"Valuable help!" repeated the _pongye_, adjusting false horn spectacles and staring hard. "Then as far as it's in me power the help of every bone in me body is yours and at your service."

"Thank you. Now, tell me, have you ever heard of the cocaine trade in Burma?"

"Is it cocaine? To be sure! It's playing the mischief in Rangoon and all over the country."

"I want you to lend a hand in stopping it; if we could only discover the headquarters of the trade, it would be worth a thousand rubies."

"I have a sort of notion I could put me finger on a man that runs the concern; ever since he come into Burma he has been pushing the world before him and doing a great business. From my position, being part native, part British, part civilian, and more or less a priest of the country and clever at languages, I've learnt a few things I was never intinded to know."

"Then I expect you have picked up some facts about cocaine smuggling?"

"That's true, though I never let it soak into me mind; but from this out I promise ye I'll meditate upon it."

"If you can help the police to burst up this abominable traffic you will deserve to go to the highest heaven in the Buddhist faith."

"I'll do my best; I can say no fairer. I'm sorry ye won't take the ruby,"--turning it over regretfully. "Maybe your young lady would fancy it? It would look fine in a ring!"

"But I have no young lady, Mung Baw."

"Is that so?" He paused as if to consider the truth of this statement, cleared his throat and went on: "The other day, when I was down by the lake, I saw a young fellow, the very spit of yourself, riding alongside of a mighty pretty girl on a good-looking bay thoroughbred?"

Here he again paused, apparently awaiting a reply, but none being forthcoming, resumed:

"And now, before I go, I want to give ye what ye can't refuse or return--and that's a wise word. It was not entirely the ruby stone as brought me here--it was some loose talk."

"Loose talk, Mung Baw, and you a Buddhist priest! I'm astonished!"

"Yes, talk straight out of Fraser Street, my son. Many of our priests are holy saints; altogether too good to live; with no thought whatever of the world--given over entirely to prayer and self-denial, blameless and without one wicked thought; but there does be others that is totally different. 'Tis the same in a regiment--good soldiers and blackguards. Some of the _pongyes_, when the prayers is done, spend all their days gossiping, chewing betel nut and raking through bazaar--_mud_!" Then suddenly he leant forward and stared at his companion as if he were searching for something in his face, as he asked: "Do you happen to know a girl called 'Ma Chit'?"

Shafto moved uneasily in his creaking wicker chair; after a moment's hesitation he replied:

"Yes, I know her."

"Don't let her put the 'Comether' on you! These Burmese dolls have a wonderful way with them. She's a gabby little monkey, and they say she has chucked Bernard and taken a terrible fancy to you! I would be main sorry to see you mixed up with one of these young devils--for I know you are a straight-living gentleman."

"There is not the smallest chance of my being what you call 'mixed up'

with any young devil," said Shafto in a sulky voice. "As for Ma Chit--she is not the sort you suppose."

"Oh, may be not," rejoined the _pongye_ in a dubious tone. "Still, I know Burma--lock, stock and barrel, and a sight better nor you. Av course, I never spake to a woman and give them all a wide berth--but I cannot keep me ears shut. Listen to me, sir. These young torments have no scruple. Ma Chit is dead set on you, and that's the pure truth. Now, there's one thing I ask and beg--never take or smoke a cigarette she might offer."

"Not likely! I only smoke Egyptians, or a pipe. But tell me--why am I to refuse Ma Chit's cigarettes?"

"The reason is this, and a good one--these black scorpions employ what they call 'love charms.' Oh yes, laugh, laugh, laugh away! But one of these charms would soon make you laugh the wrong side of your mouth.

They are deadly, let me tell you; a cigarette loaded with a certain drug has been the ruin of more than one fine young fellow. I disremember the name of the stuff--it begins with an 'M,' and is surely made in h.e.l.l itself, for it drives a man stark mad. Once he smokes it he falls into a pit and is lost for ever, body and soul."

"Come, I say, isn't this a bit too thick, Mung Baw?"

"Well, you ask the doctors. There's a good few cases of lunacy and suicide in this country--all caused by a love charm; so when Ma Chit sidles up, showing her teeth, and offers you a smoke--you will know what to do. Now," concluded the visitor, scrambling to his feet, "I must be on the move. I am stopping for a while at the big Pongye Kyoung, near the Turtle Tank, and if you should happen to be riding round that way, we might have a talk on this cocaine business. If I am to go into it, neck and crop, I can't be coming about here--as it would excite suspicion."

"All right then; I'll turn up and you will report progress; but how am I to spot you among the crowd of priests?"

"Easy enough!" replied Mung Baw, drawing himself up to his full height; "I'm the tallest _pongye_ in Rangoon."

"Yes, no doubt. Burmese are a bit undersized."

"But fine, able-bodied fellows. I suppose you've seen the wrestlers?"

"Yes. Now, before you go, can I get you a drink or a smoke?"

"Oh, as for a smoke, I'm thinking your tobacco would not be strong enough for me, but I don't say that I wouldn't like a drink, although I am a sober man; just the least little taste of whisky and water, as a sort of souvenir of old times. Ye might bring it in here, for I don't want them native chaps makin' a scandal about me."

As soon as the _pongye_ had been secretly supplied with a fairly moderate souvenir, he resumed his sandals, picked up his umbrella and begging-bowl and, with a military salute to Shafto, swept down the rickety stairs.

CHAPTER x.x.x

ENLIGHTENMENT

Miss Fuschia Bliss was still in Rangoon and, as she modestly expressed it, "crawling round, on approval." She had brought letters of introduction to the Lieutenant-Governor, the Pomeroys, and the Gregorys. Sir Horace and Lady Winter had no young people, so she presently pa.s.sed on to the Pomeroys, who in their turn reluctantly yielded their guest to Mrs. Gregory.

Hosts and hostesses were only too glad to secure the company of Miss Bliss, a girl who had seen so many strange countries, and noticed so much with her sharp eyes, that her inferences and original remarks were equally novel and interesting. Fuchsia's society was invigorating, and the American could easily have put in twelve months in Burma if so disposed. But one obstacle--and one only--interposed, and detained her from joining her friends in Cairo. (This is in the strictest confidence.) She was awaiting the moment when that great, big stupid Irishman would speak!

Although Fuchsia looked no more than two- or three-and-twenty, eight-and-twenty summers had pa.s.sed over her ash-coloured head. She had received an excellent education, had travelled far, and was as experienced and worldly-wise as any matron of fifty. Indeed, in natural wit and the art of putting two and two together, she was considerably ahead of most of her s.e.x.

Mrs. Gregory enjoyed having young people with her, but her mornings were engaged. She had a hand in the princ.i.p.al benevolent societies in the place; was treasurer of this, or secretary of that, apart from her house-keeping and large correspondence, so that she was rarely at liberty before tiffin; therefore Fuchsia had all the forenoon to herself, and spent the time visiting her girl friends or shopping in the bazaar. The heiress had hired a motor, a little two-seater that she could drive, and with respect to locomotion was entirely independent of her hostess. No one in Fuchsia's circle received so many visits as Sophy Leigh; she was fond of Sophy, and frequently turned up at "Heidelberg" to tiffin or to tea, although she did not care about the set of people that she met there--stout German ladies with somewhat aggressive manners, or second-rate women from the fringe of Society. Everyone of these was, in the eyes of the little American democrat, an "Outsider." Fuchsia was fastidious, an aristocrat to her finger-tips, and it was no drawback to Pat FitzGerald that his maternal uncle was an earl.

"How could Sophy tolerate these stupid people," Fuchsia asked herself, "with their sharp, probing questions and heavy jokes? Why did Mrs.

Krauss invite them?"

And here she came to yet another question: What was the matter with Mrs. Krauss? There was something strange and mysterious about her ailment; her attacks were so fitful; now she appeared brilliant and vivacious, with gleams of her former great beauty, the gracious and agreeable hostess; again, her condition was that of sheer indifference and semi-torpor. And who was the officious and familiar ayah, her attendant and shadow, an obtrusive creature with bold black eyes and a resolute mouth? Why did she speak so authoritatively to her mistress?

Why did she wear such handsome jewellery and expensive silk saris, heavily fringed with gold, and strut about with such an air of importance?

Lily appeared to have enormous influence with Mrs. Krauss--she knew something! She held some secret. This was the conclusion at which Fuchsia the shrewd arrived, after she had paid a good many visits to "Heidelberg."

Fuchsia, with her long chin resting on her hand, set her active brain and cool judgment to work. She recalled a certain scene one evening when she had driven over in her car to take Sophy to the theatre, and was sitting in the veranda half hidden by a screen, awaiting her friend, whilst Mrs. Krauss, lying p.r.o.ne upon the sofa, fanned herself with a languid hand. Presently, from a doorway, Lily noiselessly drifted in. She was amazingly light-footed for her bulk.

"Now, it is nine o'clock," she said, addressing her mistress, "and you have got to go to bed." Her voice was sharp and authoritative. The reply came in a low murmur of expostulation.

"I'm going to the PaG.o.da to-night," continued Lily, "but you will be all right. As soon as you are undressed you shall have your _dose_."

On hearing this promise Mrs. Krauss furled her fan, rose from the sofa with astonishing alacrity, and followed her ayah as commanded.

Now the question that puzzled Fuchsia was, what was the nature of the dose? It must have been something agreeable, or Mrs. Krauss would not have bounded off the sofa and hurried away--and who would rush for a dose of quinine or even the fashionable petrol? Undoubtedly the dose was a drug--some enervating and insidious drug. This would amply account for the lady's lethargy and languor. The crafty Fuchsia threw out several feelers to her hostess on the subject of "Heidelberg"--she wondered whether anyone shared her suspicions. Certainly Mrs. Gregory did not, but sincerely lamented her neighbour's miserable health, and deplored her obstinacy in remaining season after season in Rangoon.

"It's rather a dull house for poor Sophy," suggested her friend; "when her aunt has one of her bad attacks she sees no visitors for days. Mr.

Krauss is absent from morning till night--not that I consider his absence any loss, for I dislike him more than words can express."