The Bride of Fu-Manchu by Sax Rohmer

Brisson. Dawn was breaking, and I realized that I must have been insensible for many hours.
    “Such friendship is a wonderful thing, doctor,” I said.
    “Yes. Sir Denis Nayland Smith is a staunch friend,” Brisson replied; “but in this—there is more than friendship. The south of France, the whole of France, Europe, perhaps the world, is threatened by a plague for which we know of no remedy. The English doctor Petrie has found means to check it. If we knew what treatment should follow the injection of his preparation ‘654,’ we could save his life yet.”
    “Is it, then, desperate?”
    “It is desperate. But as surely you can appreciate, we could also save other lives. If a widespread epidemic should threaten to develop, we could inoculate. I do not understand, but it seems that there is someone who opposes science and favours the plague. This is beyond my comprehension, but one thing is clear to me: only Dr. Petrie, who is dying, and Professor Krus—perhaps—know how to fight this thing. You see? It may be that the fate of the world is at stake.”
    Indeed I saw, and all too plainly.
    “Have the police been informed of the outrages here last night?” I asked.
    The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders, and his bearded face registered despair.
    “In this matter I am distracted,” he declared, “and I have ceased even to think about it. Sir Denis Nayland Smith, it seems, has powers from Paris which override the authorities of Nice. The Department is in his hands.”
    “You mean that no inquiry will be made?”
    “Nothing—as I understand. But as I confessed to you, I do not understand—at all.”
    I sprang up in bed—my brain was superactive.
    “This is awful!” I exclaimed. “I must do something—I must do something!”
    Dr. Brisson rested his hands upon my shoulders.
    “Mr. Sterling,” he said, and his eyes, magnified by the powerful lenses of his spectacles, were kindly yet compelling: “what you should do—if you care to take my advice, is this: you should rest.”
    “How can I rest?”
    I sank back on the pillows, while he continued to watch me.
    “It is difficult, I know,” he went on. “But what I tell you, Dr. Cartier would tell you, and your friend Dr. Petrie, also. You are a very strong man, full of vigour, but you have recently recovered from some severe illness. This I can see. The Germans are very clever—but we in France are not without knowledge. For at least four hours, you should sleep.”
    “How can I sleep?”
    “There is nothing you can do to help your friend. All that experience has taught us, we are doing. I offer you my advice. An orderly from the hospital is in the lobby, and will remain there until he is relieved. Your housekeeper, Mme Dubonnet, will be here at eight o’clock. Please take a small cachet which I have in my bag, and resign yourself to sleep.”
    I don’t know to what extent the doctor’s kindly and deliberate purpose influenced me, but as he spoke I recognized how weary I was.
    The hiatus induced by that damnable mimosa drug had rested me not at all: my brain was active as from the moment that I had succumbed to it. My body was equally weary.
    “I agree with you, doctor,” I said, and grasped his hand. “I don’t think I need your cachet. I am dead tired. I can sleep without any assistance.”
    He nodded, and smiled.
    “Better still,” he declared. “Nature is always right. I shall close the shutters and leave you. Ring for your coffee when you awake. By then, if Sir Denis’s instructions have been carried out, the telephone will have been repaired, and you can learn the latest news about Dr. Petrie.”
    I remember seeing him close the shutters and walk quietly out of the room. I must have been very tired... for I remember no more.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

IN MONTE CARLO
    I woke late in the afternoon.
    Body, brain, and nerves had been thoroughly exhausted; but now I realized that my long sleep had restored me.
    Mme Dubonnet was in the kitchen,