“The Gables—will be watched?”
“At last, Petrie, I think we have Fu-Manchu—in his own trap!”
CHAPTER XXVII. THE NIGHT OF THE RAID
“Dash it all, Petrie!” cried Smith, “this is most annoying!”
The bell was ringing furiously, although midnight was long past. Whom could my late visitor be? Almost certainly this ringing portended an urgent case. In other words, I was not fated to take part in what I anticipated would prove to be the closing scene of the Fu-Manchu drama.
“Every one is in bed,” I said, ruefully; “and how can I possibly see a patient—in this costume?”
Smith and I were both arrayed in rough tweeds, and anticipating the labors before us, had dispensed with collars and wore soft mufflers. It was hard to be called upon to face a professional interview dressed thus, and having a big tweed cap pulled down over my eyes.
Across the writing-table we confronted one another in dismayed silence, whilst, below, the bell sent up its ceaseless clangor.
“It has to be done, Smith,” I said, regretfully. “Almost certainly it means a journey and probably an absence of some hours.”