Free Daughter of Fu-Manchu by Sax Rohmer

at him in a very strange fashion; as:
    “My name is Fletcher,” he announced. “Dr. Petrie, I believe?” And then to me: “Mr. Greville? Please come in.”
    He held the door open and stepped aside. I exchanged glances with Petrie. We walked into the little lobby.
    It was a small suite with a sitting room on the left.
    Why did Mr. Fletcher open his own door when he employed an Arab servant?
    I was gravely suspicious, for the thing was mysterious to a degree, but:
    “Come right through!” cried a voice from the sitting room.
    Whereupon, to add to my discomfort, Petrie suddenly grasped my arm with a grip which hurt. He stepped through the open doorway, I following close at his heels.
    A window opened onto a balcony and to the right of this window stood a writing table. Seated at the table, his back towards us, was the tall Arab whom we were come to interview!
    I noted with surprise that he had removed his turban, and that the head revealed was not shaven, as I might have anticipated, but covered with virile, wavy, iron-gray hair.
    Fletcher had disappeared.
    As we entered, the man stood up and turned. The deep brown color, of his skin seemed in some way incongruous, now that he wore no turban. I noted again the steely eyes which I remembered; the lean, eager face—a face hard to forget once one had seen it
    But if I was perplexed, doubtful, my companion had become temporarily paralyzed. I heard the quick intake of his breath— turned… and saw him standing, a man rigid with amazement, positively glaring at the figure of the tall Arab beside the writing table!
    At last, in a whisper, he spoke:
    “You!” he said, “ you, old man! Is this quite fair?”
    The Arab sprang forward and grasped Petrie’s hand. Suddenly, seeing the expression in those gray eyes, I felt an intruder. I wanted to look away; but:
    “It isn’t!” I heard; “and it hurts to hear you say it. But there was no other way, Petrie. By heaven, it’s good to see you again, though!”…
    He turned his searching glance upon me.
    “Mr. Greville,” he exclaimed, “forgive this comedy; but there are vast issues at stake.”
    “Greville,” said Petrie, continuing to stare at the speaker with an expression almost of incredulity, “this is Sir Denis Nayland Smith.”
    “I felt sure you would recognize Detective-Inspector Fletcher,” Nayland Smith declared. “You once spent a night with him, Petrie— in the Joy Shop, down Limehouse way: Detective-Sergeant Fletcher he was then. Have you placed him?”
    Petrie’s puzzled expression suddenly changed, and: “Of course!” he cried. “I knew I’d seen him somewhere—Fletcher! But what on earth is he doing here?”
    “Ask what I’m doing here,” snapped Nayland Smith. “One answer covers both questions. Fletcher’s in my department of the Yard, now: you may remember he always specialized in Oriental cases. He’s been posing as the principal, very successfully, whilst I, in the capacity of an Arab with whom he had confidential business, have been at liberty to get on with my job.”
    “But I don’t understand,” said I, “just what your job has been. I can’t make out what a senior official of Scotland Yard is doing here in Luxor. It surely isn’t usual? I mean, you’ve been hanging about our camp for some time past, sir.”
    Nayland Smith smiled; and—a magic of all rare smiles—my impression of his character was radically altered. I found myself for the first time at my ease with this grim Anglo-Indian. I saw behind the mask and I loved the man I saw.
    “Damned un usual,” he admitted, “but so are the circumstances.” He turned to Petrie. “I didn’t recognize Weymouth. I passed you very quickly. We must send for him. Fletcher can go.”
    He began to pace up and down the room, when:
    “Smith!” Petrie exclaimed. “I don’t understand. We’re all in together. What had you to gain by this secrecy?”
    Nayland Smith pulled up in front of him, staring down hard, and:
    “Do