him over to the police.

I caught the indistinct figure of a man in white coming up, and threw
myself to one side to avoid him, but he stumbled in front of me, and we
went sprawling into the corridor below. It was a nasty spill, and I shot
out on the matting at full length with my hands thrown before me. The
polished teak-wood floor and the loose matting saved me from injury.

"My dear sir!" exclaimed the man who fell with me, and I found the Rev.
Luther Meeker sitting on a crumpled mat and propped up with his arms
behind him, while his pith helmet went dancing away on its rim to settle
crazily upon its crown a dozen feet from us.

For an instant I was tempted to attack him, when I realized that his
presence on the stairs and his interruption of my pursuit of the
redheaded man were significant of more than an accident, and that Meeker
and the other were spying upon me. I bridled my ire, and decided to play
the game out with them and fathom the mystery of their espionage.

"My dear sir, I am almost certain that I have sprained my back--I am sure
I have injured my back!"

"I am sorry for your back," I said, getting to my feet. "For my part, I
am satisfied to escape without a broken neck."

"My immortal soul, if it isn't Mr. Trenholm!" said he, blinking at me,
his goggles bobbing on a rubber string made fast to a jacket-button. "Of
all persons, Mr. Trenholm! Bless my soul!"

My mental remark was somewhat similar and with equal fervour, if not
complimentary to him and his soul. Brushing my soiled ducks, I started to
move away, for it would never do to assume an excess of friendship too
suddenly.

"Just one moment, Mr. Trenholm--" he called after me, shaking a bony
forefinger--"just one moment, I beg of you, sir! I have some information
which I desire to impart, and, strangely enough, I was seeking you when
this unfortunate tumble came about, partly through my infirmities, I am
sure. One moment, sir. It is to your advantage to wait, I assure you."

"What is it?" I asked, hesitating. The little beggar had undoubtedly
escaped, and I knew that in Meeker I had bigger game if I handled him
cautiously.

"The _Kut Sang_!" he said, arising with difficulty and holding his back
with one hand while he hobbled after his helmet.

I was convinced that his injury and decrepit bearing were clever bits of
acting.

"I desire to correct you regarding the _Kut Sang_" he cackled, caressing
the recovered helmet.

"What about it? M