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said.
"It appears that Fu-Manchu, for all his genius—and there's no denying
he was a genius, Ryman—was only the agent of somebody altogether
bigger."
    Ryman whistled softly.
    "Has the real head of affairs arrived, then?"
    "We find we are up against what is known as the Si-Fan."
    At that it came to the inevitable, unanswerable question.
    "What is the Si-Fan?"
    I laughed, but my laughter was not mirthful. Inspector Weymouth shook
his head.
    "Perhaps Mr. Nayland Smith could tell you that," he replied; "for the
Si-Fan got him to-day!"
    "Got him!" cried Ryman.
    "Absolutely! He's vanished! And Fletcher here has found out that John
Ki's place is in some way connected with this business."
    I interrupted—impatiently, I fear.
    "Then let us set out, Inspector," I said, "for it seems to me that we
are wasting precious time—and you know what that may mean." I turned
to Fletcher. "Where is this place situated, exactly? How do we proceed?"
    "The cab can take us part of the way," he replied, "and we shall have
to walk the rest. Patrons of John's don't turn up in taxis, as a rule!"
    "Then let us be off," I said, and made for the door.
    "Don't forget the signal!" Weymouth cried after me, "and don't venture
into the place until you've received our reply...."
    But I was already outside, Fletcher following; and a moment later we
were both in the cab and off into a maze of tortuous streets toward
John Ki's Joy-Shop.
    With the coming of nightfall the rain had ceased, but the sky remained
heavily overcast and the air was filled with clammy mist. It was a
night to arouse longings for Southern skies; and when, discharging
the cabman, we set out afoot along a muddy and ill-lighted
thoroughfare bordered on either side by high brick walls, their
monotony occasionally broken by gateways, I felt that the load of
depression which had settled upon my shoulders must ere long bear me
down.
    Sounds of shunting upon some railway siding came to my ears; train
whistles and fog signals hooted and boomed. River sounds there were,
too, for we were close beside the Thames, that gray old stream which
has borne upon its bier many a poor victim of underground London. The
sky glowed sullenly red above.
    "There's the Joy-Shop, along on the left," said Fletcher, breaking in
upon my reflections. "You'll notice a faint light; it's shining out
through the open door. Then, here is the wharf."
    He began fumbling with the fastenings of a dilapidated gateway beside
which we were standing; and a moment later—
    "All right—slip through," he said.
    I followed him through the narrow gap which the ruinous state of the
gates had enabled him to force, and found myself looking under a low
arch, with the Thames beyond, and a few hazy lights coming and going
on the opposite bank.
    "Go steady!" warned Fletcher. "It's only a few paces to the edge of
the wharf."
    I heard him taking a box of matches from his pocket.
    "Here is my electric lamp," I said. "It will serve the purpose better."
    "Good," muttered my companion. "Show a light down here, so that we
can find our way."
    With the aid of the lamp we found our way out on to the rotting
timbers of the crazy structure. The mist hung denser over the river,
but through it, as through a dirty gauze curtain, it was possible
to discern some of the greater lights on the opposite shore. These,
without exception, however, showed high up upon the fog curtain;
along the water level lay a belt of darkness.
    "Let me give them the signal," said Fletcher, shivering slightly and
taking the lamp from my hand.
    He flashed the light two or three times. Then we both stood watching
the belt of darkness that followed the Surrey shore. The tide lapped
upon the timbers supporting the wharf and little whispers and gurgling
sounds stole up from beneath our feet. Once there was a faint splash
from somewhere below and behind us.
    "There goes a rat," said Fletcher vaguely, and without taking his gaze
from the darkness under the distant shore. "It's gone into the