"THE body of a lascar, dressed in the manner usual on the P. & O. boats, was recovered
from the Thames off Tilbury by the river police at six A.M. this morning. It is supposed
that the man met with an accident in leaving his ship."
Nayland Smith passed me the evening paper and pointed to the above paragraph.
"For `lascar' read `dacoit,'" he said. "Our visitor, who came by way of the ivy, fortunately
for us, failed to follow his instructions. Also, he lost the centipede and left a clew behind
him. Dr. Fu-Manchu does not overlook such lapses."
It was a sidelight upon the character of the awful being with whom we had to deal. My
very soul recoiled from bare consideration of the fate that would be ours if ever we fell
into his hands.
The telephone bell rang. I went out and found that Inspector Weymouth of New Scotland
Yard had called us up.
"Will Mr. Nayland Smith please come to the Wapping River Police Station at once," was
the message.
Peaceful interludes were few enough throughout that wild pursuit.
"It is certainly something important," said my friend; "and, if Fu-Manchu is at the bottom
of it--as we must presume him to be-- probably something ghastly."
A brief survey of the time-tables showed us that there were no trains to serve our haste.
We accordingly chartered a cab and proceeded east.
Smith, throughout the journey, talked entertainingly about his work in Burma. Of intent, I
think, he avoided any reference to the circumstances which first had brought him in
contact with the sinister genius of the Yellow Movement. His talk was rather of the
sunshine of the East than of its shadows.
But the drive concluded--and all too soon. In a silence which neither of us seemed
disposed to break, we entered the police depot, and followed an officer who received us
into the room where Weymouth waited.
The inspector greeted us briefly, nodding toward the table.
"Poor Cadby, the most promising lad at the Yard," he said; and his usually gruff voice
had softened strangely.
