The Island of Fu-Manchu Read Free

was on the verge of tears. I clenched my teeth and turned back.
    “One moment, sir.”
    The park-keeper was following me. Struggling as I was for self-control, I prompted myself: “Don’t hit him. He is only doing his duty. She ran away. You have no case. Be tactful or you will spend the night in a lock-up.”
    I slowed my pace.
    “Yes—what is it?”
    He ranged up alongside. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the nearing figure of the constable.
    “I was just wondering why you was in such a hurry, like.”
    We were walking along together, now, and I forced a smile, looking at the man’s lined, ingenuous face. I decided that he was an old gamekeeper.
    “I wanted to catch somebody,” I said. “I had had a quarrel with my girl friend and she ran away from me.”
    “Oh, is that so?” He continued to regard me doubtfully. “Run away had she? Young lady with a cape?”
    “Yes. She was wearing a cape. I have no idea where she has gone.”
    “Oh, I see. Neither of you lives over on Kensington side, like? “No—neither of us.”
    “Oh, I see.” He had accepted me now. “That’s hard luck, sir. She’s a bit high mettled, like, no doubt.”
    “She is.”
    “Well, them’s sometimes the best, sir, when it comes to a pinch. I reckon when the paddy’s worn out she’ll come back as sweet as honey.”
    “I hope so.”
    And indeed the man’s simple philosophy had helped to restore me. I was glad that I had not quarrelled with him—and glad that I had told him the truth.
    We walked along together through growing dusk. In the shadows about us nothing stirred. Moisture dripped mournfully from the trees. Already, London grew silent at the touch of night. Of Ardatha I dared not think; only I knew that the mystery of her reappearance, and of her flight, belonged to the greater and darker mystery which was Dr. Fu-Manchu.
    A sense of evil impending, of some unwelcome truth fighting for admission, oppressed me. When I left Kensington Gardens and heard the gate locked behind me, I stood for a while looking across at my windows.
    There was a light in the writing-room and the blinds were not drawn. Except for a big Packard just turning the corner into Craven Terrace, there was no nearby traffic. As I ran across, fumbling for my keys, subconsciously I noted the number-plate of the car: BXH 77. It was rememberable, and I was in that troubled mood when one notes trivialities.
    Opening the door, I hurried upstairs. I had much to tell Barton—and much to learn from him. The whole current of my life had changed. I remember that I banged my front door and dashed into the lighted workroom.
    Standing by the desk was a tall, thin man, his face tropically brown, his hair nearly white at the temples and his keen eyes fixed upon me. I pulled up suddenly; I could not accept the fact.
    It was Nayland Smith!
    “Smith—Smith! I was never so glad to see any man in my life!”
    He wrung my hand hard, watching me with those questing eyes; but his expression was stem to grimness.
    “What has become of Barton?” I asked.
    Smith seemed to grow rigid. He positively glared at me.
    “Barton!” he exclaimed—“
Barton!
was Barton here?”
    “I left him here.”
    He dashed his right fist into the palm of his left hand.
    “My God, Kerrigan!” he said; “and you left your front door open—for so I found it. I have been searching London for Barton, and now—”
    My fears, sorrows, forebodings, in that instant became crystallized in a dreadful certainty.
    “Smith, do you mean—”
    “I do, Kerrigan!” He spoke in a low voice. “Fu-Manchu is in London… and he has got Barton!”
    * * *
    Smith went racing into the spare bedroom; in broken syllables I had told my tale. At the threshold, as I switched on the lights, we both pulled up.
    The room was in wild disorder!
    “You see, Kerrigan, you see!” cried Smith. “It was a ruse to get you out of the house. Poor Barton put up a fight, by heaven! Look at that smashed chair!”
    “His