Then I perceived that the sword was attached to
the wall by a thin steel chain some five feet in length.
"Even if you had the dexterity of a Mexican knife-thrower," came the
guttural voice of Fu-Manchu, "you would be unable to reach me, dear
Dr. Petrie."
The Chinaman had read my thoughts.
Smith turned his eyes upon me momentarily, only to look away again in
the direction of Fu Manchu. My friend's face was slightly pale beneath
the tan, and his jaw muscles stood out with unusual prominence. By
this fact alone did he reveal the knowledge that he lay at the mercy
of this enemy of the white race, of this inhuman being who himself
knew no mercy, of this man whose very genius was inspired by the cool,
calculated cruelty of his race, of that race which to this day
disposes of hundreds, nay, thousands, of its unwanted girl-children by
the simple measure of throwing them down a well specially dedicated to
the purpose.
"The weapon near your hand," continued the Chinaman imperturbably, "is
a product of the civilization of our near neighbours the Japanese, a
race to whose courage I prostrate myself in meekness. It is the sword
of a _samurai_, Dr. Petrie. It is of very great age, and was, until an
unfortunate misunderstanding with myself led to the extinction of the
family, a treasured possession of a noble Japanese house...."
The soft voice, into which an occasional sibilance crept, but which
never rose above a cool monotone, gradually was lashing me into fury,
and I could see the muscles moving in Smith's jaws as he convulsively
clenched his teeth; whereby I knew that, impotent, he burned with a
rage at least as great as mine.
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