume, thickened, and wafted towards me in a cloud of gray horror.  It enveloped me, clammily.  Dimly, through its oily wreaths, I saw the immobile yellow face of Fu-Manchu.  And my stupefied brain acclaimed him a sorcerer, against whom unwittingly we had pitted our poor human wits.  The green eyes showed filmy through the fog.  An intense pain shot through my lower limbs, and, catching my breath, I looked down.  As I did so, the points of the red slippers which I dreamed that I wore increased in length, curled sinuously upward, twined about my throat and choked the breath from my body!

Came an interval, and then a dawning like consciousness; but it was a false consciousness, since it brought with it the idea that my head lay softly pillowed and that a woman’s hand caressed my throbbing forehead.  Confusedly, as though in the remote past, I recalled a kiss—­and the recollection thrilled me strangely.  Dreamily content I lay, and a voice stole to my ears: 

“They are killing him! they are killing him!  Oh! do you not understand?” In my dazed condition, I thought that it was I who had died, and that this musical girl-voice was communicating to me the fact of my own dissolution.

But I was conscious of no interest in the matter.