“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?” “Bedad, it was a terrible touch-and-go business, as you shall hear. You see, I should first explain how I get so much liberty to go mouching round the bazaars and wharves. Being for so long weak in the head—and also of another country—allowances are made, and I’m looked on as an oddity, and yet well respected, for I’m clever with cures and language. Well, I used to poke about among a lot of scum that has no respect for any cloth whatever—no, nor for life itself; and all the time I felt in me bones I’d surely find what I wanted among a crew that’s just the sweepings of creation!