“Henry, you’re crazy!” Sir Bertram exclaimed at last.
“Uncle Henry!” Gregory cried.
Something which was finally a smile parted Henry’s lips, as he pointed to a neat package upon the table.
“These are the manuscripts,” he said. “I regret to say that my expedition was a failure. Nothing there helps us in any degree.”
“But how the devil do you know?” Gregory demanded. “Whom did you get to read them?”
“During the last few months,” his uncle confided, “with a view to making this enterprise a success, I have studied and read Chinese.”
“God bless my soul!” Sir Bertram gasped.
“The language presented its difficulties,” Henry admitted. “During my last visit to London in January I consulted a Chinese scholar who put me in the right way, and I have attained to a certain proficiency—enough, at any rate, for the purpose. It struck me that Major Holmes’s enquiries into the matter were becoming somewhat unpleasant, and I thought, therefore, that I would confide the truth to you, in case at any time suspicion should fall upon another person. This parcel containing the documents contains also a letter from me acknowledging my exploit and a letter of apology to Miss Endacott, whose property I suppose they must be considered. They are undamaged and, except for the slight injury to Mr. Johnson, which I regret was necessary, the affair seems to me to be trivial.”
Gregory clasped his forehead.
“Trivial!” he groaned.