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hold up the special train? This evening I went out by a private entrance kindly placed at my disposal by the management. As I passed the corner of Forty-eighth Street, a car packed with gunmen was close behind me!”
    “What!”
    “The taxicab in which I was driving belonged to a group known as the Lotus Cabs…”
    “I know it. One of the biggest corporations of its kind in the States.”
    “It may be nothing to do with them, Hepburn. But the driver was in the pay of the other side.”
    “You are sure?”
    “I am quite sure. I opened the door, which is in front of the Lotus cabs, as you may remember, and crouched down beside the wheel. I said to the man: Drive like the devil! I am a federal agent and traffic rules don’t apply at the moment.”
    “What did he do?”
    “He pretended to obey but deliberately tried to stall me! In a jam, the gunmen close behind, I jumped out, wriggled clear of the pack, cut through to Sixth Avenue and chartered another cab.”
    He paused and drew a long breath. Pulling out the timeworn tobacco-pouch he began to load his briar.
    “This ink-shop of yours is somewhat oppressive,” he said. “Let’s go into the sitting-room.”
    He walked out to a larger room adjoining, Hepburn following. Over his shoulder:
    “Both you and I have got to disappear!” he snapped.
    As he spoke he turned, pipe and pouch in hand. Hepburn met the glance of piercing steely eyes and knew that Nayland Smith did not speak lightly.
    “The biggest prize which any man ever played for is at stake—the control of the United States of America. To his existing organization—the extent of which even I can only surmise—Dr. Fu-Manchu has added the most highly efficient underworld which civilization has yet produced.”
    Nayland Smith, his pipe charged, automatically made to drop the pouch back into his coat pocket, was hampered by the uniform, and tossed the pouch irritably on to a chair. He took a box of matches from the marble mantelpiece and lighted his briar. Surrounded now by clouds of smoke he turned, staring at Hepburn.
    “You are rounding up your Public Enemies,” he went on, in his snappy, staccato fashion; “but the groups which they controlled remain in existence. Those underground gangs are still operative, only awaiting the hand of a master. That master is here… and he has assumed control. Our lives, Hepburn”—he snapped his fingers—“are not worth that! But let us review the position.”
    He began to walk up and down, smoking furiously.
    “The manuscript of Abbot Donegal’s uncompleted address was saturated with a preparation which you have identified, although its exact composition is unknown to you. His habit of wetting his thumb in turning over the pages (noted by a spy, almost certainly that James Richet, the secretary who has escaped us) resulted in his poisoning himself before he reached those revelations which Dr. Fu-Manchu regarded as untimely. The abbot may or may not recover his memory of those pages, but in his own interests, and I think in the interests of this country, he has been bound to silence for a time. He is off the air. So much is clear, Hepburn?”
    “Perfectly clear.”
    “The gum of those stamps and envelopes, reserved for Dr. Prescott’s use at Weaver’s Farm, had been similarly treated. Prescott seems to have left the house and proceeded in the direction of the lake. He was, of course, under the influence of the drug. He was carried, as our later investigation proved, around the bank to the north end of the lake, and from there to the road, where a car was waiting. Latest reports regarding this car should reach headquarters tonight. It was, as suspected, undoubtedly proceeding in the direction of New York.”
    “We have no clue to the person who tampered with the stationery at Weaver’s Farm,” Hepburn’s monotonous voice broke in.
    “At the moment, none.”
    Nayland Smith moved restlessly in the direction of one of the windows.
    “Somewhere below