Beside her, with a Malay krîs in his heart—a little, jeweled weapon
that I had often seen in Zarmi's hand—sprawled the obese Greek,
Samarkan, a member of the Si-Fan group and sometime manager of a great
London hotel!
It was ghastly, it was infinitely horrible, that tragedy of which the story can never be known, never be written; that fiendish fight to the death in the black chapel of Asmodeus.
"We are too late!" said Nayland Smith. "The stair behind the altar!"
He snatched up the lantern. Directly behind the stone altar was a narrow, pointed doorway. From the depths with which it communicated proceeded vague, awesome sounds, as of waves breaking in some vast cavern….
We were more than half-way down the stair when, above the muffled roaring of the thunder, I distinctly heard the voice of Dr. Fu-Manchu!
"My God!" shouted Smith, "perhaps they are trapped! The cave is only navigable at low tide and in calm weather!"
We literally fell down the remaining steps … and were almost precipitated into the water!
The light of the lantern showed a lofty cavern tapering away to a point at its remote end, pear-fashion. The throbbing of an engine and churning of a screw became audible. There was a faint smell of petrol.
"Shoot! shoot!"—the frenzied voice was that of Sir Lionel—"Look! they can just get through! …"
Crack! Crack! Crack!