So engaged was I with this taunting, partial memory, and so sure, if the woman would but uncover her face, of instantly recognizing her, that still I hesitated. Whereupon, glancing rapidly over her shoulder into whatever place lay beyond the curtained doorway, she suddenly stepped back and vanished, drawing the curtains to with an angry jerk. I heard her retiring footsteps; then came a loud bang. If her object in intercepting me had been to cover the slow retreat of some one she had succeeded. Recognizing that I had cut a truly sorry figure in the encounter, I retraced my steps. By what route I ultimately regained the main staircase I have no idea; for my mind was busy with that taunting memory of the two dark eyes looking out from the folds of the green embroidered shawl. Where, and when, had I met their glance before? To that problem I sought an answer in vain. The message despatched to New Scotland Yard, I found M. Samarkan, long famous as a _mâitre d' hôtel_ in Cairo, and now host of London's newest and most palatial _khan_. Portly, and wearing a gray imperial, M. Samarkan had the manners of a courtier, and the smile of a true Greek. I told him what was necessary, and no more, desiring him to go to suite 14a without delay and also without arousing unnecessary attention. I dropped no hint of foul play, but M. Samarkan expressed profound (and professional) regret that so distinguished, though unprofitable, a patron should have selected the New Louvre, thus early in its history, as the terminus of his career. "By the way," I said, "have you Oriental guests with you, at the moment?" "No, monsieur," he assured me. "Not a certain Oriental lady?" I persisted. M. Samarkan slowly shook his head. "Possibly monsieur has seen one of the _ayahs?_ There are several Anglo-Indian families resident in the New Louvre at present." An _ayah?_ It was just possible, of course. Yet ... CHAPTER IV THE FLOWER OF SILENCE "We are dealing now," said Nayland Smith, pacing restlessly up and down our sitting-room, "not, as of old, with Dr. Fu-Manchu, but with an entirely unknown quantity--the Si-Fan." "For Heaven's sake!" I cried, "what is the Si-Fan?" "The greatest mystery of the mysterious East, Petrie. Think. You know, as I know, that a malignant being, Dr. Fu-Manchu, was for some time in England, engaged in 'paving the way' (I believe those words were my own) for nothing less than a giant Yellow Empire. That dream is what millions of Europeans and Americans term 'the Yellow Peril! Very good. Such an empire needs must have----" "An emperor!" Nayland Smith stopped his restless pacing immediately in front of me. "Why not an _empress_, Petrie!" he rapped. His words were something of a verbal thunderbolt; I found myself at loss for any suitable reply.