LITMIR.BIZ

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to the ground somewhere at the other side of the coppice.”

      He glanced at me.

      “You are wondering, perhaps,” he suggested, “what caused the mysterious light? I could have told you this morning, but I fear I was in a bad temper, Petrie. It’s very simple: a length of tape soaked in spirit or something of the kind, and sheltered from the view of any one watching from your windows, behind the trunk of the tree; then, the end ignited, lowered, still behind the tree, to the ground. The operator swinging it around, the flame ascended, of course. I found the unburned fragment of the tape last night, a few yards from here.”

      I was peering down at Fu-Manchu’s servant, the hideous yellow man who lay dead in a bower of elm leaves.

      “He has some kind of leather bag beside him,” I began—

      “Exactly!” rapped Smith. “In that he carried his dangerous instrument of death; from that he released it!”

      “Released what?”

      “What your fascinating friend came to recapture this morning.”

      “Don’t taunt me, Smith!” I said bitterly. “Is it some species of bird?”

      “You saw the marks on Forsyth’s body, and I told you of those which I had traced upon the ground here. They were caused by claws, Petrie!”

      “Claws! I thought so! But what claws?”

      “The claws of a poisonous thing. I recaptured the one used last night, killed it—against my will—and buried it on the mound. I was afraid to throw it in the pond, lest some juvenile fisherman should pull it out and sustain a scratch. I don’t know how long the claws would remain venomous.”

      “You are treating me like a child, Smith,” I said slowly. “No doubt I am hopelessly obtuse, but perhaps you will tell me what this Chinaman carried in a leather bag and released upon Forsyth. It was something which you recaptured, apparently with the aid of a plate of cold turbot and a jug of milk! It was something, also, which Karamaneh had been sent to recapture with the aid—”

      I stopped.

      “Go on,” said Nayland Smith, turning the ray to the left, “what did she have in the basket?”

      “Valerian,” I replied mechanically.

      The ray rested upon the lithe creature that I had shot down.

      It was a black cat!

      “A cat will go through fire and water for valerian,” said Smith; “but I got first innings this morning with fish and milk! I had recognized the imprints under the trees for those of a cat, and I knew, that if a cat had been released here it would still be hiding in the neighborhood, probably in the bushes. I finally located a cat, sure enough, and came for bait! I laid my trap, for the animal was too frightened to be approachable, and then shot it; I had to. That yellow fiend used the light as a decoy. The branch which killed him jutted out over the path at a spot where an opening in the foliage above allowed some moon rays to penetrate. Directly the victim stood beneath, the Chinaman uttered his bird cry; the one below looked up, and the cat, previously held silent and helpless in the leather sack, was dropped accurately upon his head!”

      “But”—I was growing confused.

      Smith stooped lower.

      “The cat’s claws are sheathed now,” he said; “but if you could examine them you would find that they are coated with a shining black substance. Only Fu-Manchu knows what that substance is, Petrie, but you and I know what it can do!”

      CHAPTER VII

      ENTER MR. ABEL SLATTIN

      “I don’t blame you!” rapped Nayland Smith. “Suppose we say, then, a thousand pounds if you show us the present hiding-place of Fu-Manchu, the payment to be in no way subject to whether we profit by your information or not?”

      Abel Slattin shrugged his shoulders, racially, and returned to the armchair which he had just quitted. He reseated himself, placing his hat and cane upon my writing-table.

      “A little agreement in black and white?” he suggested smoothly.

      Smith raised himself up out of the white cane chair, and, bending forward over a corner of the table, scribbled busily upon a sheet of notepaper with my fountain-pen.

      The while he did so, I covertly studied our visitor. He lay back in the armchair, his heavy eyelids lowered deceptively. He was a thought overdressed—a big man, dark-haired and well groomed, who toyed with a monocle most unsuitable to his type. During the preceding conversation, I had been vaguely surprised to note Mr. Abel Slattin’s marked American accent.

      Sometimes, when Slattin moved, a big diamond which he wore upon the third finger of his right hand glittered magnificently. There was a sort of bluish tint underlying the dusky skin, noticeable even in his hands but proclaiming itself significantly in his puffy face and especially under the eyes. I diagnosed a laboring valve somewhere in the heart system.

      Nayland Smith’s pen scratched on. My glance strayed from our Semitic caller to his cane, lying upon the red leather before me. It was of most unusual workmanship, apparently Indian, being made of some kind of dark brown, mottled wood, bearing a marked resemblance to a snake’s skin; and the top of the cane was carved in conformity, to represent the head of what I took to be a puff-adder, fragments of stone, or beads, being inserted to represent the eyes, and the whole thing being finished with an artistic realism almost startling.

      When Smith had tossed the written page to Slattin, and he, having read it with an appearance of carelessness, had folded it neatly and placed it in his pocket, I said:

      “You have a curio here?”

      Our visitor, whose dark eyes revealed all the satisfaction which, by his manner, he sought to conceal, nodded and took up the cane in his hand.

      “It comes from Australia, Doctor,” he replied; “it’s aboriginal work, and was given to me by a client. You thought it was Indian? Everybody does. It’s my mascot.”

      “Really?”

      “It is indeed. Its former owner ascribed magical powers to it! In fact, I believe he thought that it was one of those staffs mentioned in biblical history—”

      “Aaron’s rod?” suggested Smith, glancing at the cane.

      “Something of the sort,” said Slattin, standing up and again preparing to depart.

      “You will ’phone us, then?” asked my friend.

      “You will hear from me tomorrow,” was the reply.

      Smith returned to the cane armchair, and Slattin, bowing to both of us, made his way to the door as I rang for the girl to show him out.

      “Considering the importance of his proposal,” I began, as the door closed, “you hardly received our visitor with cordiality.”

      “I hate to have any relations with him,” answered my friend; “but we must not be squeamish respecting our instruments in dealing with Dr. Fu-Manchu. Slattin has a rotten reputation—even for a private inquiry agent. He is little better than a blackmailer—”

      “How do you know?”

      “Because I called on our friend Weymouth at the Yard yesterday and looked up the man’s record.”

      “Whatever for?”

      “I knew that he was concerning himself, for some reason, in the case. Beyond doubt he has established some sort of communication with the Chinese group; I am only wondering—”

      “You don’t mean—”

      “Yes—I do, Petrie! I tell you he is unscrupulous enough to stoop even to that.”

      No doubt, Slattin knew that this gaunt, eager-eyed Burmese commissioner was vested with ultimate authority in his quest of the mighty Chinaman who represented things unutterable, whose potentialities

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