"I'll send the constable over to MacKay's with the papers. Take care of yourself. Good-night, doctor. Good-night, McLeod."
* * * * *
The first faint rose of dawn was showing in the sky behind the great bulk of the Taitoon Mountains when Sinclair stepped out on the broad verandah of the missionary's bungalow, ready for his journey. The Chinese student who was to guide him was already there. A coolie bearing two round baskets containing the medicines, instruments, and other necessaries, balanced on the end of his long bamboo carrying pole, came round the corner of the house.
The iron gate at the foot of the garden clicked sharply. A vigorous step sounded on the gravelled walk. An erect, soldierly figure stepped out of the darkness into the light streaming from the doorway, rapped his heels together, saluted, and handed Dr. Sinclair a packet of letters.
"Good-morning, Sergeant Gorman. You're sharp on time."
"No credit to me, sir! It's the consul, sir! The divil himself wud have to get up in the morning before he went to bed at night to catch the consul late."
There was no mistaking Sergeant Gorman's native land. Sinclair laughed as he said:
"I suppose these are my passports."
"Right you are, sir! But wud you moind lookin' at the last one furst, for, widout army conceit in meself, it's the most important of thim all."
Sinclair opened it and read: