I know that Smith seemed to topple forward amid
the purple billows of velvet, and his muffled cry came to me:
"Petrie! My God, Petrie!..."
The pale face of Karamaneh looked up into mine and her hands were
clutching me, but the glamour of her personality had lost its hold,
for I knew--heavens how poignantly it struck home to me!--that Nayland
Smith was gone to his death. What I hoped to achieve, I know not, but
hurling the trembling girl aside, I snatched the Browning pistol from
my coat pocket, and with the ray of the lamp directed upon the purple
mound of velvet, I leaped forward.
I think I realized that the curtains had masked a collapsible trap, a
sheer pit of blackness, an instant before I was precipitated into it,
but certainly the knowledge came too late. With the sound of a soft,
shuddering cry in my ears, I fell, dropping lamp and pistol, and
clutching at the fallen hangings. But they offered me no support. My
head seemed to be bursting; I could utter only a hoarse groan, as I
fell--fell--fell....
* * * * *
When my mind began to work again, in returning consciousness, I found
it to be laden with reproach. How often in the past had we blindly
hurled ourselves into just such a trap as this? Should we never learn
that, where Fu-Manchu was, impetuosity must prove fatal? On two
distinct occasions in the past we had been made the victims of this
device, yet although we had had practically conclusive evidence that
this studio was used by Dr.
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