Both hands had been amputated. A spasm of anger, revulsion, nausea swept over me. I half withdrew the automatic from my pocket; then sanity conquered: I sat still and watched. Lowering my head inch by inch I presently discerned the pock-marked features of the stitcher. I had seen that hideous mask before: it belonged to one of Dr. Fu-Manchu’s Burmese killers. The yellow lantern light left the sunken eyes wholly in shadow and painted black hollows under prominent cheekbones. Ss! hissed the thread drawn through canvas—ss! as those sinewy fingers moved swiftly upon their task. My dreadful premonitions were dismissed. The dead man was not Nayland Smith, but Dr. Oster. In some incomprehensible way, Fu-Manchu’s servants had smuggled the body from the house in Regent’s Park. I suppressed a sigh of relief. The movements of the dacoit cast grotesque shadows upon the walls and ceiling of the cellar as I crouched staring at the mutilated remains of the man I had shot. Horror heaped on horror had had the curious result of inducing acute mental clarity.
