The Return of Dr. Fu Manchu HTML version

"Dr. Cleeve's, Harley Street!" I shouted at the man. "Drive like
hell! It's an urgent case."
I leaped into the cab.
Within five seconds from the time that I slammed the door and
dropped back panting upon the cushions, we were speeding
westward toward the house of the famous pathologist, thereby
throwing the police hopelessly off the track.
Faintly to my ears came the purr of a police whistle. The taxi-
man evidently did not hear the significant sound. Merciful
Providence had rung down the curtain; for to-night my role in the
yellow drama was finished.
Less than two hours later, Inspector Weymouth and a party of
men from Scotland Yard raided the house in Museum Street. They
found the stock of J. Salaman practically intact, and, in the
strangely appointed rooms above, every evidence of a hasty
outgoing. But of the instruments, drugs and other laboratory
paraphernalia not one item remained. I would gladly have given
my income for a year, to have gained possession of the books,
alone; for, beyond all shadow of doubt, I knew them to contain
formula calculated to revolutionize the science of medicine.
Exhausted, physically and mentally, and with my mind a
whispering-gallery of conjectures (it were needless for me to
mention whom respecting) I turned in, gratefully, having patched
up the slight wound in my calf.
I seemed scarcely to have closed my eyes, when Nayland Smith
was shaking me into wakefulness.