had regretted that; he was fearful of losing the art, the knack.

About the fat paunch of the merchant was a silver-studded belt. Hunsa
eyed this speculatively. Beyond doubt in its neighbourhood would be
the key to the iron box; and when its owner lay on his back, his
bulbous eyes glaring upward to where the moon trickled through the
thick foliage of the mango tree beneath which they sat, he would seize
the keys and be first to dabble his grimy fingers in the glittering
gems.

Beyond, the village had hushed--the strident call of voices had ceased.
Somewhere a woman was pounding grain in a wooden mortar--a dull
monotonous "thud, thud, swish, thud" carrying on the dead air.
Night-jars were circling above the trees, their plaintive call,
"chy-eece, chy-e-ece!" filtering downward like the weird cry of
spirits. Once the deep sonorous bugling note of a _saurus_, like the
bass pipe of an organ, smote the stillness as the giant crane winged
his way up the river that lay beyond, a mighty ribbon of silver in the
moonlight. A jackal from the far side of the village, in the fields,
raised a tremulous moan.

Sookdee looked into the eyes of Hunsa and he understood. It was the
_tibao_, the happiest augury of success, for it came over the right
shoulder of the victim.

Hunsa, feeling that the moment to strike had come, rose carelessly,
saying: "Give me tobacco."

That was a universal signal amongst thugs, the command to strike.