The Hand of Fu Manchu by Sax Rohmer

am
sorry"—suddenly, unexpectedly, her eyes became filled with tears,
which coursed down her cheeks, leaving little wakes of blackness from
the make-up upon her lashes. Her lips trembled, and her voice shook.
"I am sorry I let him do it. He'd never done anything—not anything
big like this—before, and he never would have done if he had not
met me...."
    The look of perplexity upon Smith's face was increasing with every
word that the girl uttered.
    "You don't seem to know me," she continued, her emotion growing
momentarily greater, "and I don't know you; but they will know me at
Bow Street. I urged him to do it, when he told me about the box to-day
at lunch. He said that if it contained half as much as the Kûren
treasure-chest, we could sail for America and be on the straight all
the rest of our lives...."
    And now something which had hitherto been puzzling me became suddenly
evident. I had not removed the wig worn by the dead man, but I knew
that he had fair hair, and when in his last moments he had opened his
eyes, there had been in the contorted face something faintly familiar.
    "Smith!" I cried excitedly, "it is Lewison, Meyerstein's clerk! Don't
you understand? don't you understand?"
    Smith brought his teeth together with a snap and stared me hard in
the face.
    "I do, Petrie. I have been following a false scent. I do!"
    The girl in the chair was now sobbing convulsively.
    "He was tempted by the possibility of the box containing treasure," I
ran on, "and his acquaintance with this—lady—who is evidently no
stranger to felonious operations, led him to make the attempt with her
assistance. But"—I found myself confronted by a new problem—"what
caused his death?"
    "His ...
death
!"
    As a wild, hysterical shriek the words smote upon my ears. I turned,
to see the girl rise, tottering, from her seat. She began groping in
front of her, blindly, as though a darkness had descended.
    "You did not say he was dead?" she whispered, "not dead!—not ..."
    The words were lost in a wild peal of laughter. Clutching at her
throat she swayed and would have fallen had I not caught her in my
arms. As I laid her insensible upon the settee I met Smith's glance.
    "I think I know that, too, Petrie," he said gravely.

Chapter XIV - The Golden Pomegranates
*
    "What was it that he cried out?" demanded Nayland Smith abruptly. "I
was in the sitting-room and it sounded to me like 'pomegranates'!"
    We were bending over Lewison; for now, the wig removed, Lewison it
proved unmistakably to be, despite the puffy and pallid face.
    "He said 'the golden pomegranates,'" I replied, and laughed harshly.
"They were words of delirium and cannot possibly have any bearing
upon the manner of his death."
    "I disagree."
    He strode out into the sitting-room.
    Weymouth was below, supervising the removal of the unhappy prisoner,
and together Smith and I stood looking down at the brass box. Suddenly—
    "I propose to attempt to open it," said my friend.
    His words came as a complete surprise.
    "For what reason?—and why have you so suddenly changed your mind?"
    "For a reason which I hope will presently become evident," he said;
"and as to my change of mind, unless I am greatly mistaken, the wily
old Chinaman from whom I wrested this treasure was infinitely more
clever than I gave him credit for being!"
    Through the open window came faintly to my ears the chiming of Big Ben.
The hour was a quarter to two. London's pulse was dimmed now, and
around about us that great city slept as soundly as it ever sleeps.
Other sounds came vaguely through the fog, and beside Nayland Smith
I sat and watched him at work upon the Tûlun-Nûr box.
    Every knob of the intricate design he pushed, pulled and twisted; but
without result. The night wore on, and just before three o'clock
Inspector Weymouth knocked upon the door. I admitted him, and side by
side the two of us stood watching Smith patiently pursuing his task.
    All conversation had ceased, when, just as the muted booming