President Fu-Manchu Read Free Page B

for every man—every man for America’ is flashing like a fiery cross through the country. Do you realize that in office Harvey Bragg has made remarkable promises?”
    “He has carried them out! He controls enormous funds.”
    “He does! Have you any suspicion, Father, of the source of those funds?”
    For one fleeting moment a haunted look came into the abbot’s eyes. A furtive memory had presented itself, only to elude him.
    “None,” he replied wearily; “but his following today is greater than mine. Just as a priest and with no personal pretensions, I have tried—God knows I have tried—to keep the people sane and clean. Machinery has made men mad. As machines reach nearer and nearer to the province of miracles, as Science mounts higher and higher—so Man sinks lower and lower. On the day that Machinery reaches up to the stars, Man, spiritually, will have sunk back to the primeval jungle.”
    He dropped into his chair.
    Smith, resting a lean, nervous hand upon the desk, leaned across it, staring into the speaker’s face.
    “Harvey Bragg is a true product of his age,” he said tensely—“and he is backed by
one man!
I have followed this man from Europe to Asia, from Asia to South America, from South to North. The resources of three European Powers and of the United States have been employed to head that man off. But he is here! In the political disruption of this country he sees his supreme opportunity.”
    “His name, Mr. Smith?”
    “In your own interests, Father, I suggest it might be better that you don’t know—yet.”
    Abbot Donegal challenged the steely eyes, read sincerity there, and nodded.
    “I accept your suggestion, Mr. Smith. In the Church we are trained to recognize tacit understandings. You are not a private investigator instructed by the President, nor is Mr. Smith your proper title. But I think we understand one another… And you tell me that this man, whoever he may be, is backing Harvey Bragg?”
    “I have only one thing to tell you: Stay up here at the top of your tower until you hear from
me
!”
    “Remain a prisoner?”
    Patrick Donegal stood up, suddenly aggressive, truculent.
    “A prisoner, yes. I speak, Father, with respect and authority.”
    “You may speak, Mr. Smith, with the authority of Congress, of the President in person, but my first duty is to God; my second to the State. I take the eight o’clock Mass in the morning.”
    For a moment their glances met and challenged; then:
    “There may be times, Father, when you have a duty even higher than this,” said Smith crisply.
    “You cannot induce me, my friend, to close my eyes to a plain obligation. I do not doubt your sincerity. I have never met a man more honest or more capable. I cannot doubt my own danger. But in this matter I have made my choice.”
    For a moment longer Federal Agent 56 stared at the priest, his lean face very grim. Then, suddenly stooping, he picked up his leather topcoat and his hat from the floor and shot out his hand.
    “Good night, Father Abbot,” he snapped. “Don’t ring. I should like to
walk
down; although that will take some time. Since you refuse my advice, I leave you in good hands.”
    “In the hands of God, Mr. Smith, as we all are.”
    * * *
    Outside on the street, beyond the great bronze door with its figure of the thorn-tortured head, King Blizzard held high revel. Snow was spat into the suffering face when the door was opened, as though powers of evil ruled that night, pouring contumely, contempt, upon the gentle Teacher. Captain Mark Hepburn, U.S.M.C., was standing there. He had one glimpse of the olive face of James Richet, who ushered the visitor out, heard his silky “Good night, Mr. Smith”; then the bronze door was closed, and the wind shrieked in mocking laughter around the Tower of the Holy Thorn.
    Dimly through the spate of snow watchful men might be seen.
    “Listen, Hepburn,” snapped Smith, “get this address: Weaver’s Farm, Winton, Connecticut. Phone