In a few minutes Lan Yek stood before Terry, his Mongolian imperturbability shaken by this night summons from an officer of the law. With the natives' love of ragging a Chinamen, Mercado had been very stern and mysterious concerning his mission--and Lan Yek knew a thing or two about opium smuggling that bothered him as he faced the American. Terry repeated his inquiry regarding the identity of the white-eyed native, and Lan Yek's response was startlingly illuminating. "Yes, me know him. Me know white-eyed fellah. His name Malabanan!" Malabanan! This had been the "visit" they had told Ledesma's wife they would pay Terry. "Lan Yek, when did you see him last?" "To-night he come, buy cigalet, no pay--talk 'Melican talk--tell me 'Go to Hell.'" Terry gestured his dismissal and the nervous Celestial scurried away, relieved that the interrogation had not been intimate. Terry briefly recounted to Mercado what had occurred on the dock, ordered him to send out a patrol at once to circle the town at a distance of five miles to discover if possible upon what trail the pair had ridden out, emphasizing that the patrol was to return and report to him, regardless of the hour of arrival. "And hold the men in instant readiness. I may need them at any moment during the night." There was at least one supremely happy man in the Gulf that night, for the Sergeant's joy was a living thing as he departed to put the orders into effect. A moment later Terry heard the kitchen door open slowly, and looking up he beheld the mottled face and burning eyes of the Moro. It was manifest that Matak had overheard Lan Yek. He stood in the doorway battling for his voice. "Master," he said huskily, "I knew you would help me find him." Gratitude suffused his face, then receded before the tide of Mohammedan fanaticism and fury which welled up from his bitter heart. Stepping backward, he kept his eyes fastened upon Terry till he had passed through the door into the kitchen. Terry was deeply disturbed by this unforeseen turn of events. He had decided against informing Matak until he had lodged Malabanan safely behind prison walls, then to confront him with the Moro and if he proved to be Matak's long sought enemy, he would add the charge of triple murder against the desperado. The day of private vengeance must pass in Mindanao--vengeful killings were murder, punishable as murder. He called to Matak, then again, but there was no answer. He hurried into the kitchen, into Matak's room, then down into the double stable back of the house. But Matak was gone, and so was Terry's spare pony. Realizing the futility of searching for him in the night, he composed himself as best he could. It added another phase to the exigency--everything now rested with the patrols who were tirelessly combing the Gulf to discover the new rendezvous.