Herr Krauss sent Sophy a quantity of his wife’s jewels, with a letter thanking her for all her care and attention, but she only retained a ring that had been worn daily by her aunt, and returned the remainder, which was afterwards disposed of in Balthazar’s Sale Rooms and fetched a handsome sum.

It was said that Herr Krauss had felt his wife’s death acutely; he had left Rangoon without the ceremony of farewells, departing no one knew whither.

Time slipped by, and so far had brought no trace of the cocaine gang.  On several occasions Shafto had ridden round by the big Kyoung behind the Turtle Tank and met with no success—­nothing but a shake of the pongye’s shaven head.  On his first visit he had dismounted, given his horse to its syce, and boldly approached the monastery, outside of which an imposing group of pongyes was assembled.  The attitude of some was lofty and disdainful; others, with a friendly glance, acknowledged the stranger’s ceremonious greeting.  Towering majestically among his fellows stood Mung Baw, who, throwing them a hasty explanation, advanced to welcome Shafto with a soldierly tread and a jaunty swing of his yellow robe.  Then taking him aside he began to talk to him in a cautious undertone: 

“I am sorry to tell you I have no kubber yet.  If I had some female acquaintance it would so as easy as ‘kiss my hand,’ but I cannot break my vow or spake to a woman.”

“So you have no clue?”

“There’s dozens of clues, if I could get hold of one; that’s what aggravates me and has me tormented.  But I’ll worry it out yet, and that’s as sure as me name is Mick Ryan.”

“I thought it was Mung Baw.”

“So ’tis mostly—­and officially, but this business I’m on is a white man’s job, and if it’s to be done, I’ll do it.”  As he spoke he removed his clumsy horn spectacles, and Shafto realised that the eyes gazing unflinchingly into his own were those of an enthusiast, and possibly a hero.

Seen in tell-tale daylight, and without his disfiguring glasses, the pongye looked years younger; hitherto Shafto’s impression had been that his strange acquaintance was a man of fifty.  Five-and-thirty would be nearer the mark.  His eyes were a shade of deep indigo blue, with thick black lashes, high cheek bones were possibly a legacy from his Cingalese grandmother; a square, well-shaped head, firmly set upon a fine pair of shoulders, a square chin and jaw, and a well-cut mouth with shining white teeth, were his inheritance from the West.  Undoubtedly if Mung Baw’s religion had not compelled him to sacrifice every hair on his body—­including his eyebrows—­he would have been an uncommonly good-looking fellow, but an absolutely bare face and bald cranium was a heavy handicap—­were he Apollo himself!

At least thrice a week Shafto, in the character of a private inquiry officer, rode slowly round by the Kyoung and had a word or two with the tall upstanding priest.