Chapter 24 - The Messenger

“WAKE-up, old chap, there’s good news!”

I opened my eyes to find myself staring up into the face of Nayland Smith. My brain was confused; I could not coördinate circumstances, and:

“What is it?” I asked drowsily; “what’s the time?”

“Never mind the time, Greville. Wake-up! There’s work for you.”

Then full consciousness came. But before I had time to clear the borderland: “He will be crowned in Damascus,” said Nayland Smith staring intently into my eyes.

His gaze held me; but in the moment that he spoke I had seen that Dr. Petrie stood behind him, that I was lying in my room. Even as I realized what he was endeavouring to do, I realized also that he had partially succeeded.

For my memory was thrown back as he willed it to be, to the pavement of the Sharia Kamel. Dawn, as I recalled the scene, was not far off. And I was walking in the direction of Shepheard’s. Out of the shadows of that recess where the shops lie back, a ragged figure approached me, whining for bakshish. I saw him clearly; every line and lineament of his dirty face, his straggly gray beard, his ragged garments, his crutch. I could hear it tapping on the pavement. . . .

I saw myself give him alms and turn away; I heard his words: “He will be crowned in Damascus.” I knew again the mystification which had descended upon me in that moment; and felt the depth of wonder about where I had been and of how I came to find myself in that place, at that time.

Starting up in bed: “It was an old beggarman,” I cried hoarsely, “in the Sharia Kamel, who spoke those words!”

And while Nayland Smith and Petrie listened eagerly I told them all that I had remembered. And, concluding:

“What’s the news?” I demanded, now fully awake, and conscious that my hours of sleep had given me new life.

“It’s as I predicted, Greville,” Nayland Smith replied. “He is being held to ransom.”

I sprang out onto the floor. Queerly enough, that news came like balm to my troubled mind. Rima was in the hands of Dr. Fu Manchu! A dreadful thought, one would suppose—but better, far, far better than doubt. One thing at least I knew definitely: that if terms had been demanded by the Chinaman, it remained only strictly to carry them out.

The most evil man I had ever known, he was also, according to his own peculiar code, the most honourable. I met Nayland Smith’s glance and knew that he understood me.

“I have burned your letter, Greville,” he said quietly.

“Thank you,” I replied. “And now, tell me: Who brought the news?”

“The messenger is in Barton’s room,” Dr. Petrie answered, watching me with keen professional interest. “How do you feel? Fairly fit?”

“Thanks to you, I feel a new man.”

Nayland Smith smiled and glanced aside at Petrie.

“You may recall,” he said, “that no less an authority than Dr. Fu Manchu always regarded your great talents as wasted, Petrie!”