One evening the latter beckoned to Shafto to dismount, and, leading him apart, assured him that he was creeping on at last.  “As soon as I know what I think I know, I’ll send you a bit of a chit.  It’s an awful traffic, this infernal trade, now I’ve seen into it, cheek by jowl; these drugs is worse and crueller than wild animals, and we can’t kill them.”

“No, worse luck!” assented Shafto; “they kill us.  I say, Mung Baw, don’t your friends in the monastery wonder why I so often ride round this way and look you up?”

“Oh, yes, some does be as curious as a cat in a strange larder, but I have it all explained to their satisfaction.”  Then, dropping his voice, he added mysteriously:  “They think I’m convarting you!”

“What—­to Buddhism!” And Shafto burst out laughing.

“Faix, ye might do worse.”

“Possibly; but I am all right as I am.”

“That’s a good hearing.  Well, I’m not for troubling anyone’s mind, shure; aren’t we all,” with a sweep of his powerful hand, “shtriving to reach the same place, and if it’s what I expect, I’ll hope to meet ye?  There’s the gong for prayers, and I must fall in.”

Two days later Shafto received a letter written in a neat clerkly hand. 
It said: 

“If you will be at the Great Goddema in the woods beyond the Turtle Tank by five o’clock to-morrow, Tuesday, you may hear news,—­M.R.”

The Great Goddema in the woods is a gigantic image in alabaster, encompassed by palm ferns, and half clothed in flowering creepers.  The day of this particular shrine has sunk below the horizon; worshippers are absent and the flowers laid around and about are entirely the contribution of Nature herself.  Some day the shrine will disappear altogether, buried, like many others, in appreciative vegetation.

As Shafto approached the rendezvous, he saw the pongye seated on the steps, engrossed in a book with a red cover, which he hastily thrust into some inner pocket as he rose to his feet.

“Ye might not think it, but I’m a great reader,” he explained apologetically.  “It passes the time and is no sin; the saints themselves were wonderful writers and readers.  A friend here gets me books out of the public library, and then I borrow when I can.”

“What have you got hold of now?” inquired Shafto.

“‘Fifteen Decisive Battles of the World,’ and before that, ’Jungle Tales.’  I could tell a good few myself; animals and birds does be very friendly and confidential with me; but it’s not books I brought you here to talk about, but cocaine and opium.”

“Yes, rather.  Have you any news?”

“I have so.  I’ve found out what I may call the head lair of the divils.”

“Good for you—­how splendid!  How did you manage it?”