Kobu and his companion were ahead of me.  The brilliant light of a sunny afternoon softened as it sifted through the paper shoji, suffusing room and occupants in a tender glow.  Through it, as I reached the door, I saw Zura half bending over the bed, shielding the face of the sick boy, Jane at the foot with lifted, detaining hand, Kobu’s face as he pointed to the bed, saying, “There, sir, is the thief—­I mean prisoner,” and his startled look as the tall, gray-headed stranger went swiftly to the bed and gathered Page into his outstretched arms.

“A thief!” he cried.  “Somebody’s going to get hurt in a minute.  He’s my son.  Oh! boy, boy, I thought I’d lost you!”

XIX

“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.