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

I listened. But there was no repetition of the scraping sound. The climber—the window was twelve feet above ground level—had dropped silently at the moment that I sprang from my chair.
    To rush out and search was obviously not in orders. My job was to sit tight. I was pledged to it.
    But the incident had painted a new complexion on my duties.
    I watched that high window keenly and for a long time. Then, as I was on the point of sitting down, a slight sound brought me upright at a bound. I realized that my nerves were badly overtuned.
    The door opened and Sister Therese came in, in her unobtrusive, almost apologetic way.
    “A lady has called to see Dr. Petrie,” she said.
    “To see Dr. Petrie!”
    “How could I refuse her, M. Sterling?” Sister Therese asked gently. “She is his wife!” The little sister glanced wistfully at the unconscious man. “And she is such a beautiful woman.”
    “Great heavens!” I groaned. “This is going to be almost unendurable. Is she very—disturbed, Sister?”
    Sister Therese shook her head, smiling sadly.
    “Not at all. She has great courage.”
    Just as poor Petrie had feared—his wife had come from Cairo—to find him... a doomed man.
    “I suppose she must come in. But his appearance will be a frightful shock to her.”
    Anticipating a tragic interview, I presently turned to meet Mrs. Petrie, as Sister Therese showed her into the room. She was, I saw, tall and slender, having an indolent grace of bearing totally different from affectation. She was draped in a long wrap of some dark fur beneath which showed the edge of a green dress. Bare, ivory ankles peeped below its fringe and she wore high-heeled green sandals with gold straps.
    She had features of almost classic chiselling and perfectly moulded lips. But her eyes were truly remarkable. They were incredibly long, of the true almond shape, and brilliant as jewels. By reason of the fact that Mrs. Petrie wore a little green beret-like hat set on one side of her glossy head, from which depended a figured gold veil, I could not determine the exact colour of those strange eyes: the veil just covered them.
    Her complete self-possession reassured me. She glanced at Petrie, and then, as Sister Therese silently retired:
    “It is very good of you, Mr. Sterling,” she said—and her voice had an indolent, soothing quality in keeping with her personality—“to allow me to make this visit.”
    She seated herself in a chair which I placed for her beside Petrie’s bed.
    So this was “Karâmanèh”? I had not forgotten that strange name murmured by Nayland Smith as he had bent over Petrie. “The most beautiful woman I have ever known...”
    And that Mrs. Petrie was beautiful none could deny; yet for some reason her appearance surprised me. I had not been prepared for a woman of this type. Truth to tell, although I didn’t recognize the fact then, I had subconsciously given Mrs. Petrie the attributes of Fleurette—a flower-like, tender loveliness wholly removed from the patrician yet exotic elegance of this woman who sat looking at the unconscious man.
    Having heard of her passionate love for the doctor, I was surprised, too, by her studied self-possession. It was admirable, but, in a devoted wife, almost uncanny.
    “I could do no less, Mrs. Petrie,” I replied. “It is very brave of you to come.”
    She was bending forward, watching the sick man.
    “Is there—any hope?” she asked.
    “There is every hope, Mrs. Petrie. In other cases which the doctors have met with, the appearance of the purple shadow has meant the end.”
    “But in this case?”
    She looked at me, her wonderful eyes so bright that I thought she was suppressing tears.
    “In Petrie’s case, the progress of the disease has been checked— temporarily, at any rate.”
    “How wonderful,” she whispered, “and how strange.”
    She bent over him again. Her movements were feline in their indolent grace. One slender ivory hand held the cloak in place; the