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offices are closed?”
    “By special elevator from the thirty-second. There’s a private door on the street, used by Mr. Frobisher, and a small elevator to his office on the thirty-second. Research staff have master keys. All secure?”
    “From ordinary intruders. But this thing is a hundred times bigger than I even suspected. If ever a man played with fire without knowing it, you are that man. Russia, I know, has an agent here.”
    “Present the moujik. I yearn to greet this comrade.”
    “I can’t. I haven’t spotted him yet. But I have reason to believe our own land of hope and glory is onto you as well.”
    Craig, in the act of opening the laboratory door, paused. He turned slowly.
    “What on earth do you mean?”
    “I mean that London can’t afford to let this thing fall into the hands of Moscow—nor can Washington. And none of ’em would like Dr. Fu-Manchu to get it.”
    “Dr. Fu-Manchu? I imagined it to be a mere name to frighten children. If a real person, I thought he died long ago.”
    “You were wrong, Craig. He is here—in New York! He is like the phoenix. He arises from his own ashes.”
    A sense of unreality, not unmixed with foreboding, touched Morris Craig. He visualized vividly the fate of the man mistaken for Nayland Smith. But when he spoke, it was with deliberate flippancy.
    “Describe this cremated character, so that if I meet him I can cut him dead.”
    But Nayland Smith shook his head impatiently.
    “I pray you never do meet him, Craig.”
    * * *
    Camille Navarre, seated in her room, had just put a call through. She watched the closed door all the time she was speaking.
    “Yes… Nine-nine here… It has been impossible to call you before. Listen, please. I may have to hang up suddenly. Sir Denis Nayland Smith is in the laboratory. What are my instructions?”
    She listened awhile, anxiously watching the door.
    “I understand… the design for the Transmuter is practically completed… Of course… I know the urgency… But it is terribly intricate… No—I have quite failed to identify the agent.”
    For some moments she listened again, tensely.
    “Sir Denis must have told Dr. Craig… I heard the name Fu-Manchu spoken here not an hour ago… Yes. But this is important: I am to go to Falling Waters for the week-end. What are my instructions?”
    The door opened suddenly, and Sam came lurching in. Camille’s face betrayed not the slightest change of expression. But she altered her tone.
    “Thanks, dear,” she said lightly. “I must hang up now. It was sweet of you to call me.”
    She replaced the receiver and smiled up at Sam.
    “Happen to have a pair o’ nail scissors, lady?” Sam inquired.
    “Not with me, I’m afraid. What do you want them for?”
    “Stubbed my toe back there, and broke the nail. See how I’m limpin’?”
    “Oh, I’m so sorry.” Camille’s caressing voice conveyed real sympathy. “But I think there are some sharp scissors in Dr. Craig’s desk. They might do.”
    “Sure. Let’s go look.”
    They crossed the empty office outside, now largely claimed by shadows except where the desk lights dispersed them. Camille discovered the scissors, which Sam examined without enthusiasm but finally carried away and promised to return.
    Camille lingered until the door had closed behind him, placing two newly typed letters on the desk. Then she took off her glasses and laid them beside the letters. Her ears alert for any warning sound from the laboratory, she bent over the diagram pinned to the board. She made rapid, pencilled notes, glancing down at them and back at the diagram.
    She was about to add something more, when that familiar click of a lock warned her that someone was about to come out of the laboratory. Closing her notebook, she walked quickly back to her room.
    Her door closed just as Nayland Smith and Craig came down the three steps.
    “Does it begin to dawn on your mind, Craig, why the intelligence services of all the great powers are keenly