I took Philipson's place and a peep for myself. From this point a stretch of the winding creekside road into the city was visible, and along it, at a distance, I saw a ricsha approach at the walk. In it sat a huddled figure I recognised as Stephen Poyning. The road was already crowded with native traffic, but as I continued to look I noticed another ricsha, about a hundred yards farther off, which seemed to be keeping the first in sight and regulating its pace so as to remain at an even lapse behind. 'He's being followed,' I said. Philipson pulled me away and stared eagerly round the angle of the building. For a few moments he watched, intently silent, and when he drew back it was with an expression of mingled seriousness and relief. 'You recognise the man behind?' he queried. I took a closer look. 'Eh? Isn't it--' 'Lo Eng. My number-one boy. Something has gone awry. Also, Poyning is hurt--there is a bandage under that topee of his.' We stepped back into the sitting room, where Philipson swiftly laid out a small surgical outfit and summoned a servant, bidding him fetch hot water. The boy who brought it had hardly disappeared when there were heavy, ill-guided steps on the stairs without, and Poyning, pale as a corpse, his pongees plastered with mud and dust, staggered in. He set down a suitcase he was carrying, wincingly removed his helmet, and sank into a chair. Philipson laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. 'Not a word, young man,' he said, 'till I have plugged that hole in your head.' Poyning's white features broke into a drawn grin. 'Bacchus before Æsculapius, my dear sir,' he said. 'Give me a drink!' I mixed him a stiff champagne and brandy, which he swallowed at a go, and then Philipson, with the speed and firm skill of a surgeon and more than a woman's tenderness, bathed and dressed an ugly gash over the boy's forehead. He lay back for some moments with his eyes closed, while a spot of colour came slowly into his cheeks; then sat up and demanded a cigarette, which having received and lighted, Stephen Poyning plunged without further ado into his tale. Lo Eng had meanwhile entered the room. Philipson pointed to a chair, on the edge of which he sat, demurely listening.