"Surely that is an ordinary point of view," said Fuchsia, "and talking of evil deeds, such as big and little lies--murder--robbery--fraud, does anyone think there is _real_ harm in smuggling? No one would call that an evil deed, although it is punishable by law. I must confess that it appeals to me enormously; it's like a game, a sort of hide and seek. If I only had an opening, I feel confident that it is _in_ me to become a most accomplished professional! There is no injury to anyone, and it must be so exciting, and if you bring it off, oh, what a triumph! I did envy a woman I came across with from France. She landed a twenty-thousand pearl necklace in a hair-pad."

"You needn't go far for smuggling--there's plenty of it in this country," said Mrs. Pomeroy, in her slow, decided manner. "My husband says it is on the increase, and is a most serious question--a matter of vital concern."

"Increase!" echoed Krauss. "No, no, my dear lady, that is nonsense; don't you believe it. Smuggling isn't worth while in Burma--it couldn't pay."

"Oh, but it does exist and it pays hand over fist," argued Shafto.

"Why only last week a piano-case full of opium was taken off a Chinese steamer."

"Opium smuggling!" broke in Fuchsia eagerly. "We know all about that in the States. Opium smuggling is frightfully bad in 'Frisco. There are deadly dens in parts of the town, where they say they make away with people."

"And here people make away with themselves," supplemented Shafto, whose thoughts flew to a recent suicide.

"Did any of you ever happen to read a story by Frank Norris about a girl who was lost?" And Fuchsia planted her sharp elbows on the table and cast an interrogative glance round her audience. "No, I expect not; but it's perfectly true. Then listen," she proceeded with an air of genial narration. "A pretty girl and her fiance--both from New York--were poking round the sights in 'Frisco and, leaving the rest of their party, pushed on into the worst Chinese quarter, without a guide.

It had such a bad name that even the police gave it a wide berth.

Well, in they went, these two innocents; it looked quite all right, just the same as other places they had visited, and they found a real dandy tea-house and ordered tea. Whilst they waited a most superior Chinaman appeared and invited the young man to come and inspect a wonderful piece of silk. He said it would not take him a moment to look at, while the young lady was resting; so the young man accepted the invitation, examined the beautiful piece of silk, made an offer for yards and yards, and hurried back, only to find that the girl had disappeared. Her gloves and sunshade were there all right, but she was never seen again, although her people offered an enormous reward, and more or less raised Cain!"

"Oh, that's just a bit of sensational fiction," growled Herr Krauss, "and I dare say brought the author a couple of hundred dollars. They pay high rates for that sort of rubbish in the States."

"I shouldn't be surprised if it couldn't be pretty well matched here,"

was Shafto's bold declaration. "Not in the way of kidnapping inquisitive young ladies, but there are dens and spiders' webs in Rangoon where people are drawn in like flies--and die like flies."

Krauss threw back his head, gave a loud harsh laugh, and tossed off a tumbler of champagne.

"Young Shafto," he exclaimed, "you _are_ a funny fellow!"

"I do believe there is something in what Mr. Shafto says," said Fuchsia in her thin nasal voice. "I was told this as a mighty secret--but of course it's safe here," throwing a complacent glance round the table, "and I'd just like you all to know that the reason Mr. FitzGerald was sent for in such a hurry is that the police have been given the straight tip, and expect to make a real fine haul of smugglers and opium--this very night!"

Herr Krauss glanced quickly at his neighbour, his eyes flickering.

"Mr. FitzGerald," she continued, "said that if he could only get hold of one or two big men who are behind the cocaine and opium trade he'd be doing a service to the world; he is most frightfully keen on catching them."

"Not easy to catch what doesn't exist," declared Herr Krauss in his guttural voice.

"But smuggling does exist--surely you know that, and smuggling on an enormous scale," p.r.o.nounced Mrs. Pomeroy authoritatively; "there are awful dens off the China bazaar."

"Yes, the place is honeycombed with them," supplemented Shafto.

"Pray, how do you know?" demanded Krauss with asperity.

"Well, since you ask me--I've been in one or two."

"Getting copy for a book, eh? Local colour--and local atmosphere."

"The atmosphere was pretty foul," rejoined Shafto; "I don't attempt to write."

"Not even fiction?"

There was a bitter sneer in Krauss's question.

"No, not even fiction," echoed Shafto stolidly.

"Now, I'll tell you all something that sounds like fiction or a dime novel," volunteered the irrepressible Fuchsia. Then, without a pause, she continued: "Mr. FitzGerald got a note from a broken-down European loafer; a gentleman who had lost every single thing in the wide world--self-respect, money, friends and wits--through drugs and nothing else; he could not keep away from them unless he was chained up, but he wanted to save others from his own wretched fate."

"That was very splendid of the loafer!" remarked Mr. Krauss, and leaning back in his chair he beckoned to a waiter and said: "Boy, champagne!" When the champagne was brought, he said: "Let us all drink the health of this n.o.ble loafer, who cannot help himself but helps others. Here's to the benevolent informer! Let us hope he will meet with his reward--even in this life," and he raised a br.i.m.m.i.n.g gla.s.s.

"I'm afraid there's not much chance of that, poor chap," murmured Shafto, "for if he is a man I know, he is down and under--his case is hopeless."

Mrs. Pomeroy, who had been slowly drawing on her gloves, now pushed back her chair and rose and, with sudden unanimity, the company broke up and dispersed.

Little did Fuchsia suppose, as she chattered unguardedly and gave away a confidence, that, in doing so, she had signed what was neither more nor less than a sentence of death.

CHAPTER XXV

THE LATE RICHARD ROSCOE

Two days after the ball, as Shafto was pa.s.sing through the veranda, Roscoe met him, took him by the arm, accompanied him into his room, and solemnly closed the door.

"Anything up?"

"Well, yes, there is," replied Roscoe gravely, "and I thought I'd tell you when we were by ourselves. That cousin of mine, Dirk Roscoe, has been done for. He was found this morning in a back drain, in one of the gullies, with the stab of a _dah_ in his back."

"Oh, poor chap!" exclaimed Shafto.

"Well, he hadn't much of a life to lose, had he? However, such as it was, he laid it down for others."

"Then I suppose it was he who put FitzGerald on the track of this splendid haul--six hundred ounces of cocaine?"

"It was--yes, although he knew the risk he ran. He sent FitzGerald a line and warned him that there would be two sampans in Bozo creek; that one sampan would be a decoy, loaded with stones, but that they would find what they wanted in the other, which would attempt to clear off whilst they were examining the dummy. It's a pretty big loss to some people, and cocaine will be scarce for a week or two--and dear."

"It beats me to understand how these beggars manage to find the money?"

"Oh, they prowl round at night and thieve--and are capable of the most daring theft. I've known them steal a whole lot of furniture out of a sitting-room, a man's evening clothes out of his dressing-room--not forgetting his gold watch and chain and even tooth-brush and tumbler.

Once they actually had the cheek to take a pony belonging to the Chief Inspector of Police and sell him over at Moulmein. The small fry take taps, pipes, bits of zinc roofing, rope--anything that will bring in a few annas."

"What about your cousin? Tell me more."

"Not much more to tell. He is in the mortuary and, of course, there has been the usual inquest; he will be buried this evening, quite late; FitzGerald and I are going to the funeral."

"I'll come, too, if I may."

"All right, do. Our padre is a brick--he is having a quiet service in the cemetery at ten o'clock; there is a good moon. If it had been a public, daylight affair, lots of questions would have to be asked--and answered."

At ten o'clock the three Englishmen and the chaplain stood round the grave of a man who, within the last few hours, had arrived at the end of a wasted life--a victim to the drug that deals misery and destruction. As the three chums walked away to where their horses awaited them, Roscoe said:

"My cousin Richard, although he looked any age under eighty, was only thirty-five--two years younger than myself."