The Return of Dr. Fu-Manchu by Sax Rohmer (icecream ebook reader TXT) 📕

“There is a giant conspiracy, Mr. Van Roon,” he said, “which had its birth in this very province of Ho-Nan, from which you were so fortunate to escape alive; whatever its scope or limitations, a great secret society is established among the yellow races. It means that China, which has slumbered for so many generations, now stirs in that age-long sleep. I need not tell you how much more it means, this seething in the pot...”

“In a word,” interrupted Van Roon, pushing Smith’s glass across the table “you would say?—”

“That your life is not worth that!” replied Smith, snapping his fingers before the other’s face.

A very impressive silence fell. I watched Van Roon curiously as he sat propped up among his cushions, his smooth face ghastly in the green light from the lamp-shade. He held the stump of a cigar between his teeth, but, apparently unnoticed by him, it had long since gone out. Smith, out of the shadows, was watching him, too. Then:

“Your information is very disturbing,” said the American. “I am the more disposed to credit your statement because I am all too painfully aware of the existence of such a group as you mention, in China, but that they had an agent here in England is something I had never conjectured. In seeking out this solitary residence I have unwittingly done much to assist their designs... But—my dear Mr. Smith, I am very remiss! Of course you will remain tonight, and I trust for some days to come?”

Smith glanced rapidly across at me, then turned again to our host.

“It seems like forcing our company upon you,” he said, “but in your own interests I think it will be best to do as you are good enough to suggest. I hope and believe that our arrival here has not been noticed by the enemy; therefore it will be well if we remain concealed as much as possible for the present, until we have settled upon some plan.”

“Hagar shall go to the station for your baggage,” said the American rapidly, and clapped his hands, his usual signal to the mulatto.

Whilst the latter was receiving his orders I noticed Nayland Smith watching him closely; and when he had departed:

“How long has that man been in your service?” snapped my friend.

Van Roon peered blindly through his smoked glasses.

“For some years,” he replied; “he was with me in India—and in China.”

“Where did you engage him?”

“Actually, in St. Kitts.”

“H’m,” muttered Smith, and automatically he took out and began to fill his pipe.

“I can offer you no company but my own, gentlemen,” continued Van Roon, “but unless it interferes with your plans, you may find the surrounding district of interest and worthy of inspection, between now and dinner time. By the way, I think I can promise you quite a satisfactory meal, for Hagar is a model chef.”

“A walk would be enjoyable,” said Smith, “but dangerous.”

“Ah! perhaps you are right. Evidently you apprehend some attempt upon me?”

“At any moment!”

“To one in my crippled condition, an alarming outlook! However, I place myself unreservedly in your hands. But really, you must not leave this interesting district before you have made the acquaintance of some of its historical spots. To me, steeped as I am in what I may term the lore of the odd, it is a veritable wonderland, almost as interesting, in its way, as the caves and jungles of Hindustan depicted by Madame Blavatsky.”

His high-pitched voice, with a certain labored intonation, not quite so characteristically American as was his accent, rose even higher; he spoke with the fire of the enthusiast.

“When I learned that Cragmire Tower was vacant,” he continued, “I leaped at the chance (excuse the metaphor, from a lame man!). This is a ghost hunter’s paradise. The tower itself is of unknown origin, though probably Phoenician, and the house traditionally sheltered Dr. Macleod, the necromancer, after his flight from the persecution of James of Scotland. Then, to add to its interest, it borders on Sedgemoor, the scene of the bloody battle during the Monmouth rising, whereat a thousand were slain on the field. It is a local legend that the unhappy Duke and his staff may be seen, on stormy nights, crossing the path which skirts the mire, after which this building is named, with flaming torches held aloft.”

“Merely marsh-lights, I take it?” interjected Smith, gripping his pipe hard between his teeth.

“Your practical mind naturally seeks a practical explanation,” smiled Van Roon, “but I myself have other theories. Then in addition to the charms of Sedgemoor—haunted Sedgemoor—on a fine day it is quite possible to see the ruins of Glastonbury Abbey from here; and Glastonbury Abbey, as you may know, is closely bound up with the history of alchemy. It was in the ruins of Glastonbury Abbey that the adept Kelly, companion of Dr. Dee, discovered, in the reign of Elizabeth, the famous caskets of St. Dunstan, containing the two tinctures...”

So he ran on, enumerating the odd charms of his residence, charms which for my part I did not find appealing. Finally:

“We cannot presume further upon your kindness,” said Nayland Smith, standing up. “No doubt we can amuse ourselves in the neighborhood of the house until the return of your servant.”

“Look upon Cragmire Tower as your own, gentlemen!” cried Van Roon. “Most of the rooms are unfurnished, and the garden is a wilderness, but the structure of the brickwork in the tower may interest you archaeologically, and the view across the moor is at least as fine as any in the neighborhood.”

So, with his brilliant smile and a gesture of one thin yellow hand, the crippled traveler made us free of his odd dwelling. As I passed out from the room close at Smith’s heels, I glanced back, I cannot say why. Van Roon already was bending over his papers, in his green shadowed sanctuary, and the light shining down upon his smoked glasses created the odd illusion that he was looking over the tops of the lenses and not down at the table as his attitude suggested. However, it was probably ascribable to the weird chiaroscuro of the scene, although it gave the seated figure an oddly malignant appearance, and I passed out through the utter darkness of the outer room to the front door. Smith opening it, I was conscious of surprise to find dusk come—to meet darkness where I had looked for sunlight.

The silver wisps which had raced along the horizon, as we came to Cragmire Tower, had been harbingers of other and heavier banks. A stormy sunset smeared crimson streaks across the skyline, where a great range of clouds, like the oily smoke of a city burning, was banked, mountain topping mountain, and lighted from below by this angry red. As we came down the steps and out by the gate, I turned and looked across the moor behind us. A sort of reflection from this distant blaze encrimsoned the whole landscape. The inland bay glowed