"A sampan is following," translated the girl in her tiny voice, "but we are nearly there. In a moment you will be safe."
"Where?" demanded Peter, staring over the red-faced man's shoulder for a glimpse of the other sampan.
"The King of Asia," she told him. "In a moment, birahi, in a moment."
Her tones were those of a little mother.
But Peter was staring anxiously into the red face, trying to decipher an explanation.
"I told the red-faced one to be here, too, at midnight," the girl was whispering in his ear. "He came. He is a friend. Your fears were wrong, birahi."
The sampan lurched, scraping and tapping along a surface rough and metallic.
The yellow face of the old woman again appeared in the hatchway. A bar of keen, white light thrust its way into the cabin. It came from somewhere above. No longer could Peter hear the groan and swish of the sweep, and the cabin no longer keeled from side to side. He guessed that the sampan was alongside.
The old woman motioned for him to come out.
"I am not coming aboard; I am going back to my hotel," said the red-faced man. "You will not leave this ship? You will promise me that?"