“I plove much by Bludleen’s lascar. Bludleen tell him all ’bout Hornee. I plove some more by Dyak chief at long-house. He knows lots. Lajah Saffir tell him. It all tlue, Mlaxon.” “And it is true about this man—the thing that you have told us is true? He is not one of those created in the laboratory?” “No, Mlaxon. You no makee fine young man like Blulan—you know lat, Mlaxon. You makee One, Two, Thlee—all up to Twelve. All fleaks. You ought to know, Mlaxon, lat you no can makee a Blulan.” During these revelations Bulan had sat with his eyes fixed upon the Chinaman. There was a puzzled expression upon his wan, blood-streaked face. It was as though he were trying to wrest from the inner temple of his consciousness a vague and tantalizing memory that eluded him each time that he felt he had it within his grasp—the key to the strange riddle that hid his origin. The girl kneeled close beside him, one small hand in his. Hope and happiness had supplanted the sorrow in her face. She tore the hem from her skirt, to bandage the bloody furrow that creased the man’s temple. Professor Maxon stood silently by, watching the loving tenderness that marked each deft, little movement of her strong, brown hands. The revelations of the past few minutes had shocked the old man into stupefied silence. It was difficult, almost impossible, for him to believe that Sing had spoken the truth and that this man was not one of the creatures of his own creation; yet from the bottom of his heart he prayed that it might prove the truth, for he saw that his daughter loved the man with a love that would be stayed by no obstacle or bound by no man-made law, or social custom. The Chinaman’s indictment of von Horn had come as an added blow to Professor Maxon, but it had brought its own supporting evidence in the flood of recollections it had induced in the professor’s mind. Now he recalled a hundred chance incidents and conversations with his assistant that pointed squarely toward the man’s disloyalty and villainy. He wondered that he had been so blind as not to have suspected his lieutenant long before. Virginia had at last succeeded in adjusting her rude bandage and stopping the flow of blood. Bulan had risen weakly to his feet. The girl supported him upon one side, and Sing upon the other. Professor Maxon approached the little group. “I do not know what to make of all that Sing has told us,” he said. “If you are not Number Thirteen who are you? Where did you come from? It seems very strange indeed—impossible, in fact. However, if you will explain who you are, I shall be glad to—ah—consider—ah—permitting you to pay court to my daughter.”