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The Return of Dr. Fu-Manchu | Sax Rohmer | |
The Coughing Horror |
Page 3 of 5 |
"God only knows, Petrie! he said; "no human arm could have reached me . . ." For us, the night was ended so far as sleep was concerned. Arrayed in his dressing-gown, Smith sat in the white cane chair in my study with a glass of brandy-and-water beside him, and (despite my official prohibition) with the cracked briar which had sent up its incense in many strange and dark places of the East and which yet survived to perfume these prosy rooms in suburban London, steaming between his teeth. I stood with my elbow resting upon the mantelpiece looking down at him where he sat. "By God! Petrie," he said, yet again, with his fingers straying gently over the surface of his throat, "that was a narrow shave--a damned narrow shave!" "Narrower than perhaps you appreciate, old man," I replied. "You were a most unusual shade of blue when I found you . . ." "I managed," said Smith evenly, "to tear those clutching fingers away for a moment and to give a cry for help. It was only for a moment, though. Petrie! they were fingers of steel--of steel!" "The bed," I began . . . "I know that," rapped Smith. "I shouldn't have been sleeping in it, had it been within reach of the window; but, knowing that the doctor avoids noisy methods, I had thought myself fairly safe so long as I made it impossible for any one actually to enter the room . . ." |
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The Return of Dr. Fu-Manchu Sax Rohmer |
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