“Then for your brother’s.”

“No.”  Her voice had sunk to a whisper.  “For your own.”

CHAPTER XVII

A cool breeze met us, blowing from the lower reaches of the Thames.  Far behind us twinkled the dim lights of Low’s Cottages, the last regular habitations abutting upon the marshes.  Between us and the cottages stretched half-a-mile of lush land through which at this season there were, however, numerous dry paths.  Before us the flats again, a dull, monotonous expanse beneath the moon, with the promise of the cool breeze that the river flowed round the bend ahead.  It was very quiet.  Only the sound of our footsteps, as Nayland Smith and I tramped steadily towards our goal, broke the stillness of that lonely place.

Not once but many times, within the last twenty minutes, I had thought that we were ill-advised to adventure alone upon the capture of the formidable Chinese doctor; but we were following out our compact with Karamaneh; and one of her stipulations had been that the police must not be acquainted with her share in the matter.

A light came into view far ahead of us.

“That’s the light, Petrie,” said Smith.  “If we keep that straight before us, according to our information we shall strike the hulk.”

I grasped the revolver in my pocket, and the presence of the little weapon was curiously reassuring.  I have endeavored, perhaps in extenuation of my own fears, to explain how about Dr. Fu-Manchu there rested an atmosphere of horror, peculiar, unique.  He was not as other men.  The dread that he inspired in all with whom he came in contact, the terrors which he controlled and hurled at whomsoever cumbered his path, rendered him an object supremely sinister.  I despair of conveying to those who may read this account any but the coldest conception of the man’s evil power.

Smith stopped suddenly and grasped my arm. 
We stood listening.  “What?” I asked.

“You heard nothing?”

I shook my head.

Smith was peering back over the marshes in his oddly alert way.  He turned to me, and his tanned face wore a peculiar expression.

“You don’t think it’s a trap?” he jerked.  “We are trusting her blindly.”

Strange it may seem, but something within me rose in arms against the innuendo.

“I don’t,” I said shortly.

He nodded.  We pressed on.

Ten minutes’ steady tramping brought us within sight of the Thames.  Smith and I both had noticed how Fu-Manchu’s activities centered always about the London river.  Undoubtedly it was his highway, his line of communication, along which he moved his mysterious forces.  The opium den off Shadwell Highway, the mansion upstream, at that hour a smoldering shell; now the hulk lying off the marshes.  Always he made his headquarters upon the river.  It was significant; and even if to-night’s expedition should fail, this was a clew for our future guidance.