"Well, I can't say that I am one of his admirers," admitted Mrs.

Gregory; "but I agree with you that Sophy has some long and lonely hours; she can come over here whenever she pleases, and she cannot come too often, for she is a dear girl, and I would be glad to have her altogether. You know she and I were house-mates up at May Myo, and when you live with another person in a small bungalow that is your opportunity to get down to the bed-rock of character."

It was about a week after the elephants had been transported across the river, and Sophy and Fuchsia were sitting in the latter's bedroom at the "Barn." Sophy was altering a hat for her companion; she was remarkably clever in this line, and a surprising quant.i.ty of her friends' millinery had pa.s.sed through her fingers.

"Mr. Shafto had a narrow squeak this day week," remarked Fuchsia, who was lounging in a chair, doing nothing. "Did you hear someone say that he was _pushed_ in?"

"Oh, no! By accident--or on purpose?"

"Whichever you please; the result was the same." Then, after a considerable pause, she added significantly:

"Perhaps he knows too much."

"Too much of what?" asked Sophy, looking up.

"Oh, there are many secrets in Rangoon," said Fuchsia, nodding her head; "I have grasped that, although I have only been here two months, and you a whole year. Have you never noticed anything? Have you no suspicions about people?"

"No--not of anything that matters. I suspect that the eldest Miss Wiggin rouges and darkens her eyebrows, that Lady Puffle wears a wig, and that the Grahams are thoroughly sick of their paying guest. But you are ten times cleverer than I am, Fuchsia, and, according to Mr.

Gregory, singularly intelligent and acute."

"Acute--rubbish!" Fuchsia dismissed the idea with a gesture of her tiny hand. "I'm not thinking of wigs, or paint, or such piffle. Say, have you never heard of the cocaine business?"

"Oh, yes; Mr. Shafto is tremendously keen on the subject."

"Pat FitzGerald is mad about it, too, and is having a great big try to rope in the boss smugglers. He has told me the most terrible tales.

Once the drug--it's cocaine and morphia mixed--gets a fast hold of a man, or woman, he or she is doomed!"

"Oh, Fuchsia, surely not so bad as that!"

"It's true; the poor thieve to get a few annas to spend in the dens; the rich and educated buy it by stealth, and absorb it at home in secret."

"What are the symptoms?" inquired Sophy. "Have you ever seen anyone who took those drugs?"

"Well, I could not say," she answered evasively; "but I am aware that the symptoms are unaccountable drowsiness and lethargy, followed by a deathlike sleep, and, they say, the most _heavenly_ dreams. Later, the dreamer wakes up, haggard, feverish, and miserable; the skin has a dried, shrunken look. And you can always tell a drug-taker by the eyes; the pupil is either as small as a pin's point or else enormously enlarged."

Fuchsia glanced sharply at Sophy, who was carefully manipulating a large bow.

Was she recalling a domestic picture? Did any suspicion sink into her simple mind? If such was the case the girl gave no sign.

"These drug-maniacs' lives are a real burden," continued Fuchsia; "they become indolent and slovenly; all they want in the whole world is more, and more, and more--cocaine. The effect on some is to clear and stimulate the brain and, for a short time, they seem superhuman; but soon this marvellous illumination that has flared up dies down like a fire of straw, and leaves them nothing but the cold ashes."

"Fuchsia," said her companion, suddenly raising her head and gazing at her steadily, "I believe you are thinking of someone."

"Why do you say that?"

"Tell me who it is."

But Fuchsia merely looked down on the ground and maintained an unusual silence.

"Do you know anyone that the cap fits?" persisted Sophy. Then, with a quick movement, she put the hat aside and, confronting her companion, said, "Surely--surely, you don't mean _Aunt Flora_?"

Fuchsia's reply was a slow, deliberate nod.

"Oh, Fuchsia, this is too dreadful--how can you? Tell me--why you have such a hideous suspicion?"

"All right then, I will," and Fuchsia sat bolt upright. "I'm older than you are, and have knocked about the world a bit, and I can't help seeing things that are thrust under my nose and drawing an inference.

I must tell you that my grandfather was a notable lawyer, and who knows but that a sc.r.a.p of his mantle may not have descended upon me! Now to answer your question right away--you will admit that pretty often your aunt is dressed like a last year's scarecrow; that she is drowsy, stupefied, and generally inaccessible. At another time she is real smart and vivacious, and puts other women in the shade. Then suddenly she disappears, shuts herself up along with Lily ayah, and not a soul may approach her--no, not even you. Undoubtedly Lily provides the drug and is handsomely paid. I ask you to look at her jewels and her diamond nose-ring. Your aunt refuses to see a doctor, for a doctor would diagnose her case the instant he set eyes on her; she also refuses to quit Rangoon, and why? Because she would be torn away from what is killing her inch by inch--and that is cocaine!"

By the time Fuchsia had ended this speech Sophy's face was colourless, and, as she unconsciously stroked a piece of ribbon between her fingers, many facts in support of Fuchsia's verdict flocked into her brain and forced themselves upon her comprehension. She had a conviction that what her friend had just told her was neither more nor less than a dreadful truth. An instant of clear vision had come; scales had fallen from her eyes; she recalled those strange excursions to Ah Shee's stifling den, the purchase of ivories so soon thrown aside; undoubtedly this collection of netsukes was a blind--her aunt's real object was to procure _drugs_!

"I'm afraid this is an awful blow to you, Sophy," resumed Fuchsia, "and you will think I had no business to crowd in; but it is best that you should have your eyes opened before it is too late. What do you think yourself, dear?"

There was an agonising pause. Self-deception was no longer possible.

With an effort she replied:

"I am afraid what you have told me is terribly true; it was stupid of me not to have guessed at something of the sort. I see things clearly now that you have put them before my eyes. Many puzzles are explained--the reason Aunt Flora keeps herself isolated; the reason why she has no really intimate friends; the reason why she is so untidy in her dress at times and talks so strangely. I suppose Mr. Krauss knows?"

"No!" replied Fuchsia with emphasis, "I have watched him carefully, and I don't believe he has the faintest suspicion, any more than you had yourself. Your aunt's ayah, and possibly the cook, are fellow-conspirators, and no doubt the cause of 'the Missis's' long strange illness is common talk in the compound."

"What can be done to cure it? Oh, Fuchsia, _do_ advise me!"

"If I were to offer you one piece of advice you would not take it."

"Well, at least allow me to hear it."

"It is to clear out of the house altogether and return home."

"I shall certainly not take that advice; I was invited to Rangoon to be a companion to Aunt Flora, and the moment that I find she has something frightful to fight against is surely not the time for me to run away and leave her in the lurch. No, I shall stay here and do what I can."

"Ah, if you only could; but, my dear girl, I'm afraid it is too late.

I have been questioning Pat FitzGerald--of course without letting him know that I had any 'case' in my mind's eye. From what I have gathered, Mrs. Krauss has been taking this drug for a long time--and is past all help."

"Then do you mean, Fuchsia, that I am to sit by, utterly helpless, whilst my aunt slowly puts herself to death?"

"Of course you might try various things. You could make it your business to find out and destroy the hypodermic syringe--or perhaps your aunt takes it in pellets. I should interview the ayah and inform her that you know the nature of her mistress's complaint; threaten that you will tell Mr. Krauss and have her discharged. I expect she gets enormous wages and has feathered her nest handsomely. If you could inveigle your aunt into taking a voyage to Australia, that might be of use. But these are just suggestions; in any way that I can help or back you up I will. All the same, I must return to my first statement, which is, that no matter how you strive, and hope and fear, your effort will come too _late_."

CHAPTER x.x.xI

SEEING IS BELIEVING

The recent enlightenment had given Sophy a painful shock; thoughts troublesome and insistent buzzed about her all day long and kept her awake at night. At first she had wept and abandoned herself to misery; then she summoned her strength and will and made plans, hoping that she would have the courage to carry them out. She resolved to invade her aunt's bedroom and discover the true state of affairs. During the last two or three days Mrs. Krauss had withdrawn into seclusion, being threatened with one of her so-called "attacks." On these occasions no one but Lily was permitted to cross the threshold of her apartment.

Late on the following evening, when the house was quiet and the servants had departed to their _G.o.downs_, or the bazaar, and the "missy" was supposed to have retired, Sophy slipped on a dressing-gown and soft slippers and made her way into the anteroom, usually occupied in the day-time by her aunt, now dimly illuminated by one electric light. Before the door of the next apartment hung a heavy curtain which, when drawn aside, revealed a thick darkness, a peculiar odour, and the sound of rapid breathing. Sophy groped with her hand along the wall, found the switch, and the room and its contents were instantly revealed. A richly-carved bedstead, a masterpiece of Burmese work, stood in the middle of the floor; at either side were small tables, one heaped with an untidy pile of books and magazines; on the other were bottles, gla.s.ses and little boxes. In turning the switch Sophy had lit the bulb which hung directly over Mrs. Krauss's couch, and there, by its pitiless glare, she lay fully exposed, sunken in a sleep resembling a swoon, her splendid black hair lying loose upon the pillows. She looked woefully old and shrunken, her arms, displayed by an open-sleeved silk nightgown, were thin and strangely discoloured.

As Sophy stood surveying the scene the bathroom door opened softly and Lily stepped over the threshold. "Oh, my missy! Whatever are you doing here?" she exclaimed, throwing up her hands.