London: DIGBY, LONG & Co., 18 Bouverie Street, Fleet St., E.C. THE MANDARIN'S FAN by FERGUS HUME AUTHOR OF "THE MYSTERY OF A HANSOM CAB," ETC. _SECOND EDITION_ LONDON DIGBY, LONG & CO. 18 BOUVERIE STREET, FLEET STREET, E.C. 1905 CONTENTS CHAPTER. PAGE. I. THE ADVERTISEMENT 1 II. DR. FORGE 13 III. MISS WHARF AT HOME 27 IV. RUPERT'S SECRET 40 V. CONCERNING THE FAN 53 VI. BURGH'S STORY 65 VII. THE WARNING 78 VIII. THE BEGINNING OF THE BALL 90 IX. THE END OF THE BALL 104 X. A MYSTERIOUS CASE 118 XI. THE CANTON ADVENTURE 132 XII. AT THE INQUEST 147 XIII. THE WILL 160 XIV. A MYSTERIOUS LETTER 172 XV. THE ROTHERHITHE DEN 185 XVI. THE FAN MYSTERY 196 XVII. A DISAPPEARANCE 208 XVIII. A SURPRISE 220 XIX. A VISITOR 232 XX. THE MANDARIN EXPLAINS 244 XXI. WHO IS GUILTY? 259 XXII. AFTER-EVENTS 274 XXIII. THE CHASE 287 XXIV. THE FULFILLED PROPHECY 300 THE MANDARIN'S FAN THE MANDARIN'S FAN CHAPTER I THE ADVERTISEMENT One July evening in the first year of the present century, two gentlemen were seated on the terrace of the mansion, known as Royabay. A small rose-wood table was placed between the deep arm-chairs, and thereon appeared wine, coffee, and a box of cigars. The young host smoked a briar and sipped coffee, but his guest, very wisely, devoted himself to superlative port and a fragrant cigar. Major Tidman was a battered old soldier of fortune, who appreciated good quarters and made the most of civilised luxuries, when other people paid for them. He had done full justice to a dinner admirably cooked and served, while Ainsleigh, the master of the feast had merely trifled with his food. Now, the wary Tidman gave himself up to the perfect enjoyment of wine, cigar and the quiet evening, while his host restlessly changed his position a dozen times in ten minutes and gloomed misanthropically at the beautiful surroundings. And these were very beautiful. From the moss-grown terrace shallow steps descended to smooth lawns and rainbow-hued flower-beds, and solemn pines girdled the open space, wherein the house was set. And under the radiance of a saffron coloured sky, stood the house, grey with centuries of wind and weather, bleaching sun and drenching rains. With its Tudor battlements, casements, diamond-paned and low oriel windows, half obliterated escutcheons; its drapery of green ivy, and heavy iron-clamped doors, it looked venerable, picturesque and peaceful. Tennyson sang in the Palace of Art of just such a quiet "English home the haunt of ancient peace."