Amid a chorus of excited voices, I tossed my bag in at the window, leapt upon the footboard and turned the handle.  Although the entrance to the tunnel was perilously near now, I managed to wrench the door open and to swing myself into the carriage.  Then, by means of the strap, I reclosed the door in the nick of time, and sank, panting, upon the seat.  I had a vague impression that the black chauffeur, having recovered himself, had raced after me to the uttermost point of the platform, but, my end achieved, I was callously indifferent to the outrageous means thereto which I seen fit to employ.  The express dashed into the tunnel.  I uttered a great sigh of relief.

With Karamaneh in the hands of the Si-Fan, this journey to the north had indeed been undertaken with the utmost reluctance.  Nayland Smith had written to me once during my brief absence, and his letter had inspired a yet keener desire to be back and at grips with the Yellow group; for he had hinted broadly that a tangible clue to the whereabouts of the Si-Fan head-quarters had at last been secured.

Now I learnt that I had a traveling companion—­a woman.  She was seated in the further, opposite corner, wore a long, loose motor-coat, which could not altogether conceal the fine lines of her lithe figure, and a thick veil hid her face.  A motive for the excited behavior of the negro chauffeur suggested itself to my mind; a label; “Engaged,” was pasted to the window!

I glanced across the compartment.  Through the closely woven veil the woman was watching me.  An apology clearly was called for.

“Madame,” I said, “I hope you will forgive this unfortunate intrusion; but it was vitally important that I should not miss the London train.”

She bowed, very slightly, very coldly—­and turned her head aside.

The rebuff was as unmistakable as my offense was irremediable.  Nor did I feel justified in resenting it.  Therefore, endeavoring to dismiss the matter from my mind, I placed my bag upon the rack, and unfolding the newspaper with which I was provided, tried to interest myself in the doings of the world at large.

My attempt proved not altogether successful; strive how I would, my thoughts persistently reverted to the Si-Fan, the evil, secret society who held in their power one dearer to me than all the rest of the world; to Dr. Fu-Manchu, the genius who darkly controlled my destiny; and to Nayland Smith, the barrier between the White races and the devouring tide of the Yellow.

Sighing again, involuntarily, I glanced up ... to meet the gaze of a pair of wonderful eyes.

Never, in my experience, had I seen their like.  The dark eyes of Karamaneh were wonderful and beautiful, the eyes of Dr. Fu-Manchu sinister and wholly unforgettable; but the eyes of this woman were incredible.  Their glance was all but insupportable; the were the eyes of a Medusa!

Since I had met; in the not distant past, the soft gaze of Ki-Ming, the mandarin whose phenomenal hypnotic powers rendered him capable of transcending the achievements of the celebrated Cagliostro, I knew much of the power of the human eye.  But these were unlike any human eyes I had ever known.