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. 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?”