Re-enter Fu-Manchu by Sax Rohmer Page A

dressed in black and wearing a red tarboosh, was slight and intelligent looking. He hurried forward.
    “You wish to see the Seyyîd Mohammed, sir?” He spoke in English.
    “Urgently. My name is Merrick, Brian Merrick. I’m a friend of Sir Denis Nayland Smith.”
    The man unlocked the gate and stood aside for Brian to go in. Then he locked it again. And Brian experienced a pang of apprehension, almost a physical chill, when he realized that his exit from this house was barred. He turned and called to the driver:
    “Wait for me!”
    “Will you come this way, please?”
    Brian followed on into the house, which was evidently very old. From a tiled apartment in which a small fountain tinkled he was led upstairs to a lofty room lighted partly by an opening in the painted ceiling and partly by sunshine filtering through the lattices of two recessed windows. The floor was tiled, but several rugs were strewn about on it. His guide pointed to a divan.
    “Please wait a few moments, Mr. Merrick. I will inform the Seyyîd that you are here.”
    He walked out, closing the door behind him.
    Brian began to examine the room more carefully. Glancing behind him, he saw a window fitted with bars. He crossed to it and looked out. Then he knew. He was in the room in which he had seen Nayland Smith.
    It was easy now to recognize the two
mushrabîyeh
windows. But something else he saw puzzled him. High up in a wall was an opening like a small window covered with a grille of ornamental wrought iron. He couldn’t imagine what purpose it served, but it had an ominous look. There seemed to be only one door to the room, and this door, for he tried it, had been quietly locked by the man in the red tarboosh when he went out. That sensation of physical chill stole over Brian again.
    Perhaps Sir Denis was a prisoner in this strange, silent house, and he, Brian, had been cunningly lured into the same trap.
    He was still staring up at the iron grille, his brain feverishly active and bubbling with wild theories, when the door opened very quietly and a man came in. Brian turned to face him.
    He saw a venerable and arresting figure: a tall man, with heavy brows overhanging piercing dark eyes, a pure white beard, and the bearing of one used to respect. He wore native dress and a closely wound green turban.
    “I am Mohammed Ibn el-Ashraf. You wished to see me?” The words were spoken in perfect English.
    “I certainly did!”
    “Please be seated, and tell me how I may serve you.”
    Brian returned to the divan, and the Sherîf seated himself cross-legged on a large ottoman facing him. His unwavering regard Brian found very disconcerting.
    “My name is Merrick.”
    “So I am told, Mr. Merrick.”
    “I’m a friend of Sir Denis Nayland Smith, and I’m here to ask you to be good enough to let me see him.”
    The gaze of the dark eyes never left his face. “Did Sir Denis notify you that he was here, Mr. Merrick?”
    “No. I
saw
him, right here in this room!”
    “A singular accident. Where were you at the time?”
    “On the roof of a house right opposite.”
    “Indeed? It was fortunate that you, and no one else, observed him. But the ways of the All-Knowing are inscrutable.” He touched his brow, his lips, and his breast in a gesture that reminded Brian of a Roman Catholic making the sign of the cross. “Sir Denis is in great danger, Mr. Merrick, and his health is impaired. He sought sanctuary in my house, for he knows me well.”
    Brian felt like someone drowning who finds himself dragged to the surface. Here was a clean explanation at last of the mystery that had baffled him. For it was impossible to doubt the assurance of this dignified old man. “I’m sorry to hear that. Can I see him?”
    “Not this morning, I regret to say. I am, as I presume you know, a physician. Sir Denis has placed himself under my care and the course of treatment I have prescribed will not be completed until this evening. If I think it wise, I will allow him to call