half an hour later, as i sat in the inner room before the great dressing-table laboriously removing my disguise—for i was utterly incapable of metamorphosing myself like harley in seven minutes—i heard a rapping at the outer door. i glanced nervously at my face in the mirror.

comparatively little of “jim” had yet been removed, for since time was precious to my friend i had acted as his dresser before setting to work to remove my own make-up. there were two entrances to the establishment, by one of which paul harley invariably entered and invariably went out, and from the other of which “bill jones” was sometimes seen to emerge, but never paul harley. that my friend had made good his retirement i knew, but, nevertheless, if i had to open the door of the outer room it must be as “jim.”

thinking it impolite not to do so, since the one who knocked might be aware that we had come in but not gone out again, i hastily readjusted that side of my moustache which i had begun to remove, replaced my cap and muffler, and carefully locking the door of the dressing-room, crossed the outer apartment and opened the door.

it was harley's custom never to enter or leave these rooms except under the mantle of friendly night, but at so early an hour i confess i had not expected a visitor. wondering whom i should find there i opened the door.

standing on the landing was a fellow-lodger who permanently occupied the two top rooms of the house. paul harley had taken the trouble to investigate the man's past, for “captain dan,” the name by which he was known in the saloons and worse resorts which he frequented, was palpably a broken-down gentleman; a piece of flotsam caught in the yellow stream. opium had been his downfall. how he lived i never knew, but harley believed he had some small but settled income, sufficient to enable him to kill himself in comfort with the black pills.

as he stood there before me in the early morning light, i was aware of some subtle change in his appearance. it was fully six months since i had seen him last, but in some vague way he looked younger. haggard he was, with an ugly cut showing on his temple, but not so lined as i remembered him. some former man seemed to be struggling through the opium-scarred surface. his eyes were brighter, and i noted with surprise that he wore decent clothes and was clean shaved.

“good morning, jim,” he said; “you remember me, don't you?”

as he spoke i observed, too, that his manner had altered. he who had consorted with the sweepings af the doss-houses now addressed me as a courteous gentleman addresses an inferior—not haughtily or patronizingly, but with a note of conscious superiority and self-respect wholly unfamiliar. almost it threw me off my guard, but remembering in the nick of time that i was still “jim”:

“of course i remember you, cap'n,” i said. “step inside.”

“thanks,” he replied, and followed me into the little room.

i placed for him the arm-chair which our friend the fireman had so recently occupied, but:

“i won't sit down,” he said.

and now i observed that he was evidently in a condition of repressed excitement. perhaps he saw the curiosity in my glance, for he suddenly rested both his hands on my shoulders, and:

“yes, i have given up the dope, jim,” he said—-“done with it for ever. there's not a soul in this neighbourhood i can trust, yet if ever a man wanted a pal, i want one to-day. now, you're square, my lad. i always knew that, in spite of the dope; and if i ask you to do a little thing that means a lot to me, i think you will do it. am i right?”

“if it can be done, i'll do it,” said i.

“then, listen. i'm leaving england in the patna for singapore. she sails at noon to-morrow, and passengers go on board at ten o'clock. i've got my ticket, papers in order, but”—he paused impressively, grasping my shoulders hard—“i must get on board to-night.”

i stared him in the face.

“why?” i asked.

he returned my look with one searching and eager; then:

“if i show you the reason,” said he, “and trust you with all my papers, will you go down to the dock—it's no great distance—and ask to see marryat, the chief officer? perhaps you've sailed with him?”

“no,” i replied guardedly. “i was never in the patna.”

“never mind. when you give him a letter which i shall write he will make the necessary arrangements for me to occupy my state-room to-night. i knew him well,” he explained, “in—the old days. will you do it, jim?”

“i'll do it with pleasure,” i answered.

“shake!” said captain dan.

we shook hands heartily, and:

“now i'll show you the reason,” he added. “come upstairs.”

turning, he led the way upstairs to his own room, and wondering greatly, i followed him in. never having been in captain dan's apartments i cannot say whether they, like their occupant, had changed for the better. but i found myself in a room surprisingly clean and with a note of culture in its appointments which was even more surprising.

on a couch by the window, wrapped in a fur rug, lay the prettiest half-caste girl i had ever seen, east or west. her skin was like cream rose petals and her abundant hair was of wonderful lustrous black. perhaps it was her smooth warm colour which suggested the idea, but as her cheeks flushed at sight of captain dan and the long dark eyes lighted up in welcome, i thought of a delicate painting on ivory and i wondered more and more what it all could mean.

“i have brought jim to see you,” said captain dan. “no, don't trouble to move dear.”

but even before he had spoken i had seen the girl wince with pain as she had endeavoured to sit up to greet us. she lay on her side in a rather constrained attitude, but although her sudden movement had brought tears to her eyes she smiled bravely and extended a tiny ivory hand to me.

“this is my wife, jim!” said captain dan.

i could find no words at all, but merely stood there looking very awkward and feeling almost awed by the indescribable expression of trust in the eyes of the little eurasian, as with her tiny fingers hidden in her husband's clasp she lay looking up at him.

“now you know, jim,” said he, “why we must get aboard the patna to-night. my wife is really too ill to travel; in fact, i shall have to carry her down to the cab, and such a proceeding in daylight would attract an enormous crowd in this neighbourhood!”

“give me the letters and the papers,” i answered. “i will start now.”

his wife disengaged her hand and extended it to me.

“thank you,” she said, in a queer little silver-bell voice; “you are good. i shall always love you.”