of us hesitated to obey her. Blind-folded, I allowed her to
lead me, and Smith rested his hand upon my shoulder. In that order we
proceeded, and came to stone steps, which we ascended.

"Keep to the wall on the left," came a whisper. "There is danger on
the right."

With my free hand I felt for and found the wall, and we pressed
forward. The atmosphere of the place through which we were passing was
steamy, and loaded with an odor like that of exotic plant life. But a
faint animal scent crept to my nostrils, too, and there was a subdued
stir about me, infinitely suggestive--mysterious.

Now my feet sank in a soft carpet, and a curtain brushed my shoulder.
A gong sounded. We stopped.

The din of distant drumming came to my ears.

"Where in Heaven's name are we?" hissed Smith in my ear; "that is a
tom-tom!"

"S-sh! S-sh!"

The little hand grasping mine quivered nervously. We were near a door
or a window, for a breath of perfume was wafted through the air; and it
reminded me of my other meetings with the beautiful woman who was now
leading us from the house of Fu-Manchu; who, with her own lips, had
told me that she was his slave. Through the horrible phantasmagoria
she flitted--a seductive vision, her piquant loveliness standing out
richly in its black setting of murder and devilry. Not once, but a
thousand times, I had tried to reason out the nature of the tie which
bound her to the sinister Doctor.

Silence fell.

"Quick! This way!"

Down a thickly carpeted stair we went. Our guide opened a door, and
led us along a passage. Another door was opened; and we were in the
open air. But the girl never tarried, pulling me along a graveled
path, with a fresh breeze blowing in my face, and along until,
unmistakably, I stood upon the river bank. Now, planking creaked to
our tread; and looking downward beneath the handkerchief, I saw the
gleam of water beneath my feet.

"Be careful!" I was warned, and found myself stepping into a narrow
boat--a punt.

Nayland Smith followed, and the girl pushed the punt off and poled out
into the stream.

"Don't speak!" she directed.

My brain was fevered; I scarce knew if I dreamed and was waking, or if
the reality ended with my imprisonment in the clammy cellar and this
silent escape, blindfolded, upon the river with a girl for our guide
who might have stepped out of the pages of "The Arabian Nights" were
fantasy--the mockery of sleep.

Indeed, I began seriou