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    The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu
    The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu
    The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu
    Ebook335 pages5 hours

    The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu

    By Sax Rohmer and Otto Penzler

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    The novel that introduced the world to its deadliest villain

    In the Burmese rainforest, an arrow steeped in the venom of the hamadryad snake, the deadliest reptile of the East, strikes colonial police commissioner Nayland Smith. His only hope is to immediately cauterize the wound using a sharp knife, a match, and a broken cartridge. For three delirious days, he lies on the forest floor, too weak to move. When the fever finally breaks, he walks out of the woods and heads straight to London, hot on the trail of the evil genius who tried to kill him.

    The most brilliant villain the world has ever seen, Fu-Manchu is an expert polyglot and master chemist, adept in the manipulation of the rarest and deadliest poisons. An agent of a secret society bent on destroying the Western world, his mere gaze is enough to dull the sharpest minds of Great Britain. It is up to Smith and his loyal friend Dr. Petrie to track the devil doctor from the opium dens of the East End to the deserts of Egypt and put an end to his fiendish plans.

    The first installment in Sax Rohmer’s Fu-Manchu series was one of the most popular novels of the early twentieth century. One hundred years later, it is both a fascinating piece of cultural history and a mesmerizing page-turner from start to finish.

    This ebook features a new introduction by Otto Penzler and has been professionally proofread to ensure accuracy and readability on all devices.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMysteriousPress.com Open Road
    Release dateMay 27, 2014
    ISBN9781480493865
    Author

    Sax Rohmer

    Sax Rohmer (1883–1959) was a pioneering and prolific author of crime fiction, best known for his series of novels featuring the archetypal evil genius Dr. Fu-Manchu.

    Read more from Sax Rohmer

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    Reviews for The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu

    3/5

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    • 2/5
      Episodic and moderately entertaining yarn (or yarns) pitting Edwardian British Government agent Nayland Smith and his cohort, friend and narrator, Dr. Petrie, against the master criminal "yellow peril personified" Dr. Fu Manchu. Fu Manchu himself is the most interesting character, and his varied and ingenious ways of facilitating murder in inaccessible locales and locked rooms the most entertaining tropes. It was also amusing to read a thriller actually written in this era (circa 1913) depicting a world now so often treated in steampunk fare.

      As to the "politically incorrect" aspect, I will only observe that these stories were written on the heels of the Boxer Rebellion and opium wars. What can we make of the paranoia about the Yellow Race seeking to dominate the White Race if not the imperialists suppressed guilt projected outward onto to imagined mastermind of evil?
    • 2/5
      I thought I would give a Fu Manchu audiobook a go after finding the Christopher Lee films reasonably entertaining. Was it originally written in weekly episodes for a pulp magazine? That's what it appears to be - there is no real objective or conclusion to the novel, it is just a collection of chase, capture, escape ... Harrison, the reader, has a pleasant voice, but there was nothing about the tale to grab the attention. Give me Bulldog Drummond, any day!
    • 4/5
      I wasn't sure what to expect when I downloaded this free Kindle book to read. Set in early 1900's England, this story introduces Nayland Smith (an adventurer recently returned from the Orient), Dr. Petrie (who plays Watson to Smith's Holmes, and is a bit of a namby-pamby IMO), the beautiful dusky Arabic princess Kâramanèh (held as a slave by Fu Manchu... without any visible negative effects of course) and of course, Dr. Fu Manchu, the MOST evil, MOST intelligent, the MOST everything, to ever come out of the Orient. Repeated running from residence to residence, location to location, just misses and encounters with Fu Manchu where he somehow diabolically escapes... it's all great fun... if you like that sort of thing. 3 1/2 stars and hopeful for future installments...
    • 3/5
      To quote Barzun and Taylor:The Doctor's adventures may entertain once, partly because of well-contrived suspense, partly because of one's enjoyment of one's own folly in believing what one is told, for example the presence on Wimbledon Common of a menagerie of lethal creatures kept by htis sinister Chinese.And that's not all! Fungal spores that germinate instantly and are immediately lethal; a drug that drives a man mad with one injection; a drug that mimics death. Fortunately, for every drug there is an antidote. The Doctor is "the greatest fungologist the world has known." Madly racist, and entertainingly nutty.
    • 5/5
      I remember finding this in a box of musty old paperbacks when I was a kid, and reading it and being completely perplexed and intrigued. It's so wrong on so many levels. Yet, you've got Dr. Petrie prescribing whiskey and soda like it was going out of style. I've got to give some love to a group of characters whose idea of "hurry, we must catch Dr. Fu-Manchu" means that they have to drink their whiskey and soda quickly.
    • 4/5
      One of the proto-types of modern thrillers with a character that set the model for countless stock super-villains. It's a tightly-wound rush of a narrative written with all the subtlety of a jackhammer. Its shocking racism is off-putting, though comically hyperbolic, but the book still has value for its fantasy-like imagery and as the source-code for a broad range of genre literature.
    • 3/5
      Well, okay, this is...it's entertaining, okay? I had fun. It's a pretty shameless Sherlock Holmes ripoff, with a doctor sidekick narrating an adventure in which the protagonist is his brilliant detectiveish friend. Moriarty is Asianified, but comes with the same breathless, constant hyperbolic descriptions: "The most brilliant criminal mind to have existed in generations!"

      The problem with hyperbole is that you kinda have to back it up. Conan Doyle is great at this. There's this fine line you want to walk: you want to leave the reader unable, usually, to solve the mystery, but when you do the big reveal at the end you want the reader not to feel cheated. I have to think, "I didn't get that - but I could have. I almost did. It makes sense." Conan Doyle pioneered that, as far as I know. (Don't bring up Dupin! Holmes owes that guy, but not for this. Poe sucked at this. "Murders at the Rue Morgue" spoiler: "The fucking orangutan did it" is not a good reveal.)

      On the other hand, there's a less-discussed, dirtier trick that can be effective: the obvious, shitty reveal that you totally guessed 50 pages ago. You think you don't like that, but actually you sortof do, for the same reason you enjoy easy crossword puzzles or yelling out Jeopardy answers: because it makes you feel smart. You may not come away with the utmost respect for the author...but you may buy his next book anyway, because it's nice to feel smart. I'm convinced that some authors do this on purpose. It's a bit of a craven, lazy strategy, but whatever works I guess.

      So...Fu Manchu sometimes pulls off some neat tricks. The explanation for the corpses with mutilated hands was pretty fun, and there's a terrific scene near the end involving mushrooms. And for all I know the old trapdoor trick was invented by Fu Manchu. (Good question, actually.) But still...most of the time, you can guess what's happened way before Nayland Smith does, which makes it hard to respect him as a genius, which therefore makes it hard to respect the insidious Chinaman who's constantly outsmarting him.

      And speaking of Chinamen, have you heard that this book is SUPER CRAZY RACIST? Well, you heard right! It is hilariously, horribly racist, in that adorable old-timey racist way: "Unless you have been in their clutches, you can never imagine the depths of cruelty to which a Chinaman is capable of stooping." You just want to pinch racism's cheek when it comes like that.

      This is pulp fiction at its pulpiest. Narrow escapes, beautiful exotic women, diabolical traps, madmen, gaping plot holes...Sure, man. I dug it.
    • 1/5
      Absolutely unreadable. But I know I enjoyed these when I was in high school.
    • 4/5
      Imagine a person, tall, lean and feline, high-shouldered, with a brow like Shakespeare and a face like Satan, a close-shaven skull, and long, magnetic eyes of the true cat-green.The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu has all the weaknesses of the typical pulp stories of its era. It perpetuates racial and gender stereotypes, it relies too much on melodrama, and it overuses hyperbole. And yet, with all that, it still manages to entertain.The two protagonists, Petrie and Nayland Smith, are out to save the world from the evil genius Dr. Fu-Manchu. Try as they might to stop him, Fu-Manchu always stays one step ahead, moving from one shady hideout to the next, unleashing horrible dangers upon helpless victims. Fortunately, the two heroes have the help of the alluring Karamaneh, woman of mystery.Fans of the old pulp magazines like Doc Savage, The Shadow or Weird Tales will find much to enjoy in The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu. Readers with more modern tastes may find it offensive and hard to stomach.As for me, despite its flaws, I loved its energy, its exotic flavor, and the way Rohmer brings the evil Fu-Manchu to life.
    • 3/5
      An enjoyable romp, although less a coherent storyline than a series of adventurous episodes. You need to leave your political correctness and non-racist sensibilities behind to read it comfortably, but if you can do that and accept that the political views and racist language were signs of the time it was written in rather than any unusually bigoted viewpoint of the author then you can enjoy the adventure. Speaking personally, and as someone who had read quite a bit of late 1800s - early 1900s fiction, I find these insights into the general mindset of the period fascinating and fiction, where such attitudes are simply an accepted part of the prose, brings this much more to life than any academic work ever could. Written today it would be offensive, but taken in the context of its time it is simply the way it was, and all the more interesting for it. It becomes a social history lesson without any intention of being so. While this first Dr Fu Manchu novel does not, in my opinion, reach the heights gained by such authors as H Rider Haggard, H G Wells, Rudyard Kipling, Arthur Conan Doyle or early Edgar Rice Burroughs (all of whom wrote in that period at the end of the 19th Century and/or the beginning of the 20th) it is nevertheless a fun adventurous romp rushing from one dangerous situation to the next. Forget your 21st Century sensibilities and enjoy.
    • 4/5
      A surprisingly good, albeit politically incorrect, read. Quite fun and a quick read. Petrie and Smith made worthy opponents to the evil Fu Manchu. Written in 1913, many aspects of this book seemed ahead of its time. I thoroughly enjoyed it.
    • 3/5
      A good story, though a trifle hard to read at times, do to the overt racism against the "yellow menace". Setting that aside, Dr. Fun Manchu is one heck of a villain - cunning, smart, and slippery as heck! Nayland Smith and Dr. Petrie, along with Inspector Weymouth try hard to best him, but to no avail. I liked all the characters, along with the potential love interest Karamaneh, but the Dr. stands tall among them! He is their intellectual superior, and an expert in poisons, drugs, fungi, and bacilli, with the ability to come and go as he pleases! The story, and the style, remind me of Bram Stoker's Dracula, and the adversarial nature of the characters is reminiscent of another doctor, Sherlock Holmes. Still, the racist nature of the narrative does give me pause as to how I feel overall about the book. I leave it to you to decide for yourself!
    • 3/5
      Meh. Bad in the ways I was expecting (overwrought racism, prose, etc.), but I just couldn't find myself caring about the plot (which was awfully episodic). Plot was acceptably outlined. Got some reasonably ridiculous quotes from it. I'd like to see a version that's sympathetic to the title character.
    • 3/5
      A thinly veiled Sherlock Holmes knock-off combined with a large dose of Yellow Peril. The spectre of individually published stories linked together into a single volume also strikes again, rendering the entire thing heavily episodic in nature.
    • 2/5
      Wikipedia calls this a novel, but it's more like a collection of episodes with a similar theme. It doesn't have the depth and character development of a novel.I remember the basic idea from the Fu Manchu films on TV in the 1970s. The story is very similar, and it gets repetitive after a while.Naylan Smith doesn't seem the sharpest tool in the box. Lots of nervous energy (always pulling his earlobe, pacing the floor or smacking his fist into his hand), but not much analysis of the situation. He tends to rush in without thinking, and is invariably outwitted by the "evil genious".An easy read, but no great depth, and the repetitiveness gets stale after a while.
    • 3/5
      I read this "yellow menace" novel when I was a kid and was enthralled by Rohmer's depiction of evil personified.

    Book preview

    The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu - Sax Rohmer

    Introduction

    Dr. Fu-Manchu is literature’s ultimate villain: a Chinese master criminal of untold wealth, intellect, and occult powers—a man whose goal is world conquest.

    The Boxer Rebellion at the turn of the twentieth century aroused fears of a Yellow Peril, and Rohmer recognized that popular literature was ready for an Oriental archcriminal. His research for an article on Limehouse, the Chinese district of London, uncovered the existence of a Mr.King, an actual figure of immense power in that area, whose enormous wealth derived from gambling, drug smuggling, and the organization of many other criminal activities. The apparent head of powerful tongs and their unsavory members, Mr. King was never charged with a crime, and his very existence was considered questionable. One foggy night, Rohmer saw him—or someone who might have been him—from a distance; his face was the embodiment of Satan. This was Fu-Manchu, the Devil Doctor.

    Fu-Manchu is a diabolical fiend who ruthlessly seeks to become emperor of the world. In addition to possessing degrees from three European universities, he has vast knowledge of the occult and of secrets of chemistry, medicine, and physics unknown to Western man. He also commands the gangs of Asia and is master of the secret sects of the East—Dacoits, Hashishin, Phansigars, and Thugs.

    Fu-Manchu is a Chinese noble descended from members of the Manchu dynasty. The most sinister villain in history, the Devil Doctor is nevertheless bound by the code of a gentleman: his word is inviolate.

    Fu-Manchu’s constant adversary is Sir Denis Nayland Smith, who, with his companion, Dr.Petrie, seems hopelessly overmatched against the formidable doctor. Vaguely connected with Scotland Yard, Smith was knighted for his efforts to thwart Fu-Manchu, although he would admit that he did not earn the honor by superior intellect. He frequently owes his life to sheer luck, and even more often, to the beautiful Karamaneh, once a slave in Fu-Manchu’s power, and later, Petrie’s wife.

    Late in his career, Fu-Manchu temporarily abandons his attempt to conquer the world and joins forces with the West to defeat the growing threat of communism.

    With infinite attention to detail, Rohmer deliberately gave an impossible name to his villain, Fu and Manchu both being Chinese surnames.

    Tall and slender, Fu-Manchu generally wears a yellow robe or a black one with a silver peacock embroidered on the front. He wears a black cap on his smooth skull. Often portrayed with what is now known as a Fu-Manchu moustache, he is in fact clean-shaven so as not to interfere with his disguises—at which he is a master. His eyes are his most notable physical feature: long, magnetic, and truly cat green—so piercing and compelling that one often senses his gaze even in advance of his presence.

    Rohmer once wrote that, just after he had created his character, he had an extraordinary experience. Fu-Manchu appeared in his bedroom. He asserted his independence of the author, telling him of his plans for world conquest: I, the Mandarin Fu Manchu, shall go on triumphant. It is your boast that you made me. It is mine that I shall live when you are smoke.

    The fact that it is almost impossible to hear mention of a sinister Oriental without instantly thinking of the Devil Doctor demonstrates the vitality of Fu-Manchu.

    Films

    Rohmer’s insidious doctor made an early screen debut in 1923, in a series of short British films with Harry Agar Lyons as a somewhat rigid Fu-Manchu and Fred Paul as Denis Nayland Smith; the rather close adaptations of episodes from the Rohmer source include fungi cellars and coughing horrors. Nearly all the Fu-Manchu cinematic exploits that followed do not stray far from the source that inspired them.

    The Mysterious Dr. Fu Manchu. Paramount, 1929. Warner Oland, Jean Arthur, Neil Hamilton, O. P. Heggie. Directed by Rowland V. Lee. Based on The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu. During the Boxer Rebellion, foreign devils kill Fu Manchu’s wife, and the doctor vows revenge. Soon he is in England eliminating all the white officers who took part in suppressing the uprising. Ultimately Scotland Yard exposes him and he drinks poisoned tea. (Warner Oland, whose performance has been called bloodcurdling, is the screen’s premier sinister Oriental; later he atones by portraying Charlie Chan.)

    The Return of Dr. Fu Manchu. Paramount, 1930. Oland, Arthur, Hamilton, Heggie. Directed by Lee. The poisoned tea was merely a potion; the dead Fu-Manchu escapes through a panel in the side of his coffin and continues his revenge. Finally, the Yard reports that one of Fu-Manchu’s own bombs has torn him to pieces in a secret Thames-side den—but one can never be sure.

    Daughter of the Dragon. Paramount, 1931. Oland, Anna May Wong, Sessue Hayakawa, Bramwell Fletcher, Frances Dade. Directed by Lloyd Corrigan. Loosely based on Daughter of Fu-Manchu. The Petrie family, Fu-Manchu’s hated enemies, receive word that he has been seen again. The Chinese doctor is shot, but before he dies, he makes his daughter—a dancer—vow to carry out his revenge on the last of the Petries. The two young people, however, begin a tragic love affair.

    The Mask of Fu Manchu. MGM, 1932. Boris Karloff, Karen Morley, Lewis Stone, Jean Hersholt, Charles Starrett. Directed by Charles Brabin. Now sinisterly civilized, Fu-Manchu—doctor of medicine, science, and philosophy—and his evil daughter (Myrna Loy) seek the lost tomb of Genghis Khan. Warns Nayland Smith, Once Fu Manchu puts the mask of Genghis Khan across his yellow face and takes that scimitar into his hands, all Asia rises!

    Drums of Fu Manchu. Republic serial, fifteen chapters, 1940. Henry Brandon (Fu-Manchu), William Royle, Robert Kellard. Directed by William Witney and John English. From incidents in several Rohmer novels. Fu-Manchu and his daughter (Gloria Franklin) again seek the Khan’s tomb and scepter, this time directing their activities mainly from California’s Chinatowns.

    For many years Fu-Manchu remained silent, the changing attitudes toward the Chinese forcing him from the screen. Then, in 1965, an elaborate new series began, the first in color and of the time period, featuring the towering British horror star Christopher Lee as the evil doctor, with Dublin filling in as London of the 1920s. Later films in the series used locations in Spain, Brazil, and Turkey.

    The Face of Fu Manchu. Seven Arts (British/German), 1965. Lee, Nigel Green, Howard Marion-Crawford, Karin Dor, Joachim Fuchsberger. Directed by Don Sharp. An original story. Fu Manchu, aided by his daughter (Tsai Chin) and called by Nayland Smith cruel, callous, brilliant, the most evil and dangerous man in the world, destroys all life in a remote English village by means of poison gas. The doctor is eventually tracked to a monastery in Tibet, where an explosion supposedly kills him, but over the smoke his voice snarls: The world has not heard the last of Fu Manchu!

    The Brides of Fu Manchu. Seven Arts (British/American), 1966. Lee, Douglas Wilmer (replacing Green as Nayland Smith), Marion-Crawford, Chin, Heinz Drache. Directed by Sharp. An original story. At his secret headquarters, Fu-Manchu holds captive twelve girls from powerful political and industrial families, forcing them to collaborate with him in his electronic conquest of the world.

    The Vengeance of Fu Manchu. Seven Arts (British/American), 1968. Lee, Wilmer, Marion-Crawford, Chin, Tony Ferrer, Wolfgang Kieling, Horst Frank. Directed by Jeremy Summers. An original story. Fu Manchu arranges to have Nayland Smith accused of the murder of his pretty Chinese servant and, at an Interpol convention, plots to have all the police chiefs of the world replaced by doubles under his control.

    Kiss and Kill, Commonwealth (British), 1970. Lee, Richard Greene (replacing Wilmer as Smith), Marion-Crawford, Chin, Maria Rohm. Directed by Jess (Jesus) Franco. An original story. The evil doctor sends out infected girls to plant kisses of death on the world’s leaders. Among the first victims is Nayland Smith, who is unaccountably merely blinded, remaining so for most of the film.

    The Castle of Fu Manchu. Commonwealth (British), 1972. Lee, Greene, Marion-Crawford, Chin. Directed by Jésus Franco. An original story. Fu Manchu plots to control the world’s water ways—especially such routes as the Suez and Panama Canals—with a device that can create icebergs in the Caribbean; he is finally traced to Istanbul, where he has seized as headquarters a Turkish national monument: the Anatolian Castle.

    There were several later films so abysmal that they will not be mentioned here.

    Radio and Television

    The satanic doctor appeared in several successful radio series in both the United States and England during the 1930s; most memorable were the serial dramatizations presented on The Collier Hour and drawn from Collier’s magazine. NBC once made a pilot telefilm with John Carradine as Fu-Manchu and Sir Cedric Hardwicke as Nayland Smith, but a program never materialized. In the early 1950s Republic released for television a series of thirteen half-hour programs featuring a corpulent, less vigorous Fu-Manchu (Glen Gordon) in the somewhat reduced circumstances of a television budget, leavened in large measure by action stock footage from the studio’s files.

    Otto Penzler

    CHAPTER I

    A GENTLEMAN TO SEE you, Doctor.

    From across the common a clock sounded the half-hour.

    Ten-thirty! I said. A late visitor. Show him up, if you please.

    I pushed my writing aside and tilted the lamp-shade, as footsteps sounded on the landing. The next moment I had jumped to my feet, for a tall, lean man, with his square-cut, clean-shaven face sun-baked to the hue of coffee, entered and extended both hands, with a cry:

    Good old Petrie! Didn’t expect me, I’ll swear!

    It was Nayland Smith—whom I had thought to be in Burma!

    Smith, I said, and gripped his hands hard, this is a delightful surprise! Whatever—however—

    Excuse me, Petrie! he broke in. Don’t put it down to the sun! And he put out the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

    I was too surprised to speak.

    No doubt you will think me mad, he continued, and, dimly, I could see him at the window, peering out into the road, but before you are many hours older you will know that I have good reason to be cautious. Ah, nothing suspicious! Perhaps I am first this time. And, stepping back to the writing-table he relighted the lamp.

    Mysterious enough for you? he laughed, and glanced at my unfinished MS. A story, eh? From which I gather that the district is beastly healthy—what, Petrie? Well, I can put some material in your way that, if sheer uncanny mystery is a marketable commodity, ought to make you independent of influenza and broken legs and shattered nerves and all the rest.

    I surveyed him doubtfully, but there was nothing in his appearance to justify me in supposing him to suffer from delusions. His eyes were too bright, certainly, and a hardness now had crept over his face. I got out the whisky and siphon, saying:

    You have taken your leave early?

    I am not on leave, he replied, and slowly filled his pipe. I am on duty.

    On duty! I exclaimed. What, are you moved to London or something?

    I have got a roving commission, Petrie, and it doesn’t rest with me where I am to-day nor where I shall be to-morrow.

    There was something ominous in the words, and, putting down my glass, its contents untasted, I faced round and looked him squarely in the eyes. Out with it! I said. What is it all about?

    Smith suddenly stood up and stripped off his coat. Rolling back his left shirt-sleeve he revealed a wicked-looking wound in the fleshy part of the forearm. It was quite healed, but curiously striated for an inch or so around.

    Ever seen one like it? he asked.

    Not exactly, I confessed. It appears to have been deeply cauterized.

    Right! Very deeply! he rapped. A barb steeped in the venom of a hamadryad went in there!

    A shudder I could not repress ran coldly through me at mention of that most deadly of all the reptiles of the East.

    There’s only one treatment, he continued, rolling his sleeve down again, and that’s with a sharp knife, a match, and a broken cartridge. I lay on my back, raving, for three days afterwards, in a forest that stank with malaria, but I should have been lying there now if I had hesitated. Here’s the point. It was not an accident!

    What do you mean?

    I mean that it was a deliberate attempt on my life, and I am hard upon the tracks of the man who extracted that venom—patiently, drop by drop—from the poison-glands of the snake, who prepared that arrow, and who caused it to be shot at me.

    What fiend is this?

    A fiend who, unless my calculations are at fault is now in London, and who regularly wars with pleasant weapons of that kind. Petrie, I have traveled from Burma not in the interests of the British Government merely, but in the interests of the entire white race, and I honestly believe—though I pray I may be wrong—that its survival depends largely upon the success of my mission.

    To say that I was perplexed conveys no idea of the mental chaos created by these extraordinary statements, for into my humdrum suburban life Nayland Smith had brought fantasy of the wildest. I did not know what to think, what to believe.

    I am wasting precious time! he rapped decisively, and, draining his glass, he stood up. I came straight to you, because you are the only man I dare to trust. Except the big chief at headquarters, you are the only person in England, I hope, who knows that Nayland Smith has quitted Burma. I must have someone with me, Petrie, all the time—it’s imperative! Can you put me up here, and spare a few days to the strangest business, I promise you, that ever was recorded in fact or fiction?

    I agreed readily enough, for, unfortunately, my professional duties were not onerous.

    Good man! he cried, wringing my hand in his impetuous way. We start now.

    What, to-night?

    To-night! I had thought of turning in, I must admit. I have not dared to sleep for forty-eight hours, except in fifteen-minute stretches. But there is one move that must be made to-night and immediately. I must warn Sir Crichton Davey.

    Sir Crichton Davey—of the India—

    Petrie, he is a doomed man! Unless he follows my instructions without question, without hesitation—before Heaven, nothing can save him! I do not know when the blow will fall, how it will fall, nor from whence, but I know that my first duty is to warn him. Let us walk down to the corner of the common and get a taxi.

    How strangely does the adventurous intrude upon the humdrum; for, when it intrudes at all, more often than not its intrusion is sudden and unlooked for. To-day, we may seek for romance and fail to find it: unsought, it lies in wait for us at most prosaic corners of life’s highway.

    The drive that night, though it divided the drably commonplace from the wildly bizarre—though it was the bridge between the ordinary and the outré—has left no impression upon my mind. Into the heart of a weird mystery the cab bore me; and in reviewing my memories of those days I wonder that the busy thoroughfares through which we passed did not display before my eyes signs and portents—warnings.

    It was not so. I recall nothing of the route and little of import that passed between us (we both were strangely silent, I think) until we were come to our journey’s end. Then:

    What’s this? muttered my friend hoarsely.

    Constables were moving on a little crowd of curious idlers who pressed about the steps of Sir Crichton Davey’s house and sought to peer in at the open door. Without waiting for the cab to draw up to the curb, Nayland Smith recklessly leaped out and I followed close at his heels.

    What has happened? he demanded breathlessly of a constable.

    The latter glanced at him doubtfully, but something in his voice and bearing commanded respect.

    Sir Crichton Davey has been killed, sir.

    Smith lurched back as though he had received a physical blow, and clutched my shoulder convulsively. Beneath the heavy tan his face had blanched, and his eyes were set in a stare of horror.

    My God! he whispered. I am too late!

    With clenched fists he turned and, pressing through the group of loungers, bounded up the steps. In the hall a man who unmistakably was a Scotland Yard official stood talking to a footman. Other members of the household were moving about, more or less aimlessly, and the chilly hand of King Fear had touched one and all, for, as they came and went, they glanced ever over their shoulders, as if each shadow cloaked a menace, and listened, as it seemed, for some sound which they dreaded to hear. Smith strode up to the detective and showed him a card, upon glancing at which the Scotland Yard man said something in a low voice, and, nodding, touched his hat to Smith in a respectful manner.

    A few brief questions and answers, and, in gloomy silence, we followed the detective up the heavily carpeted stair, along a corridor lined with pictures and busts, and into a large library. A group of people were in this room, and one, in whom I recognized Chalmers Cleeve, of Harley Street, was bending over a motionless form stretched upon a couch. Another door communicated with a small study, and through the opening I could see a man on all fours examining the carpet. The uncomfortable sense of hush, the group about the physician, the bizarre figure crawling, beetle-like, across the inner room, and the grim hub, around which all this ominous activity turned, made up a scene that etched itself indelibly on my mind.

    As we entered Dr. Cleeve straightened himself, frowning thoughtfully.

    Frankly, I do not care to venture any opinion at present regarding the immediate cause of death, he said. Sir Crichton was addicted to cocaine, but there are indications which are not in accordance with cocaine-poisoning. I fear that only a post-mortem can establish the facts—if, he added, we ever arrive at them. A most mysterious case!

    Smith stepping forward and engaging the famous pathologist in conversation, I seized the opportunity to examine Sir Crichton’s body.

    The dead man was in evening dress, but wore an old smoking-jacket. He had been of spare but hardy build, with thin, aquiline features, which now were oddly puffy, as were his clenched hands. I pushed back his sleeve, and saw the marks of the hypodermic syringe upon his left arm. Quite mechanically I turned my attention to the right arm. It was unscarred, but on the back of the hand was a faint red mark, not unlike the imprint of painted lips. I examined it closely, and even tried to rub it off, but it evidently was caused by some morbid process of local inflammation, if it were not a birthmark.

    Turning to a pale young man whom I had understood to be Sir Crichton’s private secretary, I drew his attention to this mark, and inquired if it were constitutional. It is not, sir, answered Dr. Cleeve, overhearing my question. I have already made that inquiry. Does it suggest anything to your mind? I must confess that it affords me no assistance.

    Nothing, I replied. It is most curious.

    Excuse me, Mr. Burboyne, said Smith, now turning to the secretary, but Inspector Weymouth will tell you that I act with authority. I understand that Sir Crichton was—seized with illness in his study?

    Yes—at half-past ten. I was working here in the library, and he inside, as was our custom.

    The communicating door was kept closed?

    Yes, always. It was open for a minute or less about ten-twenty-five, when a message came for Sir Crichton. I took it in to him, and he then seemed in his usual health.

    What was the message?

    I could not say. It was brought by a district messenger, and he placed it beside him on the table. It is there now, no doubt.

    And at half-past ten?

    Sir Crichton suddenly burst open the door and threw himself, with a scream, into the library. I ran to him but he waved me back. His eyes were glaring horribly. I had just reached his side when he fell, writhing, upon the floor. He seemed past speech, but as I raised him and laid him upon the couch, he gasped something that sounded like ‘The red hand!’ Before I could get to bell or telephone he was dead!

    Mr. Burboyne’s voice shook as he spoke the words, and Smith seemed to find this evidence confusing.

    You do not think he referred to the mark on his own hand?

    I think not. From the direction of his last glance, I feel sure he referred to something in the study.

    What did you do?

    Having summoned the servants, I ran into the study. But there was absolutely nothing unusual to be seen. The windows were closed and fastened. He worked with closed windows in the hottest weather. There is no other door, for the study occupies the end of a narrow wing, so that no one could possibly have gained access to it, whilst I was in the library, unseen by me. Had someone concealed himself in the study earlier in the evening—and I am convinced that it offers no hiding-place—he could only have come out again by passing through here.

    Nayland Smith tugged at the lobe of his left ear, as was his habit when meditating.

    You had been at work here in this way for some time?

    Yes. Sir Crichton was preparing an important book.

    Had anything unusual occurred prior to this evening?

    Yes, said Mr. Burboyne, with evident perplexity; though I attached no importance to it at the time. Three nights ago Sir Crichton came out to me, and appeared very nervous; but at times his nerves—you know? Well, on this occasion he asked me to search the study. He had an idea that something was concealed there.

    Some THING or someone?

    ‘Something’ was the word he used. I searched, but fruitlessly, and he seemed quite satisfied, and returned to his work.

    Thank you, Mr. Burboyne. My friend and I would like a few minutes’ private investigation in the study.

    CHAPTER II

    SIR CRICHTON DAVEY’S STUDY was a small one, and a glance sufficed to show that, as the secretary had said, it offered no hiding-place. It was heavily carpeted, and over-full of Burmese and Chinese ornaments and curios, and upon the mantelpiece stood several framed photographs which showed this to be the sanctum of a wealthy bachelor who was no misogynist. A map of the Indian Empire occupied the larger part of one wall. The grate was empty, for the weather was extremely warm, and a green-shaded lamp on the littered writing-table afforded the only light. The air was stale, for both windows were closed and fastened.

    Smith immediately pounced upon a large, square envelope that lay beside the blotting-pad. Sir Crichton had not even troubled to open it, but my friend did so. It contained a blank sheet of paper!

    Smell! he directed, handing the letter to me. I raised it to my nostrils. It was scented with some pungent perfume.

    What is it? I asked.

    It is a rather rare essential oil, was the reply, which I have met with before, though never in Europe. I begin to understand, Petrie.

    He tilted the lamp-shade and made a close examination of the scraps of paper, matches, and other debris that lay in the grate and on the hearth. I took up a copper vase from the mantelpiece, and was examining it curiously, when he turned, a strange expression upon his face.

    Put that back, old man, he said quietly.

    Much surprised, I did as he directed.

    Don’t touch anything in the room. It may be dangerous.

    Something in the tone of his voice chilled me, and I hastily replaced the vase, and stood by the door of the study, watching him search, methodically, every inch of the room—behind the books, in all the ornaments, in table drawers, in cupboards, on shelves.

    That will do, he said at last. There is nothing here and I have no time to search farther.

    We returned to the library.

    Inspector Weymouth, said my friend, "I have a particular reason for asking that Sir Crichton’s body be removed from this room at once and the library locked. Let no one

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