as for the
profit he hoped to gain from their sale. When he had twice made a tour
of inspection, he placed an alabaster Buddha in the centre of a carved
table and sat down before it. The Buddha was dead white, with a red
chain around his neck, and on his head a gold cap with long, gem-set
ears hanging to the shoulders, and Mhtoon Pah sat long in front of the
figure, swaying a little and moving his lips soundlessly. He appeared
like a man who is self-mesmerized by the flame of a candle, and his face
worked with suppressed and violent emotion; at any moment it seemed as
though he might break the silence with some awful, passion-tossed
sound.

Suddenly, he stopped in his voiceless worship, and, leaning forward
quickly, extinguished the lamp. If he had heard any sound, it was
apparently from below, for he crouched on the ground with his head close
to the teak boarding, and crawled with slow, noiseless care towards the
door. A silk curtain covered the window, hiding the interior of the shop
from the street, and, when he reached the low woodwork above which it
hung, he twitched the curtain back with a sudden movement of his hand
and raised himself slowly until his head was on a level with the glass.

Mhtoon Pah grew suddenly rigid, and the thick black hair on his head
seemed to bristle. Pressed close against the window, with only a slender
barrier of glass between them, was the face of Leh Shin, the Chinaman. A
ray of white moonlight fell across them both, and its clear radiance
lighted up every feature of the curio dealer's face, changing its brown
into a strange, ghastly pallor. For a moment they stood immovable,
staring into each other's eyes, and the shadows behind Mhtoon Pah in the
shop, and the shadows behind Leh Shin in the street, seemed to listen
and wait with them, seemed to creep closer and enfold them, seemed to
draw up and up on noiseless feet and hang suspended around them. The
moment might have endured for years, so full was it of menace and
passion, and then the man outside moved quickly and the moonlight
flooded in across the face and shoulders of the Burman.

For a second longer he remained as though fascinated, and then Mhtoon
Pah wrenched at the door and thundered back the heavy bolts. There were
flecks of foam on his lips, and his eyes rolled as he dashed through the
door and out down the steps, rending the air with cries of murder. He
was too late, the Chinaman had gone. When the street flocked out to