“I’ll look at the chap in a moment,” replied Dr. Oliver.

But Pembroke had fainted, not died. Restoratives were applied, and presently he was ready to go on.

“Shall I listen to him now, or wait until to-morrow?” Dave asked the surgeon.

“The man will feel better if he talks himself out now,” advised the surgeon.

So Dave sat down again, while Pembroke rambled on:

“You see, Darrin, this isn’t the first time I have served Chinese officials among white men. I was in Nu-ping when that yarn got abroad that the missionaries had secretly looted that old temple and had removed millions in loot, burying the treasure secretly in the compound grounds of the mission at Nu-ping. You have no idea how such stories take hold in China. Doubtless, as a result of former rebellions and wars in China, the country is full of spots where fortunes have been buried for safety, with the people who buried the treasure killed off and the secret lost. I believed fully that the missionaries had buried such a treasure here at Nu-ping. The governor was sure of it, and so were his secretaries and the few other officials who had heard the story.”

“Then why didn’t the governor proceed officially and legally to have the mission grounds dug up and searched?” Dave asked.

“Don’t you understand?” cried Pembroke. “If the governor had done that and found the treasure, he would have had to turn it over to the central government. In that there would be mighty little graft for his excellency. Now, unless he did it in an open and official manner, the missionaries could resist and report his excellency to the central government. Being a governor in China in these days isn’t quite so fine a job as it was in the old days under the emperors. In those days the governor was called a viceroy—a ruler who served in the place of the monarch, and a mighty big chap a viceroy was. But these governors of the new breed are not such powerful chaps, though they still have many chances to steal without detection.

“But our yellow governor here at Nu-ping looked the situation over on all sides. He decided that it would be best to have a rebellion take place here on a small scale, have the missionaries killed or chased away, and then have his own men dig up the mission grounds and find the treasure. In the first place, our Nu-ping chap has about twelve thousand troops under his command. They could stop any rebellion that started around here. It was necessary to get the troops out of the way, so his excellency got ready to send them out of the way. He kept in town only the few troops you saw to-day. With so few soldiers he couldn’t be expected to stop a rebellion, could he?

“The more his excellency thought over the matter of the hidden millions in the mission grounds, the more he itched for them. Sin Foo sent for me, and I talked it over with them. The rebellion, once started, might last quite a while. We looked over the American fleet in Asiatic waters and decided that the ‘Castoga’ was the only naval craft of light enough draft to come up the Nung-kiang River to this point. His excellency wanted to take time for a leisurely rebellion, but knew that this gunboat would be sent up here at the first murmurs of trouble. So he sent me to Manila to look over this craft, and, if possible, to cripple or sink her.”

“Sink this gunboat?” asked Dave, in amazement.

“Yes,” Pembroke nodded. “It struck his excellency as being worth while, in case his rebellion here should last long enough.”

“But how could you sink the ‘Castoga’?”

“Not such a difficult thing, if I got myself liked by the officers aboard,” Pembroke replied. “Some afternoon I could put off and come aboard, carrying a suitcase. I could have asked you, or any other officer, to let me leave my case in his cabin over night, couldn’t I?”

“Yes,” Dave said. “But how sink the boat?”

“If the suitcase contained the right contents, and if those contents went off in the dead of night, it would be easy, wouldn’t it?” asked Pembroke, flushing.

“And—you—you—would have done such a thing as that?” gasped Ensign Dave.

“I would have done it—at that time,” Pembroke confessed. “Darrin, drifting through the Orient as I have done for some years, and always needing money—as I did—a fellow gets so he will do many things that he would hardly do in the good old home town.”

Dave shuddered.

“His excellency’s secretary—” Pembroke went on, but Darrin interrupted to ask:

“The ‘Burnt-face’ chap?”

“Yes. He went to Manila with me to see that I stuck to my job, and that I didn’t misapply too much of the expense money that I carried.”

“I want to ask you something, Pembroke,” Dave broke in quietly. “Do you know anything about the Chinaman who was slain almost alongside this craft one night in Manila?”

“A good deal,” the stricken man admitted. “He was a Christian convert, and the fellow overheard the secretary and myself talking of our plans. In trying to get away the eavesdropper made noise enough so that we pursued him. He escaped us, but we felt that he had to be found. Now, that Chinese convert, like most poor and simple people of his race, did not think of going to the police. He was bound to reason toward more direct procedure. My accomplice felt that the convert would try to warn the commander of the threatened gunboat. That was what he did. He put off alone, at night, to paddle out to the Castoga.’ My accomplice and another Chinese pursued, and—well, you know what was done with the sword.”

Dave looked up from a deep revery as Pembroke finished. As he did so he noticed that the surgeon and a hospital man had been listening in the shadow beyond. Witnesses to such a rehearsal were necessary, so Darrin did not object.

“But tell me one thing,” Dave asked, presently. “In Manila I saw ‘Burnt-face’ look after Miss Chapin with a look amounting to hatred. Why should that have been?”

“Because, in the first place, the fellow hates all Christians, and missionaries in especial. Miss Chapin is a missionary; more, she is engaged to wed the Rev. Mr. Barstow, of the party that you rescued. Now, he and the Rev. Mr. Barstow have been at odds for some time, and the Chinaman hates the missionary most sincerely. Probably the secretary knew that Miss Chapin is engaged to Mr. Barstow.”

“Why did you come up with the party with which Miss Chapin and my wife traveled?” asked Dave.

“Because it was the quickest way to get to Nu-ping,” Pembroke admitted. “And my own reason for coming back here was to get my own share of the loot which, until to-day, I really believed existed in the mission grounds. Now, I think you know all. I—I--”

“You are very tired; I can see that,” said Ensign Darrin quietly. “I am greatly obliged to you for what you have told me, for it has cleared up many points that had puzzled me.”

“You think me a villain—an utter scoundrel, don’t you?” asked Pembroke.

“Yes,” Dave assented, speaking as quietly as before. “Any man who can plot to take innocent lives at wholesale is certainly a wicked scoundrel. But, if you should recover, I hope that you will lead a new life, and will be manly hereafter.”

“I—I wonder if a man can do that, after he has led the kind of life that I have led?” smiled Pembroke, weakly.

“I think so. I believe that you can. But that is not as much in my line as some other questions. The man you should talk with is one of the missionary party. Shall I waken one of them and ask him to come to you?”

“Not to-night,” Pembroke answered, tossing. “I am too weary. If I am alive in the morning, perhaps.”

“Good night,” said Dave, bending over the berth and holding out his hand.

“Can you shake hands with a fellow such as you now know me to be?” demanded Pembroke, in utter amazement.

“Not with the fellow you have been, but with the man I hope you’re going to be,” Dave answered. “Good night, Pembroke.”

“Good night, Darrin.”