about me, its cities, ashes and its fairness, dust.
Peering from the window, her great eyes wondrous in the moonlight and her red lips parted, hair gleaming like burnished foam and her anxious gaze set upon the corner of the lane—was Karamaneh... Karamaneh whom once we had rescued from the house of this fiendish Chinese doctor; Karamaneh who had been our ally; in fruitless quest of whom,—when, too late, I realized how empty my life was become—I had wasted what little of the world’s goods I possessed;—Karamaneh!
“Poor old Petrie,” murmured Smith—“I knew, but I hadn’t the heart—He has her again—God knows by what chains he holds her. But she’s only a woman, old boy, and women are very much alike—very much alike from Charing Cross to Pagoda Road.”
He rested his hand on my shoulder for a moment; I am ashamed to confess that I was trembling; then, clenching my teeth with that mechanical physical effort which often accompanies a mental one, I swallowed the bitter draught of Nayland Smith’s philosophy. He was raising himself, to peer, cautiously, over the top of the door. I did likewise.
The window from which the girl had looked was nearly on a level with our eyes, and as I raised my head above the woodwork, I quite distinctly saw her go out of the room. The door, as she opened it, admitted a dull light, against which her figure showed silhouetted for a moment. Then the door was reclosed.
“We must risk the other windows,” rapped Smith.
Before I had grasped the nature of his plan he was over and had dropped almost noiselessly upon the casks outside. Again I followed his lead.
“You are not going to attempt anything, singlehanded—against him?” I asked.
“Petrie—Eltham is in that house. He has been brought here to be put to the question, in the medieval, and Chinese, sense! Is there time to summon assistance?”
I shuddered. This had been in my mind, certainly, but so expressed it was definitely horrible—revolting, yet stimulating.
“You have the pistol,” added Smith—“follow closely, and quietly.”
He
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