The Island of Fu-Manchu by Sax Rohmer Page A

find you.”
    “The War Office can go to the devil,” growled Barton, refilling his glass.
    “I say,” Smith went on patiently, “that I tried to tail you in London. I still have facilities, you know!” He smiled suddenly. “I gathered that you had gone to the British Museum—”
    “Yes—I had.”
    “I failed to find you there.”
    “Didn’t look in the right room.”
    “Possibly not. But I looked into one room which offered certain information.” He paused to relight his pipe. “You have been working for years hunting down the few clues which remain to the hiding-place of the vast treasure accumulated by Christophe of Haiti. You know your business. Barton; you haven’t your equal in Europe or America when it comes to archaeological research.”
    “Thank you,” growled Barton. “You may join the War Office and also go to the devil, with my compliments.”
    Through chinks in the blinds early spears of dawn were piercing, cold and grey in contrast with the lamplight.
    “Your compliments might prove to be an admirable introduction. But to continue. You, ahead of them all, even ahead of the Si-Fan and Dr. Fu-Manchu, got on to the track of the family to whom these clues belong. You traced them by generations. And you ultimately obtained, from the last bearer of the name, certain objects known as ‘The Stewart Luck’; amongst them, Christophe’s chart showing where the bullion lies. I do not inquire
how
you managed this.”
    “It isn’t necessary,” Barton blazed. “I have my own methods. Buried history must be torn remorselessly from its hiding-place and set in the light of day. Once I have established facts, I allow nothing to stand in my way.”
    “You are not enlightening me,” said Smith drily. “My experiences with you in Khorassan, in Egypt, and elsewhere had already convinced me of this. Your latest discovery from the Portuguese of da Cunha (you see I did not entirely waste my time in the British Museum) added enormously to your knowledge—”
    Sir Lionel appeared to be about to burst into speech. But he restrained himself; he seemed to be bewildered. Smith paused, pulled out a note-case and from it extracted a piece of paper. Switching on the green-shaded lamp on the desk, he read aloud:
    “Da Cunha says that there is ‘a great and lofty cave in which a fleet might lie hid, save that the way in from the sea, although both deep and wide and high, is below the tide, so that none but a mighty swimmer could compass the passage’… He adds that the one and only entrance from the land has been blocked, but he goes on, ‘Failing possession of Christophe’s chart no man can hope to reach the treasure’.”
    Sir Lionel Barton was standing quite still, staring at Smith as one amazed.
    “That quotation from a rare Portuguese MS. in the Manuscript Room,” said Smith, placing the fragment in his case, the case in his pocket, and turning to look at Barton, “you copied. The curator told me that you had borrowed the MS. Since the collection is closed to the public at present you abused your privileges, and were vandal enough to make some pencil marks on the parchment. I said, you will remember, that I was unable to find you there. I did not say that I failed to find your tracks.” Barton did not speak, nor did I, and:
    “It was knowing what you had discovered,” Smith continued, “Which spurred my wild dash to find you. The bother in the Caribbean is explained. There is a plot to bottle up the American Navy. Fu-Manchu has played a big card.”
    “You are sure it
is
Fu-Manchu?”
    “Yes, Barton. He has a secret base in or near Haiti, and he has a new kind of submarine. No one but you—until tonight—knew of this other entrance to the cave. It is shown in that chart which was stolen from you by agents of Fu-Manchu.”
    “Suppose it is!” cried Barton; “what I should like you to tell me, if you can, is how, if Fu-Manchu is using this place as a base, he gets in and out. You don’t