“Probably not. Yet I can’t see his motive.”
“I rather suspect he thought we were French officers and might detain them both until the outrage could be investigated, though why he should have picked me out for the leader and tried that clever dodge to get me out of the way, I can’t understand.”
“Come, come!” cried Maurice, “time enough has been wasted over this adventure. Night is right on top of us, and a storm along with it, if I am any judge of Siamese meteorology. Let us get back to the place we turned off as soon as possible, and try the left hand trail.”
There was sound common sense in this, yet, in spite of myself, my thoughts would wander toward the forest. “What do you think of the shawl, Doctor?” I asked abruptly, in the effort to shake them off.
“Why, it’s a genuine camel’s hair. Did the old man give it to you, De Veber?”
“Yes; I had to accept it.”
“Had to accept it! I only wish it had been me then. Why man, that shawl would bring a good hundred pounds in London..”
“No!”
“Fact, I assure you. I didn’t notice what it was till Wylde called my attention to it. A famous present for the future Mrs. De Veber. You will do well to hold on to it.”
He was right, too. I may as well mention that the shawl was finally sold for £70. Perhaps it was the last part of Philpot’s remark that made Maurice so anxious to get rid of it. I remember well how he laughed when he answered:
“I shall hold it till it rots then before I put it to the use you suggest. Mrs. De Veber is a long way in future. I’m afraid she will never find any use for her shawl.”
“What? Opposed to the divine institution,” cried the Doctor. “Give me your hand young man? You are a fellow after my own heart. I wouldn’t marry the best woman in the world, no, not if she were hung with diamonds. But a young chap like you can scarcely be expected to feel that way.”
“I think I am one of the select few who are willing to profit by the experience of others,” laughed Maurice.
“Wise man! And have the matrimonial experiences of your friends then been so disastrous?”
“Ask Wylde,” Maurice was beginning, when I checked him with a frown. The Doctor saw it, and, with that perfect politeness of which he was certainly master when he chose to exert himself, immediately changed the subject.
“Come! Let us get on,” he exclaimed. “There’s mischief in yonder clouds. We have no time to waste.”
We now hurried through the village, pausing for a moment to see if we could catch a glimpse of some of the cowardly inhabitants, and gain a word of information about the path back to Angkor.
“No go,” said the Doctor. “We shan’t find ’em. Anyhow, this is nothing but a wood-cutters’ camp, probably belonging to some of the people in Siamrap.”
None of the villagers were to be seen, and, still discussing our adventure, we now retraced our steps through the jungle. Darkness was rapidly approaching, and there was no time to be lost.
But our discussion left us where we started—nowhere.
Maurice and I had depended upon the Doctor to enlighten us. The dependence proved futile. The Doctor had no suggestion to offer.
“More of your mysterious people, Wylde,” he said in his usual half-sneering way. “We shall have to hold you responsible for the whole business. Gad, boys, but she was a little beauty! If I had dreamed that our acquaintance would be so brief, I should certainly have stayed by her. Now De Veber gets all the glory, and——”
“And the shawl!” broke in Maurice. “Take it if you want it. I acknowledge you as the rescuer of the fair one. Why, even George was more active than I, and yet I have reaped the reward.”
“Nonsense! What do I want of your shawl, but I will be tolerably obliged to you for a cheroot. I understand the whole business. It was your good looks that did it, De Veber. Alongside of a Yankee Apollo, what chance could two old birds like Wylde and myself hope to stand?”
Coming from one of his cloth, there was something intolerably repulsive to me in these flippant remarks. Yet why should that have influenced me? I had abjured the man’s creed, I despised his profession, I had laughed when he made light of it, and yet now I seemed to demand of him a greater delicacy of thought, a purity of sentiment than possessed by the average man, although I had put him down for an average man and nothing more.
It grew darker, and darker, and yet the sun must have still been there behind the clouds, for twilight is a thing unknown in Siam. Now the whole heavens were obscured, and the hot south wind swept our faces, passing among the tree-tops with a sighing which foretold the approaching storm.
“It is certainly going to rain,” said Maurice anxiously, “and it will be dark in next to no time. I wish we were at the place where we turned off.”
“It is dark now,” I answered, as even the trifle of light remaining grew suddenly less, and the deepening shadows told me that the sun was down at last.
Philpot peered about anxiously.
“Plague take the fork in the path—where is it?” he exclaimed. “Do you know what I begin to fear?”
“That we have been going wrong again?” I asked.
“That’s about the size of it.”
It would not surprise me. Who said this was the same trail? I declare I saw the path and just followed it—that is about all.”
“What? Do you mean to tell me that! By Jove, man! I’ve been following you!”
“And I,” added Maurice “have been tamely following both of you.”
“Blind, leading the blind,” cried the Doctor. “Look here, if we don’t strike the junction soon, we’re in for a night of it, and had better return to the wood-cutters’ camp before it’s too dark to find the way.”
“And have our throats cut before morning?” retorted Maurice. “No, thank you. I don’t pretend to the knowledge of the Siamese character that you claim, but catch me running my neck into any such noose as that.”
That the situation was becoming serious there was no denying. We plunged on, the ground growing low and marshy as we advanced. A bad indication. We had passed through nothing of the sort on our way to the woodcutters’ camp.
Now the wind began to moan more ominously, and the darkness increased to that extent that we could no longer see our way.
“Delightful, ain’t it?” sneered Philpot. “Heavens! I’m in water up to my knees.”
He was only a few yards ahead of us, but we could no longer see him.
“Give me a hand boys, or I’m stuck! ” he called. “I’m slowly sinking, Lord knows where!”
We pulled him out with considerable difficulty, all retreating a few steps to more solid ground.
“Are you all right now?” questioned Maurice.
“All right for a fever!” was the reply. “Your flask, like a good fellow, De Veber. Nothing like a little brandy as a preventive.”
His “little” would have set my brain reeling, but it appeared to have but slight effect. I thought then that I could comprehend reasons for his want of success in the pulpit which the Rev. Miles Philpot had failed to name.
“Don’t drink it dry, Doctor, said Maurice. “George and I may need a dose before we get out of this scrape.”
“Yours truly! I leave you the flask,” he replied, with that good humor which nothing seemed to