Meanwhile Mr. Kitwater, for such was the name of the gentleman he had
just left, had begun his preparations for the night, vigorously cursing
the mosquitoes as he did so. He was a fine-looking man, with a powerful,
though somewhat humorous cast of countenance. His eyes were large, and
not unkindly. His head was a good one from a phrenological point of
view, but was marred by the possession of enormous ears which stood out
on either side of his head like those of a bat. He wore a close-cropped
beard, and he was famous for his strength, which indeed was that of
a giant.

"Hayle, if I can sum it up aright, is just the same as ever," he said as
he arranged the mosquito-netting of his bed. "He doesn't trust me, and I
don't trust him. But he'll be none the less useful for that. Let him try
to play me false, and by the Lord Harry, he'll not live to do it again."

With this amiable sentiment Mr. Kitwater prepared himself for slumber.

Then, upon the three worthies the hot, tropical night settled down.

Next morning they met at breakfast. All three were somewhat silent. It
was as if the weight of the matter which was that day to be discussed
pressed upon their spirits. The smallest of the trio, Septimus Codd by
name, who was habitually taciturn, spoke scarcely a word. He was a
strange little man, a nineteenth century villain in a sense. He was a
rogue and a vagabond, yet his one hobby, apart from his business, was a
study of the Past, and many an authority on Eastern History would have
been astonished at the extent of his learning. He was never so happy as
when burrowing amongst ancient records, and it was mainly due to his
learning in the first place, and to a somewhat singular accident in the
second, that the trio were now foregathered in Singapore. His personal