With a sudden change of manner he squatted near the ear of Leh Shin and talked in a soft whisper.

“Is not the time ripe, O wise old man, is not the hour come when thou mayst go to the house of the white Sahib and demand a piece for closed lips?”

He pursed up his small mouth and pointed at it.

Leh Shin shook his head.

“I am already paid, and I will not demand further, lest he, whom we know of, come no more.  Drive not the spent of strength; since the price is sufficient, I may not demand more, lest I sin in so doing.”

The assistant glared at him with angry eyes.

“Fool, and thrice fool,” he muttered under his breath, but Leh Shin did not heed him, and did not even appear to hear what he said.  For a long time the old Chinaman seemed wrapped in his thought, and at last he got up, and leaving the shop, went towards the principal Joss House that faced the river.

Coryndon had chosen the empty shop in the Colonnade for two reasons.  It was near Leh Shin, and near the strange assistant, who interested him nearly as much as Leh Shin himself, and also it had the additional advantage of being the last house in the block.  A narrow alley full of refuse of every description lay between it and the next block, and the rickety house had doors that opened to the front, and to the side, and by way of a dark lane directly from the back, making ingress or egress a matter of wide choice.

The shop front was shuttered, and left to the rats and cockroaches, and up a flight of decrepit and shaky stairs, Shiraz had made what shift he could to provide comfort for his master in the least dilapidated room in the house.  The walls were thin, and the plaster of the low ceiling was smoke-grimed and dirty.  The “bed of lesser value” was stored away in the garret that lay beyond, and the prayer-mat was placed alongside the toil-worn wooden charpoy, that was at least fairly clean and had all four legs intact; and under this bed, the box that held a strange assortment of clothing was put safely away.  At the bottom of another box, one of those bought by Coryndon himself from Leh Sin’s assistant, Shiraz had laid a suit of tussore silk, a few shirts and collars, and anything that his master might require if he wished to revisit those “glimpses of the moon” in the Cantonments; for Shiraz neglected nothing, and had a genius for detail.

A hurricane lamp, that threw impartial light upon all sides, stood on a round table, and lighted the small room, and at one corner Coryndon sat, clad in his Burmese loongyi and white coat, thinking, his chin on his folded hands.  He had taught himself to think without paper or pens, and to record his impressions with the same diligent care as though he wrote them upon paper.  He could command his thoughts, and direct them towards one end and one issue, and he believed that notes were an abomination, and that, in his Service, memory was the only safe recorder of progress.