. Have you seen the assistant of Leh
Shin?"

Hartley wished that he had not; he frequently wished that he had never
seen that man.

Mhtoon Pah bent near the Head of the Police and spoke in low, sibilant
tones:

"He is a butcher's mate, _Thakin_. He is a slayer of flesh. He kills in
the shambles. Oh, it is true. I saw him slit the mouth of a dog with his
knife for his own mirth--"

"Swine!" said Hartley.

"Why he left there and went to live with Leh Shin is unknown. He has
secrets. He knows the best mixtures of opium, he knows--"

"I don't want to hear what he knows."

"He knows where Absalom is."

"You only think that," said Hartley, roughly. "It is a dangerous thing
to make these assertions. It is only your idea, Mhtoon Pah."

The Burman groaned aloud and held the rag between his hands.

"Put that down," said Hartley. Mhtoon Pah's very agony of desire to find
the boy was almost disgusting, and he turned away from the sight. "There
is no use your staying here, and no use your coming, unless there is
more of this devil's work," he pointed to the blood-stained cloth.
"Leave the thing here, and I will see what the doctors have to say
about it."

"_Thakin_, _Thakin_," said Mhtoon Pah. "The time grows late. My night's
rest is taken from me, and the Chinaman, Leh Shin, walks the roads. I
saw him from my place at sunset. I saw him go by like a cat that prowls
when night falls and it grows dark. He passed by my wooden image of a
dancing man, and he touched him as he passed--" he gave a despairing
gesture with his heavy hands. "Oh, Absalom, Absalom, my grief is heavy!"

"He will be either found or accounted for," said Hartley, with a
decision and firmness he was far from feeling, and Mhtoon Pah, with bent
head, went away out of the room.

The rain that had held off all day began to come down in pitiless
torrents, blown in by the wind, and fighting against bolts and bars. It
ruffled the muddy waters of the river, ran along the kennels of the
Chinese quarter, drove the inhabitants of Paradise Street indoors and
soused down over the Cantonment gardens, and battered on the travelling
carriage of Craven Joicey, that came along the road, a waterproof over
the pony's back and another covering the _syce_, and Joicey sat inside
the small green box, holding the window-strings under his heavy arms.

Joicey was not a cheerful companion, and in his present mood Fitzgibbon,
the Barrister, would have suited Hartley better; bu