He had given me the key to the mystery.  The letter for the Russian consul was the cause of Meeker’s attentions to me!  And, instead of being a newspaper correspondent, to Meeker I was a Russian agent, probably a spy!  It was all I could do to restrain myself from laughing in his face.

“Delivered it safely,” I repeated inanely.  “It was only an errand for a friend of mine, and I left it at the—­”

He waited for me to finish the sentence.  He forgot himself and failed to conceal his assumed nonchalance regarding the letter, for, as I cut off what I was saying, he held his fork poised over his lamb, so intent was he on learning where I had delivered the letter for the Russian consul.

I seized a glass of water and struggled with an imaginary obstruction in my throat, and mentally cursing my stupidity in telling my friend’s private business to a stranger who had already betrayed an inordinate interest in the letter.

“Where did you leave it?” purred Meeker.

“At the post-office,” I finished, amazed at his boldness in pursuing the destination of the letter, and having no qualms of conscience about telling him a falsehood.  I did not regard it as any of his affair where I had delivered the letter, and did not intend to inform him I had left the bulky envelope at the Hong-Kong-Shanghai Bank.

The image of the bank-front which crossed my mind gave me another clue to Meeker’s solicitude about me and the letter.  I remembered seeing a sign over the teller’s window, which stated that the bank was a branch of a Russian financial house.  What could be more natural for a Russian spy than to cash his drafts in a place which dealt with Vladivostok and Port Arthur, or even St. Petersburg and Moscow?

And, if he took me for a spy in the Russian service, it followed that he must be watching me for the Japanese, and it was probable that the cable-agent in Saigon was in the service of the Czar and found it convenient to deliver an important document with my assistance.

At that time Manila was the headquarters for blockade-runners bound for Port Arthur, and Russian and Japanese spies, from coolies to bankers, were watching every ship and every stranger.  So it was not strange that I, coming from French Indo-China, with a dispatch for the Russian consul, should be mistaken for a spy by Meeker the instant he read the address on the envelope and saw the wax seals.

I had a mind to tell the old fellow the joke on him, but that would require explaining where the letter to the consul came from, which would hardly be playing fair with my friend in Saigon.  If he knew the truth he might abandon his trip to Hong-Kong in the Kut Sang, and I would be rid of him, for I knew he was going with me in the steamer for the purpose of attempting to learn what my business would be in the British port.

If I was to remain in Manila I would have disillusioned him, and so put a stop to his trailing me about, but, as I was leaving in a few hours, I anticipated but little more trouble from him or the redheaded man.  Besides, I saw an opportunity to make game of him by telling him his mistake after we were well to sea and leading him on a fool’s voyage.