href="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@22554@[email protected]#chap28" class="pginternal" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">WHAT THE BLAST DISCOVERED

XXIX.   AN INTERRUPTED DIVERSION XXX.   REVEALING AN INTENT XXXI.   THE SILENT VISITORS XXXII.   DEATH AS A BROTHER XXXIII.   THE GIRL BEHIND THE GUN XXXIV.   DYAK DARTS AND METHODS XXXV.   A BATTLE IN THE SMOKE XXXVI.   THE LAST CUP OF WATER XXXVII.   A BREATHLESS MARGIN XXXVIII.   GRENVILLE'S DESPERATE CHANCE XXXIX.   ADDITIONAL HEAD-HUNTERS XL.   PLOT AND COUNTER PLOT XLI.   A LIVING BAIT XLII.   LONG HOURS OF DOUBT XLIII.   THE HOUR OF CLIMAX XLIV.   A LOTUS BLOSSOM XLV.   THE LAST BOMB XLVI.   A GIFT REFUSED XLVII.   A FRIEND IN NEED

AS IT WAS IN THE BEGINNING

CHAPTER I

A TRUSTED MESSENGER

Grenville was not the type to be readily excited, yet a glow of exceptional brilliance shone in his eyes as he met the searching gaze of his friend, and wondered if Fenton could be jesting.

That he had made no reply whatsoever to Fenton's proposition he failed to realize till Gerald spoke again.

"Well, Sid," demanded that impetuous lieutenant of finance, "gone dumb? Perhaps I haven't made it plain," and he particularized on his fingers. "You get an ocean trip of eight or ten weeks' duration, tropic sun at its best, leisurely business without a fleck of bother, absolute rest, good provender, thorough recuperation, your entire expenses cheerfully paid, vast service rendered to me, no time lost on your equilibrator, time for countless new inventions to sprout in your fertile brain—and the unutterable joy of escaping this abominable climate, practically at once!"

Grenville's smile, still brightly boyish, despite the many reverses and hardships of his six and twenty years, came creeping to his eyes. His wan face suggested a tint of color.

"Don't wake me up for a moment, Fen," he answered. "I haven't dreamed anything like it for years."

"Dreamed?" repeated Fenton, resuming his interrupted pacing up and down the rug, where the firelight reddened his profile. "Does that mean you like it?—you'll go?"

"Would Cinderella go to a ball?" replied the still incredulous Grenville, half seriously. "What's the joker, old chap? What is the worst that could happen at the midnight stroke of twelve?"

Fenton came at once and laid his hands on the broad, bony shoulders of his friend.

"Have I ever played a joker with you yet?" said he. "Never mind the apology. I forgive you. I understand the compliment. Proposal sounds too good to be true, and all that sort of rubbish. The fact is, old man, I want you to go to Canton, China, and bring home my affianced bride. That's absolutely all there is to the business. You need the change and voyage; I haven't the time to go out there and fetch her myself. Elaine is alone in that heathenish country, miserably heartsick over her uncle's sudden death. She wishes to return at once. I can't let the poor girl come alone. I've no one in the world but you I'd care to send—and there you are."

The glow departed from Grenville's eyes. His doubts of any proposition with a woman in the case lurked deep in his level gaze. His face became once more the rugged mask with which he had so long confronted a world persistently gray. The smile he summoned to his lips was more quizzical than mirthful.

"It sounds perfectly simple," he replied. "But—you know there are several tales, recorded in prose and verse, of kings who have sent a trusted messenger on precisely such an errand. The joker