The Mask of Fu Manchu

FAH LO SUEE

“Shan, dear, I know you are very sleepy, but it’s getting cold and late too.”

I stirred lazily, opening my eyes. I was pillowed on a warm shoulder, a bare arm encircling my neck. That silvery voice had awakened me. Along jade earring touched my cheek coldly, and caressing fingers stroked my hair.

Yes! I was with Fah Lo Suee, somewhere on the banks of the Nile. And I was content—utterly.^-apturously content.

“Love dreams are bitter-sweet, Shan, because we know we are dreaming....”

I could see a long reach of the river, silver under the moon, dahabeahs moored against the left bank, where groups of palms formed a background for their slender, graceful masts.

“I think someone has been watching, Shan; I am going to drive you back to Shepheard’s now.”

And as she drove, I watched the delicate profile of the driver. She was very beautiful, I thought. How wonderful to have won the love of such a woman. She linked her arms about me and crushed her lips against mine, her long, narrow eyes closed.

In the complete surrender of that embrace I experienced a mad triumph, in which Rima, Nayland Smith, the chief, all, were forgotten.