4. The Cry Of A Nighthawk
Such were the episodes that marked the coming of Dr. Fu-Manchu to London, that
awakened fears long dormant and reopened old wounds--nay, poured poison into them. I
strove desperately, by close attention to my professional duties, to banish the very
memory of Karamaneh from my mind; desperately, but how vainly! Peace was for me no
more, joy was gone from the world, and only mockery remained as my portion.
Poor Eltham we had placed in a nursing establishment, where his indescribable hurts
could be properly tended: and his uncomplaining fortitude not infrequently made me
thoroughly ashamed of myself. Needless to say, Smith had made such other arrangements
as were necessary to safeguard the injured man, and these proved so successful that the
malignant being whose plans they thwarted abandoned his designs upon the heroic
clergyman and directed his attention elsewhere, as I must now proceed to relate.
Dusk always brought with it a cloud of apprehensions, for darkness must ever be the ally
of crime; and it was one night, long after the clocks had struck the mystic hour "when
churchyards yawn," that the hand of Dr. Fu-Manchu again stretched out to grasp a victim.
I was dismissing a chance patient.
"Good night, Dr. Petrie," he said.
"Good night, Mr. Forsyth," I replied; and, having conducted my late visitor to the door, I
closed and bolted it, switched off the light and went upstairs.
My patient was chief officer of one of the P. and O. boats. He had cut his hand rather
badly on the homeward run, and signs of poisoning having developed, had called to have
the wound treated, apologizing for troubling me at so late an hour, but explaining that he
had only just come from the docks. The hall dock announced the hour of one as I
ascended the stairs. I found myself wondering what there was in Mr. Forsyth's
appearance which excited some vague and elusive memory. Coming to the top floor, I
opened the door of a front bedroom and was surprised to find the interior in darkness.
"Come here and watch!" was the terse response. Nayland Smith was sitting in the dark at
the open window and peering out across the common. Even as I saw him, a dim
silhouette, I could detect that tensity in his attitude which told of high-strung nerves.
"What is it?" I said, curiously.
"I don't know. Watch that clump of elms."
