The Resident started lip with the sudden awakening of a man accustomed to suspect peril at every turn, and his hand darted beneath his pillow even as he raised himself, to be withdrawn grasping the butt of a loaded revolver.
“Ah, you Ling,” he said, with a sigh of relief, as he lowered his hand. “What is it? Someone ill?”
“Mr Perowne has come across in his boat, sir.”
“Mr Perowne? at this time! what does he want?”
“To see you, sir.”
“Tell him I’ll be there directly.” The Chinese servant glided away as silently as he had come, and the Resident hastily dashed some water in his face to clear away the sleepy feeling.
“I hope nothing serious!” he muttered. “Has Helen been taken ill?”
A pang shot through him at the thought, and the reckless behaviour of the night, that had stung him again and again during the course of the evening, was forgiven.
“Poor child!” he muttered. “I believe she loves me, and bird-like, is fluttering and timorously striving to escape from the string that holds her.” He glanced at his watch as it hung upon a stand. “Two o’clock. I have not been in bed above an hour. What can be wrong?”
The next minute he was in the dining-room, where he found Mr Perowne agitatedly walking up and down; but as soon as the Resident entered he advanced and caught him fiercely by the arm. “Harley, do you know anything of this?” he cried.