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As for myself, the world
would hardly recoil in horror if mischance befell one John H. Watson,
M.D. The picture of Her Royal Majesty being overcome with shock and
grief did not come to my mind, nor did tremors spreading through the
Empire. But all of these things I could envision should Holmes fall
before a miscarriage of chance, and I vowed that if the bullet
engraved with his name was fired and I was able to step between it
and my friend, I would do so gladly. Because of him, I had lived a
richer life to this moment than most are blessed with at their final
hour. Surely I could say farewell to my existence with the
heartening thought that it had all been worthwhile. Indeed, had
I the ability to relive it, I would have it no other way than what
chance, fate, or a divine blueprint had plotted for me.

Such thoughts, though
grim in nature, did produce a heartening effect and lent starch to my
manner and rigidity to my backbone. When Holmes and I strolled out on
the veranda of the hotel, savoring our after-dinner cigars, I was a
bit lightheaded and imbued with an air of fatalism and a spirit of
being ready, come what may. My current of energy was somewhat
short-circuited when I realized that I had felt much the same way on
that well-remembered night when we waited in darkness and silence in
Oberstein's house at 13 Caulfield Gardens to spring the trap on
Colonel Valentine Walter. What was it Holmes had said prior to the
conclusion of that case, certainly of vast importance to the
Empire? Oh yes: "Martyrs on the altar of our country."

Suddenly I felt quite
deflated as I recalled that on the evening in question Holmes had
been wrong. Colonel Walter had not been the bird he planned to
snare. Good heavens, suppose my friend had made a miscalculation
regarding this matter?

"I say, ol' chap,
you were standing rather like this when you saw the lawyer, Loo Chan,
hastening down Sharia Kamel, were you not?"

"Quite, Holmes,"
I responded.

"In the direction
of the Ezbekiyeh Gardens, I believe you said."

"Right. Do you
suppose that he set himself up like a stalking horse to draw me into
the net?"

"Doubtful,"
replied Holmes. "Rather fancy that he found you dogging his
footsteps and decided to gather you in as a hostage. But your quick
thinking regarding that matter turned the tables, did it not?"

"Come now, Holmes,
that decision was forced on me. Would never have had the chance but
for that flowerpot or whatever it was that struck down the Manchurian
who had grabbed me."

"I've given that a
bit of thought, Watson. You do seem to operate under a lucky star,
for which I am grateful. Let us try and retrace your steps when you
were shadowing the lawyer. Possibly, the area of his hiding place may
be revealing."

"Loo Chan is well
on his way to Macao by now," I said, and then realized this was
an inane remark.

"But Chu San Fu
remains, and he may have gone to earth in the same area. The native
quarter certainly seems like the section he would choose."

I fell in with Holmes's
scheme, having little choice really. But I was not fooled. This was
no spur-of-the-moment thought of his since he had mentioned such a
trip prior to dinner. Had I planned on an investigation of the old
town in search of the criminal hideout, I would have had a detachment
of the local police with me, something that Holmes had the authority
to do with the carte blanche conferred upon him by the foreign
office. But then I recalled that, for reasons of his own, he had
decided to go it alone without the benefit of the local
establishment.

My nighttime excursion
into the byways of Cairo was of recent vintage and I had little
trouble following my previous path. Again, in a remarkably short
time, the lights and sounds of the small European quarter were behind
us and we were into the ancient city, much of it as it had been when
it was called "Babylon-in-Egypt," and just as crowded,
huddled, and secret as when first erected by Chaldean workmen. I
recounted to my friend my actions when following the Oriental lawyer,
though I did not mention my thoughts regarding what I hoped to
do or my considerable doubts as to my ability to do anything.
Holmes's keen eyes were darting everywhere, and that peculiar sixth
sense of his regarding directions was, I sensed, associating our
progress with whatever knowledge he had of the local geography.

Finally we arrived at
the alley-mouth down which Loo Chan had disappeared and into which I
had ventured from a different direction. Holmes surveyed the scene,
his aquiline nose held in such a manner that had its shape been
different, I would have sworn he was sniffing the breeze to scent the
spoor of his dedicated enemy.

"Come, ol' chap,"
he said suddenly, "we shall backtrack. The next street over, if
I read the signs right, would eventually lead us to the vicinity of
the Mosque of al-Ashar, which is our one clue in this muddled mess.
Chu San Fu intends to go there if I am correct as to his plan. So let
us reconnoiter in that direction."

We reversed ourselves
and went back another block before making a right-angle turn on
a fairly sizable side street. The squat and squallid dwellings were
reproductions of each other for a block and then, for half of
another. Then Holmes drew me to a stop in the shadow of a one-story
building, indicating the other side of the street.

"Really, the only
edifice of any size that we've seen for some time, Watson."

It was that. Contrary to
its neighbors, it was set back from the street and rose four stories.
The ground floor was not visible, being shielded by an imposing wall,
the top of which was armed with shards of glass set in cement. There
was no gleam of light from its windows, and the whole structure had
an abandoned and dilapidated appearance.

"Surely not a
residence, Holmes, in this or former times."

"I suspect it
served, during part of its history, as what our American cousins
would call a 'pokey.' Are those not bars on some of the upper
windows?"

There was moonlight to
aid our investigation but I could not make out the ironwork that
Holmes referred to. Small wonder, since his night vision was of the
keenest whilst mine did not exist. The aged edifice had certainly
caught Holmes's attention, and after a half-minute or so during which
he subjected it to the closest scrutiny, he motioned to me and we
continued our way down the dingy street but paused again after a
dozen or so steps.

"Hmm, this is
opportune, Watson. An alleyway running on the far side of the
establishment. That will provide us with the opportunity of viewing
it from another angle."

I was about to
remonstrate but instead was forced to follow my friend's long
strides, which took him to the end of the block where we crossed the
street and came back upon the place that so intrigued him. Again
Holmes took refuge in the shadows of a doorway close by the alleyway.

"See here," I
said, puffing a little, for our pace had been swift. "Doesn't
this strike you as a bit too easy? Not a soul about. Not even the
howl of a mongrel to disturb the silence."

"No mystery there,
Watson, for the native population are long abed."

"But we haven't the
foggiest about what may be within this former jail or whatever it
was."

"Perhaps nothing at
all, but we are duty-bound to find out, are we not?"

Guiding me with his
hand, for the alleyway was dark, Holmes directed our footsteps within
it. On our right was a continuation of the wall that fronted the
house, and I noted that its crest was also guarded by broken glass,
which would have made it difficult indeed for anyone trying to climb
over it. My heart sank, for this had all the elements of a trap into
which Holmes was marching with purpose and propelling me as well.
Somehow my earlier heroic thoughts seemed dim though the passage of
time had been a short one. Then it crossed my mind that if this
strange building was so well designed to resist outsiders, it could
hardly serve as an effective device to lure us within.

That comforting thought
was promptly dissipated when Holmes came to a halt but a moment
later.

"Here we have it,
Watson. A gate through the wall, which in times past and perhaps even
now serves as an entryway to the alley."

"Now listen,
Holmes, if that gate happens to be unlocked I'm not taking
another step. This whole matter bears too close a resemblance to that
Watney Gas Chamber adventure."

The faint luminosity of
the night sky allowed me to catch the flash of Holmes's teeth as they
were revealed in a broad smile, not at all in keeping with the peril
of the situation facing us.

"My dear chap,
excitement has caused you to mix fact and fantasy. You know full well
that my exploits in the Watney Gas Chamber, as heroic as they seemed
to countless theater-goers, were but reflections of the ample
imagination of that American dramatist."

"And besides,"
he added, "the gate is locked, which may allay your fears though
I find it inconvenient."

As he searched in his
pocket, I felt another stab of fear. Of course, Holmes had with him
one of those efficient devices, possibly designed by Slim Gilligan,
that would make short work of the lock facing us. But my friend's
actions seemed to follow an irrational path. A mysterious building by
its very dimensions certain to stand apart from its fellows, an
area wherein Holmes's enemies were known to have been—the whole
matter shrieked "Ambush!" Here was the master of deduction
blithely being taken in by a deception like a youthful Inspector
Hopkins rushing down a false trail. It just didn't make sense.

Holmes had a thin piece
of steel in one hand and had already inserted it in the large keyhole
of the door facing us.

"The lock is an old
one, Watson, but I think we can force its secret from it."

"Without a doubt,
Holmes, but is this not madness? The street entrance is an
impossibility without a scaling ladder, but here we have a convenient
alley gate dangling before our eyes like the enticing lure on a
fisherman's line. Does it not strike you that we are about to be
reeled in?"

"Come now, we must
not overdramatize. Ah, I think I have it!"

There was a long,
regretful-sounding click, and Holmes withdrew his picklock and tested
the handle of the door, which turned, and I heard the creak of
hinges. Then another sound intruded itself upon my ears.
Footsteps at the far end of the alley. I moved closer to Holmes, in
the protective shadow of the wall, and my anxious eyes searched the
dim passage ahead of us. There were two ominous silhouettes in the
distance, and the distance was not as far as I would have wished it
to be. "Good heavens, Holmes, it is those two giant
Manchurians."

The sleuth's thin face
was cocked to one side. He had already spotted the shapes that were
closing in on us and was registering on something else. There was the
sound of stealthy footfalls behind us as well.

"Holmes, we've been
lured here and now, like game-beaters, they are flushing us into the
trap."

"Well, Watson, we
have no alternative at the moment."

He had the gate open in
a trice and we flitted through it with the haste of desperation. As
Holmes closed the portal, I leaned my considerable weight against it
and he worked his picklock feverishly. The sweetest sound I could
imagine was the click that signaled that the door was secure,
for a moment at least.

"Come, ol' fellow,
if we have bought ourselves a bit of time, let us make use of it."

I followed on his
coattails, for it was infernally dark within the grounds of this
ancient place and I could but depend on Holmes's ability to operate
with proven efficiency while under the blanket of night.

His half-trot took us in
the direction of the building, which now loomed before us with all
the ghostly charm of the House of Usher! Evidently he spied no exit
from the grounds, and I of course could see little at all. As we
circled round the building, I did note that the front was
devoid of a veranda or porch, consistent with the architecture
of the area. On the far side of the building there was a section
where the darkness seemed deeper, and Holmes made for it. It was a
recessed door, and again he resorted to his burglar tool. Now I heard
sounds in the distance and assumed that the Manchurians and whoever
else was with them had gained access to the yard area. If Holmes
could open the door to the building, perhaps we could secrete
ourselves within and avoid capture. This time there was no telltale
sound of tumblers, but of a sudden the door came ajar and I thanked
fate for the time Holmes had spent studying the techniques of various
robbers, many of whom he had brought to justice.