and he had no intimate friends.  He had one of those strange, shut faces; a mouth that told nothing, eyes that were nearly as expressionless as the eyes of Mhtoon Pah, and he had no restless movements.  A plethoric man, Joicey, a man who got up and sat down heavily, a man who looked at his business and not beyond it, and never troubled Society.  He probably knew that Heath lived in Mangadone, that was if Heath banked with him; otherwise, he might easily not have known it.

He knew of the Wilders.  He knew what Draycott Wilder owned, and he knew that Mrs. Wilder had a very small allowance of her own, paid quarterly through a Devonshire bank, but more than this he neither knew nor wished to know of them, and he never went to their house.

Joicey had not “worn well”; there was no denying that sweating years of Burmese rains and hot weathers had made him prematurely old.  His thick hair was patched with white, and his face was flabby and yellow.  Craven Joicey was one of those men, who, if he had died suddenly, would have made people remember that they always thought him unhealthy-looking.  There was nothing, romantic, exciting, or interesting about him; his mind was a huge pass-book, and his brain a network of facts and figures.  He played no games, went only seldom to the Club, and knew no one in the place better than he knew Hartley, which was little, but at any rate Hartley dined once or twice in the year with him, and he occasionally dined in return with the Head of the Police.

Hartley was so occupied with his trouble of mind on the subject of Absalom that he very nearly forgot that he had invited Joicey to dinner the following Saturday.  The police had discovered nothing whatever, and he had received another visit at his house from the curio dealer.  Mhtoon Pah, in a condition bordering upon frenzy, stated that when he had stood on his steps in the morning, intending to go to the Pagoda to offer alms to the priests, he had noticed his wooden effigy and gone down to look closer at him.  The yellow man pointed as was his wont, but over the pointing hand lay a rag soaked in blood.

Mhtoon Pah, immense and splendid in his silk, had given forth wild noises as he produced the rag, noises that reminded Hartley irresistibly of the trumpeting of elephants, but they were terrible to hear.

“It is enough,” he said, his face quivering.  “This is the work of the Chinamen.  They slit his veins, Thakin, they are doing it slowly.  The Thakin can understand that Absalom still lives, his blood is fresh and red, it is not dead blood that runs like treacle, it is living blood that spouts out hot, and that steams and smokes. Thakin, Thakin, I cry for vengeance.”

“I’m doing all I can, Mhtoon Pah,” said Hartley, desperately.  “I can’t go and arrest Leh Shin on suspicion, because there isn’t a vestige of suspicion attached to the man.”

“Not after this?” Mhtoon Pah pointed to the rag that lay loathsomely on the table.