Here he found Professor Maxon much improved—the safe return of Virginia having acted as a tonic upon him. The girl and her father sat with von Horn upon the verandah of the long-house as Sing clambered up the notched log that led to it from the ground. At sight of Sing’s wrinkled old face Virginia Maxon sprang to her feet and ran forward to greet him, for she had been very fond of the shrewd and kindly Chinaman of whom she had seen so much during the dreary months of her imprisonment within the campong. “Oh, Sing,” she cried, “where have you been? We were all so worried to think that no sooner was one of us rescued than another became lost.” “Sing takee walk, Linee, las all,” said the grinning Chinaman. “Velly glad see Linee black ’gain,” and that was all that Sing Lee had to say of the adventures through which he had just passed, and the strange sights that he had seen. Again and again the girl and von Horn narrated the stirring scenes of the day, the latter being compelled to repeat all that had transpired from the moment that he had heard Virginia’s cry, though it was apparent that he only consented to speak of his part in her rescue under the most considerable urging. Very pretty modesty, thought Sing when he had heard the doctor’s version of the affair. “You see,” said von Horn, “when I reached the spot Number Three, the brute that you thought was an ape, had just turned you over to Number Thirteen, or, as the natives now call him, Bulan. You were then in a faint, and when I attacked Bulan he dropped you to defend himself. I had expected a bitter fight from him after the wild tales the natives have been telling of his ferocity, but it was soon evident that he is an arrant coward, for I did not even have to fire my revolver—a few thumps with the butt of it upon his brainless skull sent him howling into the jungle with his pack at his heels.” “How fortunate it is, my dear doctor,” said Professor Maxon, “that you were bright enough to think of trailing the miscreant into the jungle. But for that Virginia would still be in his clutches and by this time he would have been beyond all hope of capture. How can we ever repay you, dear friend?” “That you were generous enough to arrange when we first embarked upon the search for your daughter,” replied von Horn. “Just so, just so,” said the professor, but a shade of trouble tinged the expression of his face, and a moment later he arose, saying that he felt weak and tired and would go to his sleeping room and lie down for a while. The fact was that Professor Maxon regretted the promise he had made von Horn relative to his daughter.