Free Re-enter Fu-Manchu by Sax Rohmer

engaged in such perilous work were sure to move in an aura of mystery, for danger surrounded them. Making a bad beginning by distrusting Peter Wellingham, he had transferred his doubts to Lola, who had nothing to do with the matter, then to Ahmad, and finally to little Zoe.
    Thinking of Zoe reminded him of the fact that he owed her a new dress. He would take her out shopping in the morning. Then they would lunch at Mena House and visit the Great Pyramid, an old ambition of Brian’s.
    He hoped she would call him when she got back, or better still, come to his room. He settled down to write a report to his father of his first meeting here with Sir Denis Nayland Smith and his impressions of that remarkable man.
    Midnight drew near before the long letter was finished, and Brian felt very sleepy. Zoe hadn’t called, and he settled for a final drink and bed. He fell asleep almost immediately.
    Perhaps, as he thought afterwards, it was his concentration on the character and strange life of Sir Denis while he was writing the letter that caused him to have such a singular and very disturbing dream.
    He found himself in a state of unaccountable and helpless panic, incapable of movement or speech. It was a condition he had never experienced in reality, and for that reason was all the more horrible. Nayland Smith was pacing up and down the room in which he, Brian, had interviewed the Sherîf Mohammed, exactly as he had seen him from the roof of the neighboring building. But, in the dream, Brian was in the room too, and could hear as well as see. And the first sound he heard came from behind the iron grille high in one wall. It was a strange, harsh, but dreadfully compelling voice:
    “You have crossed my path once too often, Sir Denis. The time has come for me to order, for you to obey.”
    The vision faded. Brian was in Zoe’s arms. “Brian!” she whispered, trembling. “Brian, listen to me! Leave here at once. I love you, but you must go. Promise me you will go!” But he couldn’t utter a word. He was dumb with fright. Then the harsh voice came again. “Do you dare to forget who is your master?” Some unseen force dragged Zoe away. “Brian!” he heard. “Brian! Answer me!”
    And Nayland Smith was there again, not in the lofty saloon, but in a small room, stone-paved, like a dungeon. He was chained by his ankle to a staple in the stone wall. Haggard eyes watched Brian.
    “Don’t do it, Merrick. Give me your word.”
    And Brian could only gasp, mumble. Not one word could he utter.
    A sound of banging reached him. He couldn’t move. He was no longer in the stone cell. He was lying in darkness so complete that a ghastly idea crossed his mind: he had been buried alive!
    The banging went on. Someone was trying to break into his tomb. A voice came faintly, from a long way off: “Brian! Brian! Are you there? Answer me.”
    It was Zoe. Still he was unable to make a sound. The banging faded.
    That frightful oppression seemed to be lifting. He found he could move; he stretched out his arm. And in doing so he nearly upset the reading lamp. He was in bed!
    He switched on the light, got up, and ran to the door, which he had forgotten to lock. That banging sound and Zoe’s voice still echoed in his ears. He opened the door and looked out. There was no one there.
    His wrist watch recorded three a.m. His pajama jacket was damp with cold perspiration.
    He fell asleep again analyzing this strange nightmare while it was still fresh in his memory. And finally he read it to be a sort of panorama of the half-submerged doubts and fears that had haunted him so long. He saw them now as myths of his imagination, but while they had been present in his mind they were as real as the horrors of the dream.
    The next time he woke up, blazing Egyptian sunshine was peering in through the slats of the window blinds, and he could hear the familiar noises of the busy street below his balcony. The terrors of the night were finally dispersed by a cold