He began to take his rod to pieces preparatory to returning to his quarters on the hill.  He had just unshipped the last joint, when he became aware that one of his men was approaching him.  He inquired his business, and was informed in return that Dempsey, his sub, would be glad to see him at the Ford.  Handing his rod to the man he set off in the direction of the crossing in question, to become aware, as he approached it, of a disreputable figure propped up against a tree on the nearer bank.

“What’s the matter, Dempsey?” he inquired.  “What on earth have you got there, man?”

“Well, that’s more than I can say,” the other replied.  “He’s evidently a white man, and I fancy an Englishman.  At home we should call him a scarecrow.  He turned up from across the Ford just now, and tumbled down in the middle of the stream like a shot rabbit.  Never saw such a thing before.  He’s not a pretty sight, is he?”

“Poor devil,” said Gregory.  “He seems to be on his last legs.  I wonder who the deuce he is, and what brought him into this condition.”

[Illustration:  “‘POOR DEVIL,’ SAID GREGORY.  ’HE SEEMS TO BE ON HIS LAST LEGS.’”]

“I’ve searched, and there’s nothing about to tell us,” said Dempsey.  “What do you think we had better do with him?”

“Get him up the hill,” said his superior, without hesitation.  “When he’s a bit stronger we’ll have his story out of him.  I’ll bet a few years’ pay it will be interesting.”

A file of men were called, and the mysterious stranger was carried up to the residence of the English officers.  It was plain to the least observant that he was in a very serious condition.  Such clothes as he possessed were in rags; his face was pinched with starvation, and moreover he was quite unconscious.  When his bearers, accompanied by the two Englishmen, reached the cluster of huts, he was carried to a small room at the end of the officers’ bungalow and placed upon the bed.  After a little brandy had been administered, he recovered consciousness and looked about him.  Heaving a sigh of relief, he inquired where he might be.

“You are at Nampoung,” said Gregory, “and you ought to thank your stars that you are not in Kingdom Come.  If ever a man was near it, you have been.  We won’t ask you for your story now; however, later on, you shall bukh to your heart’s content.  Now I am going to give you something to eat.  You look as if you want it badly enough.”

Gregory looked at Dempsey and made a sign, whereupon the other withdrew, to presently return carrying a bowl of soup.  The stranger drank it ravenously, and then lay back and closed his eyes once more.  He would have been a clever man who could have recognized in the emaciated being upon the bed, the spruce, well-cared-for individual who was known to the Hotel of the Three Desires in Singapore as Gideon Hayle.

“You’d better rest a while now,” said Gregory, “and then perhaps you’ll feel equal to joining us at mess, or whatever you like to call it.”