despite the gloom, the curved blades of the knives which they
carried glittered menacingly. The passage was full of dacoits!

Smith and I turned, together. The trap was raised again, and the Burman,
who had helped to tie me, was just scrambling up beside Dr. Fu-Manchu,
who stood there watching us, a shadowy, sinister figure.

"The game's up, Petrie!" muttered Smith. "It has been a long fight, but
Fu-Manchu wins!"

"Not entirely!" I cried. I whipped the police whistle from my pocket,
and raised it to my lips; but brief as the interval had been, the
dacoits were upon me.

A sinewy brown arm shot over my shoulder and the whistle was dashed from
my grasp. Then came a whirl of maelstrom fighting with Smith and myself
ever sinking lower amid a whirlpool, as it seemed, of blood-lustful
eyes, yellow fangs, and gleaming blades.

I had some vague idea that the rasping voice of Fu-Manchu broke once
through the turmoil, and when, with my wrists tied behind me, I emerged
from the strife to find myself lying beside Smith in the passage, I
could only assume that the Chinaman had ordered his bloody servants to
take us alive; for saving numerous bruises and a few superficial cuts, I
was unwounded.

The place was utterly deserted again, and we two panting captives found
ourselves alone with Dr. Fu-Manchu. The scene was unforgettable; that
dimly lighted passage, its extremities masked in shadow, and the tall,
yellow-robed figure of the Satanic Chinaman towering over us where we
lay.

He had recovered his habitual calm, and as I peered at him through the
gloom I was impressed anew with the tremendous intellectual force of the
man. He had the brow of a genius, the features of a born ruler; and even
in that moment I could find time to search my memory, and to discover
that the face, saving the indescribable evil of its expression, was
identical with that of Seti, the mighty Pharaoh who lies in the Cairo
Museum.

Down the passage came leaping and gamboling the doctor's marmoset.
Uttering its shrill, whistling cry, it leaped onto his shoulder,
clutched with its tiny fingers at the scanty, neutral-colored hair
upon his crown, and bent forward, peering grotesquely into that still,
dreadful face.

Dr. Fu-Manchu stroked the little creature; and crooned to it, as a
mother to her infant. Only this crooning, and the labored breathing of
Smith and myself, broke that impressive stillness.

Suddenly the guttural voice began:

"You come a