“I was merely speeding a departing soul,” said Meeker.

“That’s all very well, Mr. Meeker, but I’ve got to see what this is all about, and why—­Mr. Trego is supercargo in charge of the ship and—­”

Riggs stopped suddenly when he realized that he had told us the secret which Trego wished kept from us.

“Well, I’ve got trouble enough,” he said, confused at what had happened.

“Nothing irregular, I trust,” said Meeker, raising his eyebrows in mild surprise and observing me cautiously.

“Too blasted irregular to suit me,” said Riggs.  “Gentlemen, I may as well tell you that this man is down on the passenger-list as a passenger like yourselves, but at the last minute before we sailed he showed papers as supercargo and announced that he was in charge of the ship, and that he represented the charter party.  The truth of his statements was borne out by a messenger from the owners.  He told me that he would explain it all as soon as we got to sea, and now he has been killed.  Is it any wonder I am upset about it?”

“It is passing strange,” said Meeker.  “Will you have to turn back to Manila on account of this?”

“My last orders to proceed to Hong-Kong at the best speed still stand.  The Dutchman, Rajah—­the Dutchman,” and he made a sign to the Malay boy to call the second mate.

The three of us gathered at the end of the table and steadied ourselves in the minute we waited for the Dutchman, who soon came clumping down the passage.  He nearly stumbled over the body lying just outside the coaming of the door, and then stopped and stared at the dead man.

“Gott!” he said, and then looked at Riggs questioningly.

“Take the bridge and have Mr. Harris muster the crew—­all hands, and look sharp,” said Riggs.  “Have every man Jack of ’em up here, and let us see what they have been about.  Have Mr. Harris muster the crew!  Hear me?  Don’t stand there like a barn-owl!  Relieve Mr. Harris, and have all hands aft!”

He hurried away, and that was the last I ever saw of the second mate of the Kut Sang.  Rajah and a Chinese sailor spread old canvas close to the door inside the saloon, and lifted Trego’s body on it.

Harris came up the passage and leaned against the door.  He had on an old pair of dungaree trousers and a jacket that had been white, and his bare feet were thrust into native heelless slippers.

“This is a nice mess, ain’t it?” he growled, looking coldly at the scene before him.  “Who let the knife into him?”

“That’s what we want to find out at once,” said Riggs.  “Have all hands up here, the watch below and all.  Muster them in the passageway, and let them in here one at a time, the white hands first.  We’ve got to get at the bottom of this affair right away, Mr. Harris.”

“Like as not somebody’ll know the knife, cap’n,” suggested the mate.

“That’s it, Mr. Harris.  Bring ’em up here with a sharp turn and no laying back, and you be here so I can find out what every man has been at in the last quarter of an hour—­you know what this means.”