"THE END OF THE PERFECT DAY"
Jane was the first in that astonished group to recover, and her voice
was as sweet and clear as a trumpet-call of victory, singing her
gladness and trust: "I knew it! I knew it! But who are you, sir? Page
said his father was dead."
"I? My name is Ford Page Hamilton, and this is my boy. I've been looking
for him for months."
Page's eyes intently searched his father's face, as alternate fear and
joy possessed him. The moment was tense; we waited breathlessly; at last
Page asked: "But, Father, what did I do with them?"
"With what, son?"
"The bags of money--the collection I was to turn over to the firm."
"You delivered them sealed and labeled, then you disappeared off the
map, just as if you had melted."
The word "melted" seemed to open in the brain of the invalid a door
long closed. A sleeping memory stirred. "Wait! It is all coming back!
Give me time!" he pleaded.
It was no place for a crowd. I took Zura by the hand, pulled Jane's
sleeve, motioned Kobu toward the door, and together we went softly away.
* * * * *
An hour later, when Mr. Hamilton came in, the happiest spot in all the
Flowery Kingdom was the little living-room of "The House of the Misty
Star."
Page was asleep through sheer exhaustion, and the father, with lowered
voice and dimmed eyes, told the story.
The explanation was all so simple I felt as if I should be sentenced for
not thinking of it before. For had I not seen what tricks the heat of
the Orient could play with the brain cells of a white man? Had I not
seen men and women go down to despair under some fixed hallucination,
conjured from the combination of overwork and a steamed
atmosphere--transforming happy, normal humans into fear-haunted
creatures, ever pursued by an unseen foe? In such a fever-racked mind
lay all Page's troubles.
For the last four years he had held a place of heavy responsibility
with a large oil concern in Singapore. His duties led him into isolated
districts. Danger was ever present, but a Malay robber was no more
treacherous an enemy than the heat, and far less subtle. One day, after
some unusually hard work, Page turned in his money and reports, and went
his way under the blistering sun.
It was then that the fever played its favorite game by confusing his
brain and tangling his thoughts. He wandered down to the docks and
aboard a tramp steamer about to lift anchor. When the vessel was far
away the fateful disease released its grip on his body. But in the many
months of cruising among unnamed islands in southern seas, it cruelly
mocked him with a belief he had purloined the money and taunted him with
forgetfulness as to the hiding place.
When Page left the ship at a Japanese port memory cleared enough to give
him back a part of his name, but tricked him into hiding from a crime he
had not committed.
My remorse was unmeasurable as I realized the whole truth, but my heart
out-caroled any lark that ever grew a feather. The boy's soul was as
clean as our love for him was deep.
[Illustration: "Oh! boy, boy, I thought I'd lost you"]
"You see," continued Mr. Hamilton, "Page's mother died when he was
only a lad, and my responsibility was doubled. When his regular letters
ceased I cabled his firm for information. They were unable to find any
trace of him. He had always been such a strong, sturdy youth I could not
connect him with illness. Fearing he had been waylaid or was held for
ransom I offered the reward through my Chicago bankers. The months at
sea of course blocked us. The suspense was growing intolerable when the
information came from Mr. Kobu; that brought me here."
All this time the detective had been silent. But no word or look of the
others escaped him. At last the thing was forced upon him. He had missed
the much-wanted cashier whose capture meant a triumph over the whole
detective world. And he had been so very sure Page was the man!
Descriptions and measurements were so alike. Both from the same city,
one with the name of Hamilton, the other with that of Hammerton.
As Page's father remarked when he heard the story: "Mr. Kobu, those
names are enough alike to be brothers, though I'm glad they are not."
But Kobu was not to be coaxed into any excuse for himself. Any one who
knew him could but know the humiliation he would suffer at mistaking
the prize. Even a big reward was slight balm to the blow at his pride.
Intently he watched and listened until the details were clear to him. He
could not understand all this emotion and indulgence in tears which were
good only to wash the dust from eyes. But Kobu was truly Japanese in his
comprehension of a father's love. He masked his chagrin with a smile and
paid unstinted praise to the man who had tirelessly searched for his
only son. With many bows and indrawings of breath the detective made a
profound adieu to each of us and took his leave.
As the sound of the closing lodge gates reached us something in Jane's
attitude caught my attention. In her eye was the look of a mischievous
child who had foiled its playmate.
"Jane, what is the matter with you?" I asked.
"I was just feeling so sorry for Mr. Kobu. He is awfully nice, but I
could not tell him. I knew!"
"What?" I demanded.
"Oh, I knew dear Page was not the gentleman who borrowed the bank's
money."
"Knew it! How did you know?"
"Because a little while ago that nice cashier gentleman from Chicago
sought shelter in the Quarters. I heard his story. He was the hungriest
man for home cooking I ever saw. I gave him plenty of it, too, and a
little Testament besides, before he left."
"Why, Jane Gray! you knew this and did not tell?"
"Yes, Miss Jenkins; that is what I did. You see I am a sort of father
confessor. I simply cannot furnish information about the dear people who
confide in me. I would have saved Page, but when I came home and found
him ill something told me to give both men a chance. I knew Page was not
guilty. The same thing that made me sure of my hospital made me certain
he would get well. The other man--well, you know, I am only a messenger
of hope. I wanted to give him time to read that little book!"