he great industrial river. About the scented
confines which bounded us now floated the smoke-laden vapors of the
Lower Thames.

From the metallic but infinitely human clangor of dock-side life, from
the unpleasant but homely odors which prevail where ships swallow in
and belch out the concrete evidences of commercial prosperity, we had
come into this incensed stillness, where one shaded lamp painted dim
enlargements of its Chinese silk upon the nearer walls, and left the
greater part of the room the darker for its contrast.

Nothing of the Thames-side activity--of the riveting and scraping--the
bumping of bales--the bawling of orders--the hiss of steam--penetrated
to this perfumed place. In the pool of tinted light lay the deathlike
figure of a dark-haired boy, Karamaneh's muffled form bending over him.

"At last I stand in the house of Dr. Fu-Manchu!" whispered Smith.

Despite the girl's assurance, we knew that proximity to the sinister
Chinaman must be fraught with danger. We stood, not in the lion's den,
but in the serpent's lair.

From the time when Nayland Smith had come from Burma in pursuit of this
advance-guard of a cogent Yellow Peril, the face of Dr. Fu-Manchu
rarely had been absent from my dreams day or night. The millions might
sleep in peace--the millions in whose cause we labored!--but we who
knew the reality of the danger knew that a veritable octopus had
fastened upon England--a yellow octopus whose head was that of Dr.
Fu-Manchu, whose tentacles were dacoity, thuggee, modes of death,
secret and swift, which in the darkness plucked men from life and left
no clew behind.

"Karamaneh!" I called softly.

The muffled form beneath the lamp turned so that the soft light fell
upon the lovely face of the slave girl. She who had been a pliant
instrument in the hands of Fu-Manchu now was to be the means whereby
society should be rid of him.

She raised her finger warningly; then beckoned me to approach.

My feet sinking in the rich pile of the carpet, I came through the
gloom of the great apartment in to the patch of light, and, Karamaneh
beside me, stood looking down upon the boy. It was Aziz, her brother;
dead so far as Western lore had power to judge, but kept alive in that
deathlike trance by the uncanny power of the Chinese doctor.

"Be quick," she said; "be quick! Awaken him! I am afraid."

From the case which I carried I took out a needle-syringe and a phial
containing a small quantity