A queer, cold expression settled upon Sarojini Nanjee's face. Only her eyes were warm: they burned like melted opals. She smiled—a rather terrible smile.
"I had not heard that before, that your friend was murdered," she announced. "Why did not you tell me?"
"Why should I?"
Her eyes searched his face; encountered that barrier of impassivity.
"You say you suspected the monks?"
"Not until I reached Shingtse-lunpo."
A pause before she pursued:
"But why, even then, did you suspect them? What motive—"
"I'm at loss for a motive," he cut in quietly. "I don't know what to think, for, you see, I found this"—he drew from under his robe a glittering object—"in his, in Captain Manlove's, hand."
He opened the silver-chased pendant and extended it to her. She glanced at the name graven within; looked up at him. The lids sank over her eyes—to cover surprise, he imagined.