Chapter 1

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_Title:_ Daughter of Fu Manchu
_Date of first publication:_ 1930
_Author:_ Arthur Henry Ward (as Sax Rohmer) (1883-1959)
_Date first posted:_ Sep. 13, 2019
_Date last updated:_ March 14, 2025
Faded Page eBook #20190933

This eBook was produced by: Al Haines, Cindy Beyer & the online
Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net

[Cover Illustration]

=DAUGHTER=
=OF FU MANCHU=

=By=
=Sax Rohmer=

=_The Orient Edition_=

=[Illustration]=

=_P. F. COLLIER & SON CORPORATION_=
=By Special Arrangement With=
=DOUBLEDAY, DORAN & COMPANY, INC.=
=GARDEN CITY, N. Y.=

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

_CONTENTS_

Part One

Chapter First _The Living Death_ 3
Chapter Second _Rima_ 25
Chapter Third _Tomb of the Black Ape_ 51

Part Two

Chapter Fourth _Lo Suee_ 75
Chapter Fifth _Nayland Smith Explains_ 99
Chapter Sixth _The Council of Seven_ 125

Part Three

Chapter Seventh _Kâli_ 155
Chapter Eighth _Swâzi Pasha Arrives_ 182
Chapter Ninth _The Man from El-Khârga_ 211

Part Four

Chapter Tenth _Abbots Hold_ 239
Chapter Eleventh _Dr. Amber_ 264
Chapter Twelfth _Lord of the Si Fan_ 293

PART ONE

Chapter First: _The Living Death_

Chapter Second: _Rima_

Chapter Third: _Tomb of the Black Ape_

Chapter First: _The Living Death_

Just in sight of Shepheard’s I pulled up.

I believe a sense of being followed is a recognized nervous disorder.
But it was one I had never experienced without finding it to be based on
fact.

Certainly what had occurred was calculated to upset the stoutest nerves.
To lose an old and deeply respected friend, and in the very hour of the
loss to be confronted by a mystery seemingly defying natural laws, is a
test of staying power which any man might shirk.

I had set out for Cairo in a frame of mind which I shall not attempt to
describe. But this damnable idea that I was spied
upon—followed—asserted itself in the first place on the train.

In spirit still back in camp beside the body of my poor chief, I
suddenly became conscious of queer wanderers in the corridor. One yellow
face in particular I had detected peering in at me, which possessed such
unusual and dreadful malignity that at some point just below Beni Suef I
toured the cars from end to end determined to convince myself that those
oblique squinting eyes were not a product of my imagination. Several
times I had fallen into a semi-doze, for I had had no proper sleep for
forty-eight hours.

I failed to find the yellow horror. This had disturbed me, because it
made me distrust myself. But it served to banish my sleepiness.
Reinforced with a stiff whisky-and-soda, I stayed very widely awake as
the train passed station after station in the Nile Valley and drew ever
nearer to Cairo.

The squinting eyes did not reappear.

Then, having hailed a taxi outside the station, I suddenly became aware,
in some quite definite way, that the watcher was following again. In
sight of Shepheard’s I pulled up, dismissed the taxi, and mounted the
steps to the terrace.

Tables were prepared for tea, but few as yet were occupied. I could see
no one I knew, but of this I was rather glad.

Standing beside one of those large ornamental vases at the head of the
steps, I craned over, looking left along Sharia Kamel. I was just in
time. My trick had its reward.

A limousine driven by an Arab chauffeur passed in a flash.

But the oblique squinting eyes of its occupant stared up at the balcony.
It was the man of the train. I had not been dreaming.

I think he saw me, but of this I couldn’t be sure. The car did not
slacken speed and I lost sight of it at the bend by Esbekiyeh Gardens.

A white-robed, red-capped waiter approached. Mentally reviewing my
condition and my needs, I ordered a pot of Arab coffee. I smoked a pipe,
drank my coffee, and set out on foot for the club. Here I obtained the
address I wanted. . . .

In a quiet thoroughfare a brass plate beside a courtyard entrance
confirmed its correctness. In response to my ring a Nubian servant
admitted me. I was led upstairs and without any ceremony shown into a
large and delightfully furnished study.

The windows opened on a balcony draped with purple blossom and
overhanging the courtyard where orange trees grew. There were many books
and the place was full of flowers. In its arrangement, the rugs upon the
floor, the ornaments, the very setting of the big writing table, I
detected the hand of a woman. And I realized more keenly than ever what
a bachelor misses and the price he pays for his rather overrated
freedom.

My thoughts strayed for a moment to Rima, and I wondered, as I had
wondered many many times, what I could have done to offend her. I was
brought back sharply when I met the glance of a pair of steady eyes
regarding me from beyond the big writing table.

The man I had come to see stood up with a welcoming smile. He was
definitely a handsome man, gray at the temples and well set up. His
atmosphere created an odd sense of security. In fact my first impression
went far to explain much that I had heard of him.

“Dr. Petrie?” I asked.

He extended his hand across the table and I grasped it.

“I’m glad you have come, Mr. Greville,” he replied. “They sent me your
message from the club.” His smile vanished and his face became very
stern. “Please try the armchair. Cigars in the wooden box, cigarettes in
the other. Or here’s a very decent pipe mixture”—sliding his pouch
across the table.

“Thanks,” I said; “a pipe, I think.”

“You are shaken up,” he went on—“naturally. May I prescribe?”

I smiled, perhaps a little ruefully.

“Not at the moment. I have been rather overdoing it on the train, trying
to keep myself awake.”