away
on our right was the Gables, that sinister and deserted mansion which
we assumed, and with good reason, to be nothing less than the gateway
to the subterranean abode of Dr. Fu-Manchu; before us was the studio,
which, if Nayland Smith's deductions were accurate, concealed a second
entrance to the same mysterious dwelling.

As my friend, glancing cautiously all about him, inserted the key in
the lock, an owl hooted dismally almost immediately above our heads. I
caught my breath sharply, for it might be a signal; but, looking upward,
I saw a great black shape float slantingly from the tree beyond the
studio into the coppice on the right which hemmed in the Gables.
Silently the owl winged its uncanny flight into the greater darkness of
the trees, and was gone. Smith opened the door and we stepped into
the studio. Our plans had been well considered, and in accordance with
these, I now moved up beside my friend, who was dimly perceptible to me
in the starlight which found access through the glass roof, and pressed
the catch of my electric pocket-lamp...

I suppose that by virtue of my self-imposed duty as chronicler of the
deeds of Dr. Fu-Manchu--the greatest and most evil genius whom the
later centuries have produced, the man who dreamt of an universal Yellow
Empire--I should have acquired a certain facility in describing bizarre
happenings. But I confess that it fails me now as I attempt in cold
English to portray my emotions when the white beam from the little
lamp cut through the darkness of the studio, and shone fully upon the
beautiful face of Karamaneh!

Less than six feet away from me she stood, arrayed in the gauzy dress of
the harem, her fingers and slim white arms laden with barbaric jewelry!
The light wavered in my suddenly nerveless hand, gleaming momentarily
upon bare ankles and golden anklets, upon little red leather shoes.

I spoke no word, and Smith was as silent as I; both of us, I think, were
speechless rather from amazement than in obedience to the evident wishes
of Fu-Manchu's slave-girl. Yet I have only to close my eyes at this
moment to see her as she stood, one finger raised to her lips, enjoining
us to silence. She looked ghastly pale in the light of the lamp, but so
lovely that my rebellious heart threatened already, to make a fool of
me.

So we stood in that untidy studio, with canvases and easels heaped
against the wall and with all sorts of litter about us, a trio strangely
met, and one