Sophy had been carried off to the “Barn” a few hours after her aunt had passed away, and never again entered “Heidelberg.” The funeral was large, expensive, and imposing, and included a crowd of rather unexpected and decidedly shabby mourners, who brought with them offerings of cheap, home-made wreaths and crosses, and wore faces of sincere and unaffected grief. Strange to say, the grave prepared to receive Mrs. Krauss was next to that in which lay the remains of Richard Roscoe. The two cocaine victims rested side by side in death, drawn together by the long arm of coincidence.
It had been decided that Sophy was to remain at the “Barn” and accompany Mrs. Gregory when she went home in August. She quickly recovered her looks and spirits amid bright society and cheerful surroundings. There had been an auction at “Heidelberg,” everything was disposed of; the accumulation of twelve years was scattered to the winds, the servants were disbanded, and the house was closed.
Herr Krauss sent Sophy a quantity of his wife’s jewels, with a letter thanking her for all her care and attention, but she only retained a ring that had been worn daily by her aunt, and returned the remainder, which was afterwards disposed of in Balthazar’s Sale Rooms and fetched a handsome sum.
It was said that Herr Krauss had felt his wife’s death acutely; he had left Rangoon without the ceremony of farewells, departing no one knew whither.
Time slipped by, and so far had brought no trace of the cocaine gang. On several occasions Shafto had ridden round by the big Kyoung behind the Turtle Tank and met with no success—nothing but a shake of the pongye’s shaven head. On his first visit he had dismounted, given his horse to its syce, and boldly approached the monastery, outside of which an imposing group of pongyes was assembled. The attitude of some was lofty and disdainful; others, with a friendly glance, acknowledged the stranger’s ceremonious greeting. Towering majestically among his fellows stood Mung Baw, who, throwing them a hasty explanation, advanced to welcome Shafto with a soldierly tread and a jaunty swing of his yellow robe. Then taking him aside he began to talk to him in a cautious undertone:
“I am sorry to tell you I have no kubber yet. If I had some female acquaintance it would so as easy as ‘kiss my hand,’ but I cannot break my vow or spake to a woman.”
“So you have no clue?”
“There’s dozens of clues, if I could get hold of one; that’s what aggravates me and has me tormented. But I’ll worry it out yet, and that’s as sure as me name is Mick Ryan.”
“I thought it was Mung Baw.”
“So ’tis mostly—and officially, but this business I’m on is a white man’s job, and if it’s to be done, I’ll do it.” As he spoke he removed his clumsy horn spectacles, and Shafto realised that the eyes gazing unflinchingly into his own were those of an enthusiast, and possibly a hero.