word nor cry he sank to his knees and toppled forward with one yellow
hand beneath him and one outstretched, clutching--clutching--
convulsively. His pigtail came unfastened and began to uncoil, slowly,
like a snake.

I handed the pistol to Smith; I was perfectly cool, now; and I leaped
forward, took up the bloody knife from the floor and cut Eltham's
lashings. He sank into my arms.

"Praise God," he murmured, weakly. "He is more merciful to me than
perhaps I deserve. Unscrew . . . the jacket, Petrie . . . I think
. . . I was very near to . . .. weakening. Praise the good God,
Who . . . gave me . . . fortitude . . ."

I got the screw of the accursed thing loosened, but the act of
removing the jacket was too agonizing for Eltham--man of iron though
he was. I laid him swooning on the floor.

"Where is Fu-Manchu?"

Nayland Smith, from just within the door, threw out the query in a
tone of stark amaze. I stood up--I could do nothing more for the poor
victim at the moment--and looked about me. The room was innocent of
furniture, save for heaps of rubbish on the floor, and a tin oil-lamp
hung, on the wall. The dead Chinaman lay close beside Smith. There was
no second door, the one window was barred, and from this room we had
heard the voice, the unmistakable, unforgettable voice, of Dr.
Fu-Manchu.

But Dr. Fu-Manchu was not there!