The Bride of Fu-Manchu by Sax Rohmer Read Free Book Online

presently she entered quietly, a fragile little woman, her pale face looking childishly small framed in the stiff white headdress of her order. Deftly and all but noiselessly she went about her duties; and, watching her, I wondered, as I had often wondered before, from whence came the unquestioning faith which upheld such as Sister Therese and in which they found adequate reward for a life of service.
    “You are not afraid of infection, M. Sterling?” she asked, her voice very low and gentle.
    “Not at all, Sister. In my job I have to risk it.”
    “What do you do?”
    “Hunt for new species of plants for the Botanical Society—and orchids for the market.”
    “But how fascinating! As a matter of fact, there is no danger of infection at this stage.”
    “So I am told by Dr. Cartier.”
    “It is new to us, this disease. But it is tragic that Dr. Petrie should fall a victim. However, as you see—”
    She pointed.
    “The stigmata ?”
    Sister Therese shuddered.
    “It is so irreligious! But Dr. Cartier, I know, calls this mark the black stigmata . Yes—it does not increase. Dr. Petrie may conquer. He is a wonderful man. You will moisten his poor lips from time to time? I am praying that he may be spared to us. Goodnight, M. Sterling. Ring for me if he moves.”
    She withdrew in her gentle, silent way, leaving me to my thoughts. And by some queer mental alchemy these became transmuted into thoughts of Fleurette. I found myself contemplating in a sort of cold horror the idea of Fleurette infected with this foul plague—her delicate beauty marred, her strong young body contorted by the work of some loathsome, unclassified bacillus.
    And then I fell to thinking about those who had contracted this thing, and to considering what Nayland Smith had told me. What association was there to explain a common enmity between London dock labourers and Dr. Petrie?
    I stared at him as the thought crossed my mind. One of the strangest symptoms of this horror which threatened France was the period of complete coma preceding the end. Petrie looked like a dead man.
    A searching wind, coming down from the Alps, had begun to blow at sunset. The pines, some of which almost overhung the lonely building, hushed and whispered insidiously. I construed their whispering into a repetition of the words “Fleurette—Derceto...”
    If dear old Petrie survived the crisis, I told myself, tomorrow should find me once more on the beach of Ste Claire de la Roche. I might have misjudged Fleurette. But even if she were the mistress of Mahdi Bey, she was very young and so not past praying for.
    I had just formed this resolution when a new sound intruded upon the silence of the sickroom.
    There was only one window—high in the wall which marked the end of the place. As I sat near the foot of Petrie’s bed, this window was above on my left.
    And the sound, a faint scraping, seemed to come from there.
    I listened to the hushing of the pines, thinking that the wind had grown higher and that some outstretched branch must be touching the wall. But the wind seemed to have decreased, and the whisper, “Fleurette—Derceto,” had become a scarcely audible sigh.
    Raising my head, I looked up...
    A yellow hand, the fingers crooked in a clutching movement—a threat it seemed—showed for a moment, then disappeared, outside the window!
    Springing to my feet, I stared wildly. How long had I been sitting there, dreaming, since Sister Therese had gone? I had no idea. My imagination pictured such an evil, mask-like face as I had seen at the Villa Jasmin—peering in at that high window.
    One of the Dacoits (the name was vaguely familiar, although I had never been in Burma) referred to by Nayland Smith must be watching the place!
    Was this what he had feared? Was this why I had been left on guard?
    What did it mean?
    I could not believe that Dr. Petrie had ever wronged any man. Who, then, was hounding him to death, and what was his motive?
    Literally holding my breath,