“The steps are here,” reported Smith; “but without the aid of a rope from above, I doubt if they are climbable.”

“It’s that or the way we came, sir!” said Kennedy.  “I was five years at sea in wind-jammers.  Let me swarm up and go for a rope to the Park.”

“Can you do it?” demanded Smith.  “Come and look!”

Kennedy craned from the opening, staring upward and downward; then—­

“I can do it, sir,” he said quietly.

Removing his boots and socks, he swung himself out from the opening into the well and was gone.

* * * * * * *

The story of Fu-Manchu, and of the organization called the Si-Fan which he employed as a means to further his own vast projects, is almost told.

Kennedy accomplished the perilous climb to the lip of the well, and sped barefooted to Graywater Park for ropes.  By means of these we all escaped from the strange chapel of the devil-worshipers.  Of how we arranged for the removal of the bodies which lay in the place I need not write.  My record advances twenty-four hours.

The great storm which burst over England in the never-to-be-forgotten spring when Fu-Manchu fled our shores has become historical.  There were no fewer than twenty shipwrecks during the day and night that it raged.

Imprisoned by the elements in Graywater Park, we listened to the wind howling with the voice of a million demons around the ancient manor, to the creatures of Sir Lionel’s collection swelling the unholy discord.  Then came the news that there was a big steamer on the Pinion Rocks—­that the lifeboat could not reach her.

As though it were but yesterday I can see us, Sir Lionel Barton, Nayland Smith and I, hurrying down into the little cove which sheltered the fishing-village; fighting our way against the power of the tempest....

Thrice we saw the rockets split the inky curtain of the storm; thrice saw the gallant lifeboat crew essay to put their frail craft out to sea ... thrice the mighty rollers hurled them contemptuously back....

Dawn—­a gray, eerie dawn—­was creeping ghostly over the iron-bound shore, when the fragments of wreckage began to drift in.  Such are the currents upon those coasts that bodies are rarely recovered from wrecks on the cruel Pinion Rocks.

In the dim light I bent over a battered and torn mass of timber—­that once had been the bow of a boat; and in letters of black and gold I read:  “S.  Y. Chanak-Kampo."