whispering in his ear. "He came. He is a friend. Your fears were
wrong, _birahi_."

The sampan lurched, scraping and tapping along a surface rough and
metallic.

The yellow face of the old woman again appeared in the hatchway. A bar
of keen, white light thrust its way into the cabin. It came from
somewhere above. No longer could Peter hear the groan and swish of the
sweep, and the cabin no longer keeled from side to side. He guessed
that the sampan was alongside.

The old woman motioned for him to come out.

"I am not coming aboard; I am going back to my hotel," said the
red-faced man. "You will not leave this ship? You will promise me
that?"

"I will promise," said Peter gravely. "You, I presume, are Mr. J. B.
Whalen, the Marconi supervisor?"

The red-faced man nodded. As if by some prearranged plan, Whalen,
after slight hesitation, climbed out of the cabin, leaving Peter alone
with this very small, very gentle benefactor of his. He wanted to
thank her, and he tried. But she put her fingers over his lips.

"You are going to the one you love, _birahi_," she said in her tinkling
little voice. "Before we part, I want you--I want you to----" and she
hesitated. "Come now, my brave one," she added with an attempt at
briskness. "You must go. Hurry!"

Peter found the side ladder of the _King of Asia_ dangling from the
upper glow of the liner's high deck. He put his foot on the lower rung
and paused. A vast number of apologies, of thanks and good-byes
demanded utterance, but he felt confused. The slight relaxation of the
past few minutes had left him exhausted, and his brain was encased in
fog.

He remembered that the little maid from Macassar had wanted him to do
something, possibly some favor. The glow high above him seemed to
swim. His injured arm was beginning to throb with a low and persistent
pain. And the climb to the deck seemed a tremendous undertaking.

"You were saying," he began huskily, as she reached out to steady the
ladder. "You wanted me----"

"Just this, my brave one." And she reached up on tiptoes and kissed
him ever so lightly upon his lips. "When you think of me, _birahi_,
close your eyes and dream. For I--I might have loved you!"

Half-way up the black precipice, Peter stopped and looked down. For a
moment his befuddled senses refused to register what now occupied the
space at the ladder's end.

The sampan was no longer there; another had taken its place, a samp