Again the little band moved forward, still tracing the slot of the tiger and the flecks of blood upon the grass. These led them to the gate of the compound, and through it, to the 'áman, or open space before the house. Here the spoor vanished at a spot where the rank spear-blades of the lâlang grass had been crushed to earth by the weight of some heavy body. To it the trail of the limping tiger led. Away from it there were no footprints, save those of the human beings who come and go through the untidy weeds and grasses which cloak the soil in a Malayan compound.
Pĕnghûlu Mat Saleh and his followers exchanged troubled glances.
"Come, let us ascend into the house," said the former; and forthwith led the way up the stair-ladder of the dwelling where Haji Ali lived with his two sons, and whence a month or two before Patîmah had fled during the night time with a deadly fear in her eyes and an incredible story faltering upon her lips.
The Pĕnghûlu and his people found Abas, one of the Haji's sons, sitting cross-legged in the outer apartment, preparing a quid of betel nut with elaborate care. The visitors squatted on the mats and exchanged with him the customary salutations. Then Pĕnghûlu Mat Saleh said:
"I have come hither that I may see your father. Is he within the house?"
"He is," replied Abas laconically.
"Then, make known to him that I would have speech with him."
