At the bottom of the ladder we came fully into the light streaming out from the singular apartments at the entrance to which we found ourselves.  It was fitted up as a laboratory.  A glimpse I had of shelves loaded with jars and bottles, of a table strewn with scientific paraphernalia, with retorts, with tubes of extraordinary shapes, holding living organisms, and with instruments—­some of them of a form unknown to my experience.  I saw too that books, papers and rolls of parchment littered the bare wooden floor.  Then Smith’s voice rose above the confused sounds about me, incisive, commanding: 

“I have you covered, Dr. Fu-Manchu!”

For Fu-Manchu sat at the table.

The picture that he presented at that moment is one which persistently clings in my memory.  In his long, yellow robe, his masklike, intellectual face bent forward amongst the riot of singular objects upon the table, his great, high brow gleaming in the light of the shaded lamp above him, and with the abnormal eyes, filmed and green, raised to us, he seemed a figure from the realms of delirium.  But, most amazing circumstance of all, he and his surroundings tallied, almost identically, with the dream-picture which had come to me as I lay chained in the cell!

Some of the large jars about the place held anatomy specimens.  A faint smell of opium hung in the air, and playing with the tassel of one of the cushions upon which, as upon a divan, Fu-Manchu was seated, leaped and chattered a little marmoset.

That was an electric moment.  I was prepared for anything—­ for anything except for what really happened.

The doctor’s wonderful, evil face betrayed no hint of emotion.  The lids flickered over the filmed eyes, and their greenness grew momentarily brighter, and filmed over again.

“Put up your hands!” rapped Smith, “and attempt no tricks.” 
His voice quivered with excitement.  “The game’s up,
Fu-Manchu.  Find something to tie him up with, Petrie.”

I moved forward to Smith’s side, and was about to pass him in the narrow doorway.  The hulk moved beneath our feet like a living thing groaning, creaking—­and the water lapped about the rotten woodwork with a sound infinitely dreary.

“Put up your hands!” ordered Smith imperatively.

Fu-Manchu slowly raised his hands, and a smile dawned upon the impassive features—­a smile that had no mirth in it, only menace, revealing as it did his even, discolored teeth, but leaving the filmed eyes inanimate, dull, inhuman.

He spoke softly, sibilantly.

“I would advise Dr. Petrie to glance behind him before he moves.”

Smith’s keen gray eyes never for a moment quitted the speaker.  The gleaming barrel moved not a hair’s-breadth.  But I glanced quickly over my shoulder—­and stifled a cry of pure horror.

A wicked, pock-marked face, with wolfish fangs bared, and jaundiced eyes squinting obliquely into mine, was within two inches of me.  A lean, brown hand and arm, the great thews standing up like cords, held a crescent-shaped knife a fraction of an inch above my jugular vein.  A slight movement must have dispatched me; a sweep of the fearful weapon, I doubt not, would have severed my head from my body.