The spot which had been thoughtfully selected by the trapper, was within a few hundred yards of a small cove, chosen as an inviting place for the tiger to come and slake his thirst.  The distant sound came from this direction and, by degrees, a faint but definite pulsation grew more audible and distinct, and finally resolved itself, into the steady throbbing of a motor-launch.  It was approaching.

Then from the back of Shafto’s mind he dragged out a memory of FitzGerald’s mention of a broken-down petrol boat.  Here was probably the very one—­by no means a derelict; on the contrary, a fast traveller.  For a moment he was startled, then promptly made up his mind.  This was a chance, perhaps, to secure some really valuable kubber.  More than once he had heard it rumoured that, in these distant creeks and bays, some of the smugglers had discharged their valuable cargo.  Well, if the cargo was now about to be landed, here was his opportunity!  As the bleating of the goat would undoubtedly give him away, he must get rid of the animal immediately, so he quickly shinned down the tree and commanded the trapper to remove it.

“Tiger not coming to-night,” he explained to the astonished Burman, who rejoined: 

“Tiger coming soon, soon, now; after the waning of the moon.”

“Oh well, never mind,” said Shafto impatiently, “you take away the goat.  Look sharp—­take him quickly, quickly and keep him.”

This was an extraordinary thakin, who, at the very climax of the tiger hour, climbed out of the machan and liberated the bait!  Certainly these English folk were mad.

“You go towards the camp,” he ordered, “and take my gun.”

The Burman, still completely bewildered, obeyed; he could not understand the situation, but he felt bound to do what he was told, and presently he disappeared, moving with obvious reluctance, leading the goat and carrying gun and cartridges.  His employer did not immediately follow, but remained for a considerable time motionless—­listening.  The pulsation had almost ceased—­evidently the motor-boat had arrived at her destination, which was unfortunately not in his immediate vicinity.  He crept stealthily along in the direction of the possible anchorage, fighting his way through roots and undergrowth; it was all of no use—­a barrier of morass and elephant grass proved absolutely impassable, so he turned back towards his camp, pausing now and then to listen.  He could make out voices—­one in an authoritative key summoning “Mung Li.”  Well, he had at least discovered something definite—­he was in the vicinity of smugglers.  In a short time he discovered something else; through a breach in the undergrowth he caught a glimpse of a Burman leading a stout, grey pony carrying a European saddle and—­unless his eyes entirely deceived him—­the animal was Krauss’s well-known weight carrier, “Dacoit.”

Two evenings later, at the Gymkhana Club, Krauss lounged up to Shafto, who happened to be looking on at a billiard match.  Taking a cigar out of his mouth he astonished him by saying: