of amber-hued liquid. It was a drug not to
be found in the British Pharmacopoeia. Of its constitution I knew
nothing. Although I had had the phial in my possession for some days I
had not dared to devote any of its precious contents to analytical
purposes. The amber drops spelled life for the boy Aziz, spelled
success for the mission of Nayland Smith, spelled ruin for the fiendish
Chinaman.

I raised the white coverlet. The boy, fully dressed, lay with his arms
crossed upon his breast. I discerned the mark of previous injections
as, charging the syringe from the phial, I made what I hoped would be
the last of such experiments upon him. I would have given half of my
small worldly possessions to have known the real nature of the drug
which was now coursing through the veins of Aziz--which was tinting the
grayed face with the olive tone of life; which, so far as my medical
training bore me, was restoring the dead to life.

But such was not the purpose of my visit. I was come to remove from
the house of Dr. Fu-Manchu the living chain which bound Karamaneh to
him. The boy alive and free, the Doctor's hold upon the slave girl
would be broken.

My lovely companion, her hands convulsively clasped, knelt and devoured
with her eyes the face of the boy who was passing through the most
amazing physiological change in the history of therapeutics. The
peculiar perfume which she wore--which seemed to be a part of
her--which always I associated with her--was faintly perceptible.
Karamaneh was breathing rapidly.

"You have nothing to fear," I whispered; "see, he is reviving. In a
few moments all will be well with him."

The hanging lamp with its garishly colored shade swung gently above us,
wafted, it seemed, by some draught which passed through the apartment.
The boy's heavy lids began to quiver, and Karamaneh nervously clutched
my arm, and held me so whilst we watched for the long-lashed eyes to
open. The stillness of the place was positively unnatural; it seemed
inconceivable that all about us was the discordant activity of the
commercial East End. Indeed, this eerie silence was becoming
oppressive; it began positively to appall me.

Inspector Weymouth's wondering face peeped over my shoulder.

"Where is Dr. Fu-Manchu?" I whispered, as Nayland Smith in turn
appeared beside me. "I cannot understand the silence of the house--"

"Look about," replied Karamaneh, never taking her eyes from the face of
Aziz.

I pe