LITMIR.BIZ

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one from—” There was the old trick of hesitating before the name of Fu-Manchu—“from him, I had never, never seen you!”

      The dark eyes looked into mine, afire with a positive hunger for belief—or so I was sorely tempted to suppose. But the facts were against her.

      “Such a declaration is worthless,” I said, as coldly as I could. “You are a traitress; you betray those who are mad enough to trust you—”

      “I am no traitress!” she blazed at me; her eyes were magnificent.

      “This is mere nonsense. You think that it will pay you better to serve Fu-Manchu than to remain true to your friends. Your ‘slavery’—for I take it you are posing as a slave again—is evidently not very harsh. You serve Fu-Manchu, lure men to their destruction, and in return he loads you with jewels, lavishes gifts—”

      “Ah! so!”

      She sprang forward, raising flaming eyes to mine; her lips were slightly parted. With that wild abandon which betrayed the desert blood in her veins, she wrenched open the neck of her bodice and slipped a soft shoulder free of the garment. She twisted around, so that the white skin was but inches removed from me.

      “These are some of the gifts that he lavishes upon me!”

      I clenched my teeth. Insane thoughts flooded my mind. For that creamy skin was red with the marks of the lash!

      She turned, quickly rearranging her dress, and watching me the while. I could not trust myself to speak for a moment, then:

      “If I am a stranger to you, as you claim, why do you give me your confidence?” I asked.

      “I have known you long enough to trust you!” she said simply, and turned her head aside.

      “Then why do you serve this inhuman monster?”

      She snapped her fingers oddly, and looked up at me from under her lashes. “Why do you question me if you think that everything I say is a lie?”

      It was a lesson in logic—from a woman! I changed the subject.

      “Tell me what you came here to do,” I demanded.

      She pointed to the net in my hands.

      “To catch birds; you have said so yourself.”

      “What bird?”

      She shrugged her shoulders.

      And now a memory was born within my brain; it was that of the cry of the nighthawk which had harbingered the death of Forsyth! The net was a large and strong one; could it be that some horrible fowl of the air—some creature unknown to Western naturalists—had been released upon the common last night? I thought of the marks upon Forsyth’s face and throat; I thought of the profound knowledge of obscure and dreadful things possessed by the Chinaman.

      The wrapping, in which the net had been, lay at my feet. I stooped and took out from it a wicker basket. Karamaneh stood watching me and biting her lip, but she made no move to check me. I opened the basket. It contained a large phial, the contents of which possessed a pungent and peculiar smell.

      I was utterly mystified.

      “You will have to accompany me to my house,” I said sternly.

      Karamaneh upturned her great eyes to mine. They were wide with fear. She was on the point of speaking when I extended my hand to grasp her. At that, the look of fear was gone and one of rebellion held its place. Ere I had time to realize her purpose, she flung back from me with that wild grace which I had met with in no other woman, turned and ran!

      Fatuously, net and basket in hand, I stood looking after her. The idea of pursuit came to me certainly; but I doubted if I could have outrun her. For Karamaneh ran, not like a girl used to town or even country life, but with the lightness and swiftness of a gazelle; ran like the daughter of the desert that she was.

      Some two hundred yards she went, stopped, and looked back. It would seem that the sheer joy of physical effort had aroused the devil in her, the devil that must lie latent in every woman with eyes like the eyes of Karamaneh.

      In the ever brightening sunlight I could see the lithe figure swaying; no rags imaginable could mask its beauty. I could see the red lips and gleaming teeth. Then—and it was music good to hear, despite its taunt—she laughed defiantly, turned, and ran again!

      I resigned myself to defeat; I blush to add, gladly! Some evidences of a world awakening were perceptible about me now. Feathered choirs hailed the new day joyously. Carrying the mysterious contrivance which I had captured from the enemy, I set out in the direction of my house, my mind very busy with conjectures respecting the link between this bird snare and the cry like that of a nighthawk which we had heard at the moment of Forsyth’s death.

      The path that I had chosen led me around the border of the Mound Pond—a small pool having an islet in the center. Lying at the margin of the pond I was amazed to see the plate and jug which Nayland Smith had borrowed recently!

      Dropping my burden, I walked down to the edge of the water. I was filled with a sudden apprehension. Then, as I bent to pick up the now empty jug, came a hail:

      “All right, Petrie! Shall join you in a moment!”

      I started up, looked to right and left; but, although the voice had been that of Nayland Smith, no sign could I discern of his presence!

      “Smith!” I cried—“Smith!”

      “Coming!”

      Seriously doubting my senses, I looked in the direction from which the voice had seemed to proceed—and there was Nayland Smith.

      He stood on the islet in the center of the pond, and, as I perceived him, he walked down into the shallow water and waded across to me!

      “Good heavens!” I began—

      One of his rare laughs interrupted me.

      “You must think me mad this morning, Petrie!” he said. “But I have made several discoveries. Do you know what that islet in the pond really is?”

      “Merely an islet, I suppose—”

      “Nothing of the kind; it is a burial mound, Petrie! It marks the site of one of the Plague Pits where victims were buried during the Great Plague of London. You will observe that, although you have seen it every morning for some years, it remains for a British Commissioner resident in Burma to acquaint you with its history! Hullo!”—the laughter was gone from his eyes, and they were steely hard again—“what the blazes have we here!”

      He picked up the net. “What! a bird trap!”

      “Exactly!” I said.

      Smith turned his searching gaze upon me. “Where did you find it, Petrie?”

      “I did not exactly find it,” I replied; and I related to him the circumstances of my meeting with Karamaneh.

      He directed that cold stare upon me throughout the narrative, and when, with some embarrassment, I had told him of the girl’s escape—

      “Petrie,” he said succinctly, “you are an imbecile!”

      I flushed with anger, for not even from Nayland Smith, whom I esteemed above all other men, could I accept such words uttered as he had uttered them. We glared at one another.

      “Karamaneh,” he continued coldly, “is a beautiful toy, I grant you; but so is a cobra. Neither is suitable for playful purposes.”

      “Smith!” I cried hotly—“drop that! Adopt another tone or I cannot listen to you!”

      “You must listen,” he said, squaring his lean jaw truculently. “You are playing, not only with a pretty girl who is the favorite of a Chinese Nero, but with my life! And I object, Petrie, on purely personal grounds!”

      I felt my anger oozing from me; for this was strictly just. I had nothing to say, and Smith continued:

      “You

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