“Hang a parson, anyway,” growled Riggs, grinning at me.  “They always make a fuss—­like as not he’ll sing his way to Hong-Kong, with that old melodeon of his.  Oh, Mr. Harris!  There are two men below with a parson who say they are sailors.  Have the Dutchman sign them on if they are able hands.”

He went down the ladder again to the fore-deck, and I went down to my stateroom to see that my baggage was safe.

“Smart job, my man; smart job!” I heard the Rev. Luther Meeker saying as I stepped into the passage.

He was in the stateroom next to mine, but the door was open.

“Who’s that?” asked somebody cautiously.  Then, in a louder tone:  “We got your dunnage stowed all snug, sir.”

I stepped into my room, and, after a minute’s whispered consultation, I heard some one step into the passageway and run forward.  Looking out I saw the little red-headed man scurrying away.

“Single her up!” called Captain Riggs from the bridge, and I knew we were letting go of Manila as the winches drew in the mooring-lines, and the whistle blew a farewell blast.

The nose of the Kut Sang fell away from the embankment and into the current of the Pasig, which swung her toward Manila Bay and the China Sea.

I could hear Meeker humming a tune and arranging his baggage.  I stood for an instant and pondered over the situation, not sure that I would not be wiser to remain in Manila rather than sail in the Kut Sang.  I shivered as I sensed danger about me, as one feels the presence of an intruder in the dark that cannot be seen.

Then I laughed at myself, and opened my bag for my pistols.

CHAPTER V

THE DEAD MAN IN THE PASSAGE

The Kut Sang was dropping downstream as I locked my stateroom and made my way to the upper-deck, partly to get a last look at Manila, but more for the purpose of considering what I should do in the matter of telling Captain Riggs that I suspected Meeker was not a missionary.

In the last few minutes before the departure of the vessel I had suddenly been struck with the idea that Meeker was more than a mere spy who mistook me for one of his own ilk.  This feeling was vague and formless, and I did not know how to begin to put together the various elements that seemed to connect some sort of a well-defined plot.

No sooner would I set about putting certain facts together than I would laugh at myself for manufacturing a mystery; and, after I had tried to shake off the impression that the Kut Sang and all of us in her were more than mere travellers and seamen, the fantastic ideas insisted upon running through my head.

Through this formless mass of queer events of the day, Meeker and the little red-headed man kept to the front of my fancies, and with them the steamer Kut Sang.

Why, I asked myself, had Meeker made such strenuous efforts to keep me from taking passage in the vessel?  It seemed absurd to suppose that he had acted as he did, simply because he disliked the idea of having me for a fellow passenger.