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father last?”
    “It was nearly a year ago.”
    “And where is he now?”
    Mai Cha shook her glossy head.
    “I cannot say. I never know.”
    “But this apartment is always kept open?”
    “Always, my lady. He might return at any time.”
    “How I wish he would return tonight,” Mrs van Roorden murmured; and then: “May I ask you something, Mai Cha?”
    “Anything you wish.”
    “Has Sir Denis Nayland Smith ever been here?”
    The dark eyes were raised to her in mild astonishment.
    “But no. Of course not. He is my father’s enemy. He has never known that we live here. The apartment was bought by someone else—on my father’s behalf.”
    “But you know Nayland Smith?”
    “I have seen him, my lady. But not for many, many months.”
    Mrs van Roorden moved towards the bedroom.
    “Don’t bother about me, Mai Cha,” she smiled. “I shall not be going out for a long time yet…”
    * * *
    Centre Street that night resembled a wasp’s nest.
    An inoffensive businessman, purely because of deep interest in the fascinating Mrs van Roorden, which had impelled him to force his acquaintance upon Mr Fordwich, had become an instrument of justice. Unwittingly he had carried on the work of a star secret agent.
    Motorcycle patrolmen, radio cars, shot into the dusk like earthbound rockets. Phones buzzed. The private line to Washington stayed red hot for hours. And Nayland Smith, in the office of his old friend, Deputy Commissioner Burke, a heavy powerful man with black, tufted eyebrows and greying hair, smoked his foul pipe incessantly as if in competition with Burke’s strong cigars.
    Raymond Harkness inhaled cigarettes in swift succession, each neatly fitted into a tortoiseshell holder. He displayed no other signs of excitement.
    “This card,” said Nayland Smith, “which Harkness found wedged between the leather cover and the silver of poor Orson’s flask, is clearly intended to admit him to a meeting at the house of Kwang T’see, wherever that may be, at two a.m. tomorrow morning, September 10th—that is, tonight. It has the Si-Fan crest at the top.”
    “Not a doubt of it,” Burke growled in his deep bass. “He meant to pick up the stick and the flask just as soon as he thought it was safe. If I could have a hand in cleaning up this Fu-Manchu gang before I retire next year, I’d go to growing watermelons with a light heart.”
    “The Fu-Manchu gang,” Smith rapped back, “is too big to be cleaned up overnight. But we have a chance to get some of the high executives and to break the Fort Knox scheme.” He glanced at a clock over Burke’s desk. “I’m waiting for news about the house of Kwang T’see!”
    “So am I,” Burke agreed, and was about to ring when a rap sounded on the door and Police Captain Rafferty came in.
    He saluted Burke with the deference due to a dreaded but respected chief.
    “I have a report on Kwang Tsee, sir.”
    “Spill it.”
    “The only man of that name known in the Chinatown area is the proprietor of a store formerly owned by old Huan Tsung.”
    “That settles it!” said Nayland Smith drily. “Go ahead.”
    “Huan Tsung disappeared about a year ago. We wanted him, you may remember, but we could pin nothing on him. This man, Kwang T’see, bought the business. He’s enlarged it. He owns a big warehouse in the next street, same block, stocked with antiques from the East. He lives somewhere on the premises. Nothing against him…”
    When Rafferty was gone, with a number of instructions:
    “I guess this Kwang T’see is a dummy, Smith,” said Burke. “What’s your idea?”
    “The same as yours. A Chinatown base is characteristic of Dr Fu-Manchu.”
    “You knew Huan Tsung fairly well, didn’t you?”
    Raymond Harkness smiled but said nothing.
    “You exaggerate!” Nayland Smith assured him. “I never really knew him at all. He was once governor of a Chinese province. He is now Dr Fu-Manchu’s chief aide. He’s a first-class soldier, although of incalculable age.