“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.”