"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? My dear Mr. Meeker, I am in a hurry and cannot waste the day waiting for you to talk. I am sorry for what has happened here, but I trust that you are not incapacitated. Anyway, I do not think there is anything you can tell me about the Kut Sang that I do not already know."
"Oh, but there is," he protested, holding up his hand and eyeing me craftily. "I was seeking you to tell you when we fell upon each other so unceremoniously. It is quite—"
"I suppose you want to tell me that the sailing has been delayed. I know all about that—she sails in the morning."
"Sails in the morning!" he exclaimed, pretending surprise, but being puzzled about something. "Does she?"
There was guile in that last question, and when he asked it I knew it was he or some one acting for him who had attempted to mislead me about the time of the vessel's departure. I saw a chance to trap him, and asked:
"Was that what you wanted to tell me?"
He parried it, and while he fumbled in his pockets for something, a trick to gain time, he was thinking hard and fast.