"By the by, have you decided what you’re going to do? My offer is still open. Your mining knowledge would be very useful to me in Borneo, although you haven’t got the certificate of the School of Mines. It will be rough work—dangerous work at times, as I told you, for we are going up to the unknown interior where the Head-hunting Muruts live, and you may not see civilisation again for twelve months." Rupert looked him in the face. Patterson was a "white man" he knew. A straight man. "I have thought it all over, and I decided last night to accept your offer if you are still willing to take me after you have heard why I am here. I can’t explain everything, but what I shall tell you is only what you ought to know. Come down to my cabin and I will tell you who I am." In the saloon of the boat—deserted now—where they had spent so many happy weeks, sharing storm and sunshine, dangers and pleasures, unconsciously growing to know one another, as men ashore never can. A genuine friendship, backed by respect, had been formed between Rupert and Patterson. The former had only just realised what this friendship had done for him. What it meant for him now! He, who had been for so many months a convict, cut off from all communications with his fellows—a mere machine, a cypher! Number 381! Patterson had offered him a job. Work after his own heart. It was only now, at the last moment, that Rupert realised he could not accept it, could not continue the friendship that had commenced, and which meant so much to him, unless he told Patterson who _and what he was_! An escaped convict, a felon with a price on his head! A nice companion for this straight, clean Englishman, who proposed to take him, alone, in the vast interior of wild Borneo. To speak, to confess, meant losing his first, only friend. It meant losing the chance of work. It might mean that he would be arrested and sent back to England and prison! But he had to play the game! It is curious how little things affect one at a great crisis of one’s life. Rupert had known he would have to leave Patterson and refuse his offer—or else speak and tell him his history, and, sub-consciously, he had decided to say nothing, make some excuse for refusing his offer and just leave Singapore, alone. It was the sight of the Union Jack flying from the shore, the sound of the old English tune, "Home, Sweet Home," that had suddenly turned the scales and made him decide to leave his fate in Patterson’s hands. He thought of his father, of little Marjorie, his sister. And last of Ruby, the woman he loved! They would have asked him to play the game. So, over a final drink in the empty saloon, Rupert told his new friend, already his old friend, Jim Patterson, the story of his life, his imprisonment and escape from Dartmoor. He refrained from mentioning any names; he made no attempt to defend himself.