Other editions of book The Hand of Fu-Manchu

"Who's there?" I called sharply.I turned and looked across the room. The window had been widely opened when I entered, and a faint fog haze hung in the apartment, seeming to veil the light of the shaded lamp. I watched the closed door intently, expecting every moment to see the knob turn. But nothing happened."Who's there?" I cried again, and, crossing the room, I threw open the door.The long corridor without, lighted only by one inhospitable lamp at a remote end, showed choked and yellowed with this same fog so characteristic of London in November. But nothing moved to right nor left of me. The New Louvre Hotel was in some respects yet incomplete, and the long passage in which I stood, despite its marble facings, had no air of comfort or good cheer; palatial it was, but inhospitable.I returned to the room, reclosing the door behind me, then for some five minutes or more I stood listening for a repetition of that mysterious sound, as of something that both dragged and tapped, which already had arrested my attention. My vigilance went unrewarded. I had closed the window to exclude the yellow mist, but subconsciously I was aware of its encircling presence, walling me in, and now I found myself in such a silence as I had known in deserts but could scarce have deemed possible in fog-bound London, in the heart of the world's metropolis, with the traffic of the Strand below me upon one side and the restless life of the river upon the other.

Sir Gregory Hale returns to London from Mongolia with a mysterious Tulun-Nur chest that holds the "key to India," a vital secret of the Fu-Manchu's notorious Si-Fan organization. Unfortunately Hale is murdered before he is able to disclose the secret to Nayland Smith. The Burmese police commissioner and Dr. Petrie launch a mission to affront the brilliant but deadly master criminal before he succeeds in his malignant and fantastic plot to take over the world. In pursuit of the Devil Doctor, Smith and Petrie must escape numerous assassination attempts and battle an insect army. They are faced with multiple mysteries including: the Zagazig Code, the Shrine of Seven Lamps, and the Chapel of Satan. The future of the free world depends on the success of Smith and Petrie defeating the villainous Hand of Fu Manchu. This is the third novel of the Fu Manchu series.

Prolific British author Arthur Henry Sarsfield Ward, who wrote under the pseudonym Sax Rohmer, brought to life the character Dr. Fu-Manchu, a brilliant criminal mastermind of Chinese descent. This archetype has gone on to become enormously appealing in popular culture, based in large part on the ingenious characterization that Rohmer sketched out in the Fu-Manchu series.

Arthur Henry Ward (15 February 1883 – 1 June 1959), better known as Sax Rohmer, was a prolific English novelist. He is best remembered for his series of novels featuring the master criminal Dr Fu Manchu. After penning Little Tich in 1911 (as ghostwriter for the famous music hall entertainer of the same name: Little Tich) he issued the first Fu Manchu novel, The Mystery of Dr. Fu-Manchu, serialised from October 1912 to June 1913. It was an immediate success, with its fast-paced story of Denis Nayland Smith and Dr. Petrie facing the worldwide conspiracy of the 'Yellow Peril'. The Fu Manchu stories, together with his more conventional detective series characters—Paul Harley, Gaston Max, Red Kerry, Morris Klaw (an occult detective), and The Crime Magnet—made Rohmer one of the most successful and well-paid authors of the 1920s and 1930s. The first three Fu Manchu books were published in the four years 1913–17.

"Who's there?" I called sharply. I turned and looked across the room. The window had been widely opened when I entered, and a faint fog haze hung in the apartment, seeming to veil the light of the shaded lamp. I watched the closed door intently, expecting every moment to see the knob turn. But nothing happened. "Who's there?" I cried again, and, crossing the room, I threw open the door. The long corridor without, lighted only by one inhospitable lamp at a remote end, showed choked and yellowed with this same fog so characteristic of London in November. But nothing moved to right nor left of me. The New Louvre Hotel was in some respects yet incomplete, and the long passage in which I stood, despite its marble facings, had no air of comfort or good cheer; palatial it was, but inhospitable. I returned to the room, reclosing the door behind me, then for some five minutes or more I stood listening for a repetition of that mysterious sound, as of something that both dragged and tapped, which already had arrested my attention. My vigilance went unrewarded. I had closed the window to exclude the yellow mist, but subconsciously I was aware of its encircling presence, walling me in, and now I found myself in such a silence as I had known in deserts but could scarce have deemed possible in fog-bound London, in the heart of the world's metropolis, with the traffic of the Strand below me upon one side and the restless life of the river upon the other.

This is a pre-1923 historical reproduction that was curated for quality. Quality assurance was conducted on each of these books in an attempt to remove books with imperfections introduced by the digitization process. Though we have made best efforts - the books may have occasional errors that do not impede the reading experience. We believe this work is culturally important and have elected to bring the book back into print as part of our continuing commitment to the preservation of printed works worldwide.