He said no more to me, but remarked to no one in particular that “an austere manner is a poor passport in this country,” which implied that I was new to the East, and would learn better if I stayed long enough.  I ignored the remark, somewhat pleased that I had rebuffed him, for I well knew he would talk me into a fever if I did not keep him at a distance; and, furthermore, I did not relish the idea of having him intrude upon me at the hotel.  My dislike for him was not because he was a missionary, but because he was a common enough type of bore.  He was over suave, and his peevishness jarred my none too steady nerves.

The bus was not a pleasant place for me after that, so I dropped off in Plaza Moraga, when I observed the signboard of the very bank mentioned.  I cashed a draft and handed the letter to the clerk at the barred window.

“Oh, yes, we have been waiting for that!” he said as he took the envelope.  “Mr. Trego!  Here are your papers for the consul,” he called to a man somewhere behind the frosted glass wall.  “We appreciate your kindness very much, Mr. Trenholm.”

It was then that I first saw the little red-headed man.  He was looking in at the door, but scurried away when the Sikh guard inside moved toward him.  The little man wore a white canvas navy-cap; but his appearance was dirty and disreputable, and he had the aspect of a beggar.  His visage was wizened and villainous and shot with pock-marks under a coppery stubble of red beard, and his little mole-like eyes were that close together that they seemed fastened to his nose.

The clerk kept me waiting for signatures, and finally handed out my gold.  As I filled my purse I was conscious of some one behind me, and, glancing over my shoulder, I saw the Rev. Luther Meeker.

CHAPTER II

RED-HEADED BEGGAR AND MISSIONARY

Turning my back on him, I edged toward a desk.  It seemed to me that he had not recognized me as the austere man in the bus, or perhaps he chose to pass without encountering me again.  He stared about the place, leaning on one leg for a minute as if undecided what to do next, or not quite sure he was in the right establishment.

I could hear voices in a room close at hand, and Meeker turned toward the door, walking silently in his cloth deck-shoes, and passed into the room.  I heard a man give a cry of astonishment, followed by a growl of wrath, and Meeker ran out again, retreating backward and holding his hands up in protest.

“My dear sirs!” he whined.  “No offence, I am sure!  I hope you have taken no offence, for none was intended, and I did not mean to disturb any person—­I was simply asking alms for a seamen’s chapel, and I do most sincerely beg your pardons, gentlemen.”

He went into the street, and a sallow-faced man with a slender malacca cane held in his hand as if it were a rapier, came to the door of the room and said something in French, indignant that he should be disturbed.  He waved the cane menacingly after Meeker and slammed the door.