“Nothing.”

The woman laughed again, and again I wondered.

“A wild-fowl,” I added; “nothing else.”

“A wild-fowl,” snapped Smith.  “If you will consult your recollections of the habits of wild-fowl you will see that this particular specimen was a Rara Avis.  It’s an old trick, Petrie, but a good one, for it is used in decoying.  A dacoit’s head was concealed in that wild-fowl!  It’s useless.  He has certainly made good his escape by now.”

“Smith,” I said, somewhat crestfallen, “why are you detaining this gypsy woman?”

“Gypsy woman!” he laughed, hugging her tightly as she made an impatient movement.  “Use your eyes, old man.”

He jerked the frowsy wig from her head, and beneath was a cloud of disordered hair that shimmered in the sunlight.

“A wet sponge will do the rest,” he said.

Into my eyes, widely opened in wonder, looked the dark eyes of the captive; and beneath the disguise I picked out the charming features of the slave girl.  There were tears on the whitened lashes, and she was submissive now.

“This time,” said my friend hardly, “we have fairly captured her—­ and we will hold her.”

From somewhere up-stream came a faint call.

“The dacoit!”

Nayland Smith’s lean body straightened; he stood alert, strung up.

Another call answered, and a third responded.  Then followed the flatly shrill note of a police whistle, and I noted a column of black vapor rising beyond the wall, mounting straight to heaven as the smoke of a welcome offering.

The surrounded mansion was in flames!

“Curse it!” rapped Smith.  “So this time we were right.  But, of course, he has had ample opportunity to remove his effects.  I knew that.  The man’s daring is incredible.  He has given himself till the very last moment—­and we blundered upon two of the outposts.”

“I lost one.”

“No matter.  We have the other.  I expect no further arrests, and the house will have been so well fired by the Doctor’s servants that nothing can save it.  I fear its ashes will afford us no clew, Petrie; but we have secured a lever which should serve to disturb Fu-Manchu’s world.”

He glanced at the queer figure which hung submissively in his arms.  She looked up proudly.

“You need not hold me so tight,” she said, in her soft voice.  “I will come with you.”

That I moved amid singular happenings, you, who have borne with me thus far, have learned, and that I witnessed many curious scenes; but of the many such scenes in that race-drama wherein Nayland Smith and Dr. Fu-Manchu played the leading parts, I remember none more bizarre than the one at my rooms that afternoon.

Without delay, and without taking the Scotland Yard men into our confidence, we had hurried our prisoner back to London, for my friend’s authority was supreme.  A strange trio we were, and one which excited no little comment; but the journey came to an end at last.  Now we were in my unpretentious sitting-room—­ the room wherein Smith first had unfolded to me the story of Dr. Fu-Manchu and of the great secret society which sought to upset the balance of the world—­to place Europe and America beneath the scepter of Cathay.