DUSK was falling when we made our way in the direction of Maple Cottage. Nayland Smith appeared to be keenly interested in the character of the district. A high and ancient wall bordered the road along which we walked for a considerable distance. Later it gave place to a rickety fence.  
My friend peered through a gap in the latter.
 
"There is quite an extensive estate here," he said, "not yet cut up by the builder. It is well wooded on one side, and there appears to be a pool lower down."
 
The road was a quiet one, and we plainly heard the tread—quite unmistakable—of an approaching policeman. Smith continued to peer through the hole in the fence, until the officer drew up level with us. Then:
 
"Does this piece of ground extend down to the village, constable?" he inquired.
 
Quite willing for a chat, the man stopped, and stood with his thumbs thrust in his belt.
 
"Yes, sir. They tell me three new roads will be made through it between here and the hill."
 
"It must be a happy hunting ground for tramps?"
 
"I've seen some suspicious-looking coves about at times. But after dusk an army might be inside there and nobody would ever be the wiser."
 
"Burglaries frequent in the houses backing on to it?"
 
"Oh, no. A favorite game in these parts is snatching loaves and bottles of milk from the doors, first thing, as they're delivered. There's been an extra lot of it lately. My mate who relieves me has got special instructions to keep his eye open in the mornings!" The man grinned. "It wouldn't be a very big case even if he caught anybody!" "No," said Smith absently; "perhaps not. Your business must be a dry one this warm weather. Good-night."
 
"Good-night, sir," replied the constable, richer by half-a-crown—"and thank you."
 
Smith stared after him for a moment, tugging reflectively at the lobe of his ear.
 
"I don't know that it wouldn't be a big case, after all," he murmured. "Come on, Petrie."
 
Not another word did he speak, until we stood at the gate of Maple Cottage. There a plain-clothes man was standing, evidently awaiting Smith. He touched his hat.
 
"Have you found a suitable hiding-place?" asked my companion rapidly.
 
"Yes, sir," was the reply. "Kent—my mate—is there now. You'll notice that he can't be seen from here."
 
"No," agreed Smith, peering all about him. "He can't. Where is he?"
 
"Behind the broken wall," explained the man, pointing. "Through that ivy there's a clear view of the cottage door."
 
"Good. Keep your eyes open. If a messenger comes for me, he is to be intercepted, you understand. No one must be allowed to disturb us. You will recognize the messenger. He will be one of your fellows. Should he come—hoot three times, as much like an owl as you can."
 
We walked up to the porch of the cottage. In response to Smith's ringing came James Weymouth, who seemed greatly relieved by our arrival.
 
"First," said my friend briskly, "you had better run up and see the patient."
 
Accordingly, I followed Weymouth upstairs and was admitted by his wife to a neat little bedroom where the grief-stricken woman lay, a wanly pathetic sight.
 
"Did you administer the draught, as directed?" I asked.
 
Mrs. James Weymouth nodded. She was a kindly looking woman, with the same dread haunting her hazel eyes as that which lurked in her husband's blue ones.
 
The patient was sleeping soundly. Some whispered instructions I gave to the faithful nurse and descended to the sitting-room. It was a warm night, and Weymouth sat by the open window, smoking. The dim light from the lamp on the table lent him an almost startling likeness to his brother; and for a moment I stood at the foot of the stairs scarce able to trust my reason. Then he turned his face fully towards me, and the illusion was lost.
 
"Do you think she is likely to wake, Doctor?" he asked.
 
"I think not," I replied.
 
Nayland Smith stood upon the rug before the hearth, swinging from one foot to the other, in his nervously restless way. The room was foggy with the fumes of tobacco, for he, too, was smoking.
 
At intervals of some five to ten minutes, his blackened briar (which I never knew him to clean or scrape) would go out. I think Smith used more matches than any other smoker I have ever met, and he invariably carried three boxes in various pockets of his garments.
 
The tobacco habit is infectious, and, seating myself in an arm-chair, I lighted a cigarette. For this dreary vigil I had come prepared with a bunch of rough notes, a writing-block, and a fountain pen. I settled down to work upon my record of the Fu-Manchu case.
 
Silence fell upon Maple Cottage. Save for the shuddering sigh which whispered through the over-hanging cedars and Smith's eternal match-striking, nothing was there to disturb me in my task. Yet I could make little progress. Between my mind and the chapter upon which I was at work a certain sentence persistently intruded itself. It was as though an unseen hand held the written page closely before my eyes. This was the sentence:
 
"Imagine a person, tall, lean, and feline, high-shouldered, with a brow like Shakespeare and a face like Satan, a close-shaven skull, and long, magnetic eyes of the true cat-green: invest him with all the cruel cunning of an entire Eastern race, accumulated in one giant intellect…"
 
Dr. Fu-Manchu! Fu-Manchu as Smith had described him to me on that night which now seemed so remotely distant—the night upon which I had learned of the existence of the wonderful and evil being born of that secret quickening which stirred in the womb of the yellow races.
 
As Smith, for the ninth or tenth time, knocked out his pipe on a bar of the grate, the cuckoo clock in the kitchen proclaimed the hour.
 
"Two," said James Weymouth.
 
I abandoned my task, replacing notes and writing-block in the bag that I had with me. Weymout............