He remained staring at the wall. 'Plucky of you to volunteer, Mirlees,' he said at last, 'but if either of us is to go, I might every bit as well go myself. Both of us would stand an excellent chance of being murdered.' At this moment there was a violent commotion outside our room. Philipson shot the papers back into his pocket and sprang up, covering the door with a revolver, as I could see, through the silk of his jacket. We heard scuffling footsteps and the voice of the Chinese landlady raised in strident wrath. Philipson tiptoed to the door, opened it quietly, and peered out, while I followed him, peeping over his shoulder. With the woman was a boy of about twenty-one, in Europe clothes and, apparently, a genial phase of alcohol, bowing and scraping to her like a dancing master and talking a sort of high-falutin jargon of which she couldn't possibly have understood two words. When he had satisfied himself there was nobody else, Philipson stepped out on to the broad landing, with me at his heels. The newcomer turned and faced us. He was short, well-knit, clad in smartly cut pongees that had suffered a little, it seemed, from his adventures of the evening; and as he bowed to us--with just a suspicion of a lurch--his regular, freckled features broke into a smile that disclosed two rows of very small white teeth. Whatever the fellow was, he was no hobo--that much I saw at once. 'Good evening, gentlemen,' he said. 'Would you believe it, this flinty-hearted Hebe actually denies me access to my own rooms!' The proprietress likewise turned to us, with shrill protest. 'Dis man he no hab pay money!' she screamed. 'No more long time can stay in dis house.' The youth threw up his hands disdainfully, as if surprised. 'How paltry!' he exclaimed. 'To break the harmony of our relations over a few wretched dollars which I do not for the moment happen to possess!' Philipson had been taking stock of the youth very comprehensively, though he didn't appear to be aware of it. 'What's your name?' demanded my friend. The newcomer returned Philipson's keen look with equal directness, raising his eyebrows slightly. 'Abruptly asked, if I may say so,' he remarked. 'My name is Stephen Poyning, at your service'--and with this he fetched a rather grandiose sweep of the topee he was holding in his hand. 'How much do you owe her?' Poyning faced the landlady. 'Prithee, woman,' he said, 'state the extent of indebtedness.' 'Dis man he no hab pay fifty dollar!' she returned. Philipson pulled a wad of notes from his pocket, counted out five of ten dollars each, pushed them into the landlady's hand and took her by the shoulders and directed her downstairs with a good deal more determination than gallantry. 'Now, sir,' he said, turning to Poyning, 'having relieved your immediate needs, I venture to inquire what is your business here.'