One warm, clear night, when the sky glittered with stars, and a young moon showed against it, Mah Khine made ready to take some silks that she had been washing home. She had promised them, for it was the eve of a great Buddhist feast. It was a long way for her to go, right across the town, but she did not mind. So she cleared up the remains of their evening rice, swept the floor with her straw besom, filled the water-chatty standing in the corner afresh, bade Mah May to watch carefully; and Mah May assured her, as she had often done before, that if any one was ever to find out their secret, the money they should never have, save they killed her first. So Mah Khine took up her bundle and went forth into the radiance of the night.
Mah May looked after her until she was out of sight, and then squatted down, smoking.
The hours went by; the lights were put out in the huts. Mah May felt very sleepy and tired where she sat, but she was good—she remained awake, staring out into space....
A tall, dark figure stood before her. It was Moulla Khan; he had not been home for two days. His eyes were blood-shot, his turban disarranged. He stood over her, and looked down at her. She trembled a little; she feared him greatly. She stirred uneasily, but nevertheless met his look without flinching.
He only uttered one word, and that in a voice which drink had rendered hoarse and thick.
"Money." He spoke in Hindustani.
"I have none," she answered him in the same tongue.
He gave a sort of gurgling laugh.
"Look you," he muttered, "I know there is money hidden somewhere—pice and annas and rupees—and I will have it; I know it, I tell you, I know it."