had their eyes on him. He thought that he could detect a grim smile on the naval officer's averted face. Miss MacAllister had a keen look-was it a suspicious look?-in her eyes.

Under cover of the applause which followed the consul turned on him:

"You have the nerve to pass a chorus from a Greek tragedy on a company like this for a Red Indian war-song."

"I plead guilty," replied Sinclair. "But I had to do something or be again held up to ridicule as I was at dinner. I thought that you were the only one likely to recognize it and I knew that you would not betray me."

"I acknowledge that you had to do something. For some reason Miss MacAllister seems bound to make game of you. She deserves what you have given her, and I'll not give you away. But it was nervy just the same." And the consul laughed indulgently as he turned away.

Miss MacAllister did not join in the general applause. But when it was done she said gravely :

"Thank you, Dr. Sinclair, for gratifying my whim to hear a song in the Indian language. I had no idea that it would be so beautiful. Thank you very much."

Sinclair's face flushed as he replied:

"I am only too glad to have been able to do anything which has pleased you." At the same moment he felt a pang of remorse for the deception.

He had not long to think of it when he heard Mrs. MacAllister saying to Commander Gardenier: "What a barbarous jargon to be called a language!"

"Yes," replied the officer drily, "but I have heard a good many others more barbarous."

Then Thomson, the missionary, remarked in his slow way:

"It-some-way-seems-to-me-that-I-have -heard-some-thing-like-that-before." Sinclair had to act quickly:

"You were a missionary once among the Indians of Bruce Peninsula, were you not?"

"You probably heard it there." "Well-perhaps-I-did."

Some of the guests rose to depart, and their hostess rose with them. Before they had time to begin to say farewell, Carteret said loudly enough to be heard by all in the room:

"Mrs. Beauchamp, before we go, may we not hear Mr. De Vaux sing again? I know that we should all be delighted to hear him."

"I am afraid that we are imposing on Mr. De Vaux," replied the hostess, who realized the condition De Vaux ordinarily reached by that hour after a dinner. "I think that he is tired. He has done his part so well this evening that it seems unfair to ask him for any more."

"I am sure, Mrs. Beauchamp, that Mr. De Vaux will not feel it a hardship to sing again. He is our foremost vocalist in Formosa. We want him to uphold the honour of the local talent. Mr. De Vaux, will you not sing for us 'Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep'?"

"Lord! . . . Mr. Carteret-ladies and gentlemen -how good of you to ask me! ... By—! . . Bless my soul, I mean! . . . It is good of you..

I'm afraid.

I'm not in very good voice. But since you insist-I'll try. . . . By!... I mean 'pon my honour, I shall!"

..

"Shall I play your accompaniment, De Vaux? " said the consul, in response to an appealing look from his wife.

"How good of you, Beauchamp!... By-!... 'Pon my soul, I mean-it is!"

Purple-faced, perspiring, steadying himself by the piano, The Honourable Lionel Percival Dudley De Vaux sang, in a series of high-toned asthmatic gasps, "Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep.'

Then the guests said their farewells and, preceded by natives carrying lanterns, they began to move off into the warm aromatic darkness of the southern night.

S'

VIII

SINCLAIR'S OPPORTUNITY

INCLAIR and McLeod were awaiting their opportunity to say good-night when one of the consul's Chinese servants hastily entered and handed his master a letter:

One boy b'long Kai Bok-su come Keelung side, one piecee chit new sick-boy-man can catchee."

66

All right, boy," replied the consul. "Dr. Sinclair, here's a letter for you from Dr. MacKay."

The doctor cut the letter open and read:

"CHINESE CAMP, LOAN-LOAN, NEAR KEELUNG, Aug. 5th, 1884.

"DEAR DR. SINCLAIR:

66

"As you are aware, a battle is raging. A number of the Chinese have been killed. Many more are wounded. The end is not yet. They have no doctors but native fakirs. They have no medicines, no instruments, no knowledge of surgery. There is dreadful suffering. Will you help? Never a better opportunity to serve humanity and win the Chinese.

"The consul will give you passports. The bearer of this will guide you. A Hoa will come with you as far as Taipeh and secure a permit from the governor. Mrs. MacKay and Dr. Bergmann will give you a free hand with the Mission's stock of medicines, and will help you to pack them. Will you come?

"Yours,

"G. L. MACKAY."

Without a word Sinclair handed the open letter to the consul, who had now bidden farewell to the rest of the guests. He read it quickly and looked up: "You are going?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"First launch in the morning."

"Good! I'll have your papers ready."

"Thank you, Mr. Beauchamp. Good-night."

"I'll send the constable over to MacKay's with the papers. Take care of yourself. Good-night, doctor. Good-night, McLeod.”

The first faint rose of dawn was showing in the sky behind the great bulk of the Taitoon Mountains when Sinclair stepped out on the broad verandah of the missionary's bungalow, ready for his journey. The Chinese student who was to guide him was already there. A coolie bearing two round baskets containing the medicines, instruments, and other necessaries, balanced on the end of his long bamboo carrying pole, came round the corner of the house.

The iron gate at the foot of the garden clicked sharply. A vigorous step sounded on the gravelled walk. An erect, soldierly figure stepped out of the darkness into the light streaming from the doorway, rapped his heels together, saluted, and handed Dr. Sinclair a packet of letters.

"Good-morning, Sergeant Gorman. You're sharp on time."

"No credit to me, sir! It's the consul, sir! The divil himself wud have to get up in the morning before he went to bed at night to catch the consul late."

There was no mistaking Sergeant Gorman's native land. Sinclair laughed as he said:

"I suppose these are my passports."

Right you are, sir! But wud you moind lookin'