Coryndon watched him with some interest.  The Chinaman was applying some definite test to the silk, known to himself.  At last he turned his eyes on the Burman, staring with a gaunt, fierce look that saw many things, and when he spoke his words grated and rattled and his voice was almost beyond his control.

“See now, O servant of Justice, I am learned in the matter of silks, and without doubt this comes surely from but one place.”

Again he fell to touching the silk, and his crooked fingers shook as he explained that the fragment was one he could identify.  It was not the product of the silk looms of Burma, or Shantung; it could not be procured even in Japan.  It was a rare and special product fashioned by certain lake-dwellers in the Shan states, and so small was their output that it went to no market.

“In one shop only in Mangadone,” he said; “nay, in one shop only in the whole world may such silk be found.  Thus, in his craft, hath mine enemy overreached himself.”

“Thou art certain of this?”

“As I am that the sun will rise.”

Coryndon looked again at the silk, and sat silently thinking.

“The piece is cut off roughly,” he said, after a moment of reflection.  “Yet, could it be fitted into the space left in the roll, then thou art cleared, and hast just cause against Mhtoon Pah.”

“If thy madness comprehends so much, let it carry thee further still, O stricken and afflicted,” said Leh Shin, imploring him with voice and gesture.  “Night after night have I stood outside his shop, but who may enter through a locked door?  A breath, a shadow, or a flame, but not a man.”  He lay on the ground and dug his nails into the floor.  “I know the shop from within and without, and I know that the lock opens with difficulty but to one key, the key that hangs on a chain around the neck of Mhtoon Pah.”

Silence fell again as Leh Shin wrestled with the problem that confronted him.

“What saidst thou?” said the Burman, suddenly coming to life.  “A key?”

He gave a low, chuckling laugh and rocked about in his corner.

“Knowest thou of the story of Shiraz, the Punjabi?”

“I have no mind for tales,” said Leh Shin, striking at him with a futile blow of rage.

“Nay, restrain thy wrath, since thou hast spoken of a key.  With a key that was made by sorcery, he was enabled to open the treasure-box of the Lady Sahib, and often hath he told me that all doors may be opened by it, large or small.  It is not hard for me to take it from under his pillow while he sleeps.”

The Chinaman’s jaw dropped, and he cast up his hands in mute astonishment.  If this was madness, sanity appeared only a doubtful blessing set beside it.  He drew his own wits together, and leaning near the Burman laid before him the rough outline of a plan.

Mhtoon Pah’s ways were known to him.  Usually he went to the Pagoda after the shop was closed, and he returned from there late; it was impossible to be accurate as to the exact hour of his return.  To risk detection was to shatter all chance of success, and it was necessary to make sure before attempting to break into the shop and identify the silk rag with the original roll, if that might be done.