"There, Fitz, that's enough—drop it!"

"Drop it!" repeated FitzGerald with a laugh. "Don't get your frills out, old boy, I mean no harm; she is by a long way the prettiest girl in the place."

"That will do," exclaimed Shafto impatiently; "leave the ladies alone, or, if you must discuss them, what about the little American Miss Bliss? You danced with her half the night at the last Cinderella."

"Ah! now I suppose you think you're carrying the war into the enemy's quarter, don't ye? Dancing is not compromising—like solitary rides with a girl before the world is warm, and Miss Bliss, by name and nature, is the only girl in Rangoon who can do a decent turkey trot. Now, as to Miss Leigh——"

"Oh, for goodness' sake leave Miss Leigh alone and talk about something else—talk about horses."

"Talk about horses," repeated FitzGerald in a teasing voice, "and if he isn't blushing up to his ears! I'll tell you what, young Shafto, it's a treat to see a real blush in this part of the world; blushing is rare in Burma, and I'd just like to have your coloured photograph," continued FitzGerald, whose methods of chaff were as rude and crude as those of any schoolboy.

"Come, don't let's have any more of this, Fitz, or you and I will quarrel."

FitzGerald grinned from ear to ear, delighted at the rise he had taken out of his companion, touched his cap, and said:

"All right, yer honour," but to himself he added, "by Jingo, it's serious! Well, well! However, he's as poor as a rat and that's a great comfort."

Comfort was constituted by the fact that, in these circumstances, there could be no immediate prospect of a break-up of the congenial chummery.

"See here, Mr. Shafto, on your high horse, if you promise not to trail your coat and frighten me, I'll tell you something that will interest you. I know you have been poking round with Roscoe and diving into queer places—are you as keen as ever?"

"I am, of course," rejoined Shafto, still stiff and unappeased.

"Well, then, I can show you a quarter where Roscoe has never dared to stick his nose—a cocaine den."

"Not really? Surely you couldn't take me in there."

"I can so, as one of my subordinates; I am looking for evidence in a murder case; I'll lend you a coat, and all you will have to do is to look wise and hold your tongue."

"This is most awfully good of you," exclaimed Shafto, "and I needn't tell you I'll go like a shot."

"Oh, I'm good now, am I?" jeered FitzGerald; "but, joking apart, this will be an experience. Not like puppet plays and dances—but a black tragedy."

"Yes, I suppose so; I know it's pretty awful."

"Cocaine smuggling is playing the very devil with the country and there's no denying that."

"But can't you do something to stop it?"

"Is it stop it? You might just as well try to stop the Irrawaddy with a pitchfork. And it's growing worse; there are some big people in it—the Hidden Hand Company—who keep out of sight, pay the money, employ the tools and collar the swag. They have agents all over this province, as well as India, China and the Straits."

"Where does the stuff come from?"

"It's chiefly manufactured in Germany, though some comes from England."

"What, you don't mean that! I always thought it was concocted out here."

"'Tis little ye know! It is mostly sent in from Hamburg, and in all manner of clever ways; the smugglers are as cute as foxes and up to every mortal dodge. A lot of the contraband is done by native crews, of course without the knowledge of the ships' officers. Hydrochloride of cocaine travels in strong paper envelopes between fragile goods, or in larger quantities in false bottoms of boxes, under plates in the engine room, or in the bulkheads."

"But how can they possibly land the stuff?" inquired Shafto.

"Easier than you think! There are lots of nice, lonely, sequestered coves, where goods can be put ashore of a dark night, or dropped carefully overboard, hermetically sealed, with an empty tin canister as a float, and picked up at daybreak by a friendly sampan. Of course, the customs house officers have to be reckoned with from the moment a ship enters till she leaves the port, but sometimes in this drowsy climate a man falls asleep in his long chair, and here is the serang's chance—the serang being the head and leader of the crew. The contraband is quickly lowered in gunny bags to the sampans and carried off in triumph to its destination. However, not long ago, the customs made a haul of twelve hundred ounces; out here cocaine sells for six pounds an ounce. So that was a nice little loss, and yet only a drop in the ocean—for every grain that is seized a pound enters the market. Oh, I'd make my fortune if I could run one of these foxes to earth."

"I wish you could," said Shafto; "have you no clue, no suspicions?"

"Hundreds of suspicions, but no clue. There's a fellow in a sampan who unnecessarily hoists a white umbrella—I have my best eye on him; and there is said to be a broken-down, past-mending motor-launch in a creek beyond Kemmendine, which I propose, when I have a chance, to overhaul on the quiet. Chinese steamers plying between Japan and Rangoon run stacks of contraband; as soon as one method of landing is discovered they find another; their ingenuity is really interesting to watch. The chief smugglers are never caught—only their satellites, who get about four months' gaol and never blow the gaff. If they did I wouldn't give much for their lives."

"Do you mean to tell me that their employers wouldn't stick at murder?" cried Shafto aghast.

"They stick at nothing; a murder done second-hand is quite cheap and easy—just a stab with a dah, or long knife, and the body flung into the Irrawaddy; you know the pace of that racing current and how it tells no tales! Well, here we are! You see, for once I can discourse of other things than horses; and, talking of horses, these fellows had better have a bran-mash apiece; but once you get me on cocaine smuggling, I warn you I can jaw till my mouth's as dry as a lime-kiln."



CHAPTER XX

THE PONGYE

Late one warm afternoon in January, when Shafto was unusually busy on the Pagoda wharf—consignments of paddy were coming in thick and fast—suddenly, above the din of steam winches and donkey engines, there arose a great shouting, and he beheld an immense cloud of white dust rolling rapidly in his direction.

"Look out, it's a runaway!" roared a neighbouring worker. "By George, they'll all be in the river!"

Sure enough, there came a rattle-trap hack gharry at the heels of a pair of galloping ponies. The reins were broken, a yelling soldier sat helpless on the driver's seat and several of his comrades were inside the rocking vehicle. The animals, maddened with fear, were making straight for the Irrawaddy and, as Shafto rushed forward with outstretched arms to head them off, they swerved violently, came into resounding contact with a huge crane, and upset the gharry with a shattering crash. Several men ran to the struggling ponies; Shafto and another to the overturned gharry and hauled out two privates; number one, helplessly intoxicated; number two, not quite so helpless; the third person to emerge was, to Shafto's speechless amazement, no less a personage than a shaven priest—a full-grown pongye in his yellow robe! He looked considerably dazed and a good deal cut about with broken glass. Waving away assistance, he tottered over and sat down behind a huge pile of rice stacks. Shafto immediately followed to inquire how he could help him, but before he had uttered a word, the pongye, who was much out of breath, gasped:

"Bedad! that was a near shave!"

Could Shafto believe his ears?

"Whist! now, and don't let on!" he continued, staunching a cut with a corner of his yellow robe—which he presently exchanged for Shafto's handkerchief—"the fright knocked it out of me!"

"So you're not a Burman?"

"Faix, I am not; I'm a native of Cork and was born in Madras, and only for yer honour we'd all be floating down the Irrawaddy this blessed minute."

His honour found it impossible to articulate; he merely stood and gaped. The Irish pongye, born in Cork and Madras, was a tall, gaunt, middle-aged man, with high cheek-bones, a closely-shorn head, and horn spectacles.

"Might I ask yer name, sorr?" he inquired at last, "and where ye live?"

"My name is Shafto; I live in a chummery at the corner of Sandwith Road."

"Oh, an' well I know it an' its old compound. They say it's full of nats, because of a murder as was done there. My name is Mung Baw, at yer service, and I'll not forget what ye did for me this day, and I'll call round. Blessed hour! where's my begging-bowl?"

As soon as Shafto had discovered and restored his patta, the pongye arose, gave himself a shake and, without another word, stalked away, a tall, erect, unspeakably majestic figure.

When Shafto met Roscoe he lost no time in recounting his extraordinary adventure, and added triumphantly:

"So you see, Joe Roscoe, you are not the only man here who makes a strange acquaintance."

"I'm not surprised," he rejoined; "I've heard more than once of these white pongyes. I dare say the chap will be as good as his word and will look you up; I foresee an interesting interview."

In about three weeks Roscoe's prediction was verified. Returning home late one evening Shafto was struck by the unusually impressive appearance and gestures of the fat Madrassi butler who, beckoning him aside with an air of alarming mystery, informed him that "someone was in his room waiting to see his honour."

"In my room," he repeated indignantly. "Why the mischief did you put him in there? Couldn't he sit in the veranda, like other people?"

"No, saar, he refused; he would not."

Shafto flung open the door of his apartment with a gesture of annoyance and, to his profound amazement, discovered the pongye seated in easy comfort upon his bed. He was surrounded by an odd medicinal aromatic atmosphere, his sandals, begging-bowl and umbrella were carefully disposed beside him and he appeared to be thoroughly at home.

"I thought I'd give ye a call, sorr, before I went up country. I'm off to Mandalay to-morrow on a pilgrimage."

"Oh, are you?" said Shafto, taking a seat and feeling at a complete loss what he was to say and how he was to handle this novel situation.

"I thought," resumed the pongye, "that I'd like to offer ye an explanation of the way I happened to be in that 'ere accident."

"Yes," assented his host; "I suppose this," pointing to his yellow gown with his stick, "is a fancy dress, for, of course, you are not a real pongye?"

"Troth, I am so," he rejoined with indignant emphasis; "I've been properly initiated—I know Burmese and the Pali language, and can intone a chant with anyone."

"All the same, you're an Irishman and your speech bewrayeth you. I wonder you are not kicked out."

"Is it kick me out? No fear! For besides being well respected and well liked, I'm a magician."

"Oh, come, that's all rot!" exclaimed Shafto impatiently.

"'Tis not," he rejoined in a vigorously defensive tone; "and 'tis little ye know. This is a queer country; the people are terribly superstitious and weak in themselves, on account of nats and bad spirits."

"Oh, that I can believe," replied Shafto; "your pals in the gharry could tell you something about bad spirits."

"Wait now and I'll explain," said the pongye, with an intimate gesture of his great bony hand.

"Sometimes I've a sort of ache to be mixing up with European soldiers—even if it's only for a couple of hours." After a pause he added in a thoughtful tone, "For ye see I was wance a soldier meself."

"What!"

"It's the pure truth I'm tellin' ye—a corporal, with two good-conduct stripes; the other week Paddy Nolan had drink taken, and nothin' would please him but that he must drive, so he turned off the garriwan and made a cruel bad hand of it—as you saw for yourself! They were a couple of raw new ponies, come down out of last drove, and unused to trams and motors, and frightened dancing mad; only for you heading them off, we were all as dead as mutton."

"But how did you get into the Burmese priesthood?" inquired Shafto with abrupt irrelevance.

"It was like this, sorr, I'm country-born; me father was a sergeant in the Irish Rifles, me mother was a half-caste—an Anglo-Indian from Ceylon—so I'm half Irish, quarter Cingalese. I was left an orphan when I was seven years old and educated at the Lawrence Asylum. I always had a wonderful twist for languages; it came as easy as breathing to me to talk Tamil or Telugu. Well, when I was close on eighteen I enlisted and put in seven years with the Colours, mostly in Bengal; then we come over here and lay in Mandalay and, after a bit, I—somehow got lost."

"That is, you deserted," sternly amended Shafto.

"Oh well, have it whatever way ye like, sorr. I was shootin' in the jungles and was took terribly bad with fever and nearly died. The natives are good-natured, kind, soft people—none better; they took me in and nursed me, and one of the pongyes doctored me. You see, I was entirely out of touch with Europeans, and when I got cured was just a walking skeleton. Some thief had made away with my boots and breeches, so I stopped among the natives and never laid eyes on a white face for two years. I soon picked up the Burmese lingo, which some say is difficult; but to me it was aisy as kiss me hand. Then I was received into the priesthood; that was over seven years ago, and here I am still. Of course, as ye know, I can go or stay as I please; but I stick to the yellow robe as if it was me skin. Still and all, I won't deny that the sight of a soldier draws me, and that," he concluded modestly, "is my only wakeness."

"I say, you don't mean to tell me that you are a real Buddhist?"

"Why, of course I am; what else would I be? The religion is pure and good and friendly; the other priests know that I'm from India—and that's enough for them. In this country no questions is asked—and that's what makes livin' so nice and aisy. And, sure, aren't we Buddhists all over the world? Our doctrines are wise and ancient; we pray and keep fasts and live to ourselves, and there's little differ, in my mind, between us and the Catholic religion—in which I was born and reared. Haven't we the mass, and vespers, and beads, and monasteries, and Lent,—all complate?"

"So then you're a celibate—a monk?"

"And to be shure I am; ye don't think I look like a nun, do ye?"

"A water drinker?"

"Well, sorr, I'm tell ye no lie—not altogether; I am not a teetotaller all out, I'm a sober man, and I mostly drink cocoanut water and tea. It's a fine, free life, I can tell ye."

"Fine and idle, eh?"

"I'm not more idle than the rest of them; it's true that I don't teach, and, of course, it's only the young fellows that do the sweeping, water-carrying and filtering, and the work at the kyoung. I see a heap of the country and have many friends, who give me small presents, and smokes and food; I have a far better time—a thousand times a better time—than sweating in route marches and carrying round Orderly books in Rangoon or Calcutta; and many a the quare tale I could tell ye—tales about animals and elephant dances and big snakes, ay, and spirit tales that would open your eyes."

"Well, if it's any comfort to know it, you've opened my eyes about as wide as they will go. What is your real name?"

"Michael Ryan. Me father came from Cork—a real fine country for fighting men, and I understand that, once upon a time, my ancestors had a great kingdom beyond the Shannon. Well, sorr," now beginning to unfold himself and rise from the bed, "I thought I'd just drop in and explain matters a bit before I go up country."

"That was very thoughtful of you, Mung Baw."

"I'll be back in a while, and I needn't tell ye, Mr. Shafto, that as long as I draw breath I'll never forget how I'm beholden to ye. I'm vowed to poverty, of course, but I'm a rover and go about a lot, and some day I may be able to put a good thing in your way, and I can tell ye one thing—ye have a lucky face!"

"I'm glad to hear it; and now, before you depart, will you tell me something else? How do you contrive to get so much liberty—careering round the town with Tommies and coming to look me up? It's past seven o'clock—and I understand your Roll Call is at six."

"That's true," assented the pongye, "but there are exceptions, and I'm one of them," suddenly sliding off the bed and drawing himself up to his full height—about six feet two. "I don't enjoy very good health being, as ye understand, no native of the country; so I'm allowed a certain margin and liberty. Well now, I'll be takin' leave of ye; but before I go, I want you to accept something I brought you—just a small trifle of a talisman."

And from some mysterious receptacle he produced a good-sized dark stone, about the size of a pigeon's egg. "Now, whatever ye do, put this carefully away and keep it safe and secure."

Shafto took it in his hand, examined the gift and murmured his thanks.

"No harm of any sort can come next or nigh ye," continued the pongye, "as long as that stone's in your possession—and that's as shure as me name's Mung Baw."

And hastily collecting his umbrella and bowl, before Shafto could realise the intended move the stranger was gone. Nothing remained of his visit but the curious aromatic odour and the so-called "talisman." The stone was round, dark and by no means beautiful, and at first Shafto was inclined to throw it into the compound, but, on second thoughts, he thrust it into his dispatch box and locked it away.

"Evil spirits, a magician, a talisman," he said to himself. "I suppose the poor fellow was discharged from the Service as a hopeless lunatic."

Having arrived at this conclusion, Shafto changed his clothes and went to dinner in the veranda, where he was well chaffed about his recent visitor.

"Been stealing something up at the Pagoda and they sent a Bo after you," suggested FitzGerald; "I must say your new friend is a rum-looking customer; a powerful, strapping pongye. He'd make a grand constable! What did he want?"

"Oh, he merely came to pay a visit of ceremony," replied Shafto. "He was in a gharry accident a few weeks ago, and I happened to come to his rescue and pick up the pieces; he called to express his thanks and drop a P.P.C."



CHAPTER XXI

THE COCAINE DEN

"To-night's the night," said FitzGerald to his confederate. "You and I will creep out in half an hour's time, and no questions asked. Roscoe has gone up to Tonghoo about oil; the MacNab is dining at the Pegu Club with one of his Big Pots and talking Flotilla and finance."

"All right, I'll be ready in two jiffs—you won't forget the coat?"

"Not likely! We will taxi down to the end of Dalhousie Street, and into the bazaar about half-past nine o'clock, and then proceed on foot. I am taking two constables—both armed."

It was a gay and busy scene; Dalhousie Street—which, it is said, never sleeps—was a blaze of light, humming with noise and excitement and packed with crowds of pleasure-seekers; a crude mixture of races, struggling and pushing to their different goals of entertainment.

As the two young men halted for a moment at a popular corner, it seemed as if the whole town and bazaar flowed past in a wave of colour and movement. Burmans' and Shans, male and female, clothed in coloured silk and satin, the women decked with flowers and jewellery, all smoking and jabbering in their strange monosyllabic tongue; solid, well-set-up Germans parading in couples; rollicking sailors; Chinamen; Malays in great numbers; stately Sikhs and the inevitable Babu filled the scene.

"They are all out to-night," observed FitzGerald, "lots of shows on; well, now for ours."

As he spoke he turned into a narrow street that led through an endless maze of curves and angles and, followed by two stalwart Sikh police, they made their way into the heart of the China bazaar and plunged into the worst slum quarter of this crowded, cosmopolitan city—a city, at least, in wealth, extent, population and importance. They passed flaring joss-houses, gambling dens and brazenly naked haunts of vice, and after picking their steps through a particularly noisome gully—odorous of napie and rotten vegetables—they arrived at an innocent little door in a high blank wall. After some whispered parley with an old Chinaman, the pair were admitted and ushered into a large, low saloon, where scores of gamblers were engrossed in the hypnotic pleasures of "Fan Tan," or the "36 animal lottery," so popular and so simple!

The adjoining room was a well-appointed opium resort. Here the roar of the bazaar and pulsing of tom-toms were blurred and almost inaudible. A reek of bhang and betel hung in the air; there were rows of neat bunks, lacquered pillows, and small trays containing the opium pipe, lamp and other necessaries. Everything was apparently carried out decently and in order; the clients were of a respectable, well-to-do class—some who had merely dropped in for a pipe of chandu, or a jolt of opium; and Shafto noticed quite a number of Europeans and, among them, at present asleep, a man whom he knew and frequently met on the Strand. He had sometimes wondered at his dried-up, withered skin and lank, dead-looking black hair. Now he understood.

The police officer was not disposed to linger on these premises. A cocaine den was his goal, and after a short talk with an affable old Chinaman, who spoke perfect English, he took leave and once more they were threading the odorous gloom of the slums. They soon came to a halt and, leaving the two constables outside, after the usual delay and mystery, were admitted and entered a most evil-smelling den. This was lighted by two or three smoky oil-lamps, the rank smell of which, with the sickly reek of squalid humanity, struck them like a blow in the face. Between forty and fifty victims appeared to be present, all belonging to the poorer classes, and nothing could be more repulsive than their appearance. Excessive emaciation and festering sores were their most marked characteristics. Some were lying on their mats in semi-stupor, several who had just received an injection were patiently awaiting their dreadful sleep—one of the chief attributes of cocaine is its almost immediate effect. Here was a group squatting round a man armed with a syringe—fatal germ-carrier—busily engaged in mixing the cocaine and morphia. When the concoction had been prepared, one of the customers turned up his sleeve to discover—if he could—a spot in which to insert the needle; but there was not a place, even the size of a pin's head, so he rolled up his lungyi and searched for a site on his thigh; then the needle was produced, its contents were pumped in, and the man made room for the next victim. This performance held Shafto with a sort of hideous fascination; the crowd appeared to be entirely insensible to his presence and only alive to the enjoyment awaiting them.

At the far end of the room was an iron-bound enclosure, behind which sat a wily and inscrutable Chinaman who, having received a formal notice that this visit was "safe and unofficial," obligingly exhibited his scales and small packets of drugs—wares to bring rich delights to the narcotised—which he disposed of in infinitesimal quantities, at from four to six annas a dose.

Sprawling about on filthy rush mats were numerous Chinese, Burmese and Indians; also a few women of the lowest class, each and all sunken in the various stages of an ecstatic slumber.

As FitzGerald was now engaged in whispered conference with a pock-marked Malay (who was awaiting his turn), Shafto stood back against the wall, a completely detached figure, acutely sensible of the chill horror of this unknown sphere—the so-called "underworld."

He noticed that one or two customers sat round covetously watching the operation of the syringe—not having the money with which to indulge themselves; he also observed several who appeared to be in the last stage of their existence—thin to emaciation, mere wrecks, like half-dead flies, scarcely able to crawl about the floor.

Quite in the shadow, he caught sight of a tall figure in European clothes, who was, like himself, an impassive spectator, and, with a start, he recognised Roscoe's cousin. To-night he appeared cleaner and more human; he had shaved recently, and there was an undeniable family likeness between him and his relative—such a resemblance as may exist between a dead and broken branch and one still flourishing upon a healthy tree. On this occasion he was evidently not ashamed to be seen and recognised, for he nodded to Shafto, then crossed the room and joined him.

"Ah, so you've not taken a pull at yourself yet?" said Shafto.

"No, the cocaine debauchee has no power to resist the drug," he replied in a thin refined voice. "I am fairly normal to-night; it is not a case of virtuous repentance, but merely because I have no money."

As he made this statement the despairing eyes that looked into Shafto's were those of some famishing animal.

"You have the power to raise me from the pit," he continued in a husky voice; "you can lift me straight into heaven!"

"Only temporarily," brusquely rejoined Shafto.

"Even that is something when it offers peace and satisfaction to the restless human heart."

"But surely you can free yourself and your restless heart? Why not walk out of this filthy den with us? Roscoe will help you, so will I. Come, be a man!"

"It would be impossible for me to regain the normal balance of life," declared the victim of the drug; "also, I am no longer a man—I am a fanatical worshipper of cocaine, and only death can part us. Some day soon I shall fall out of her train, the police will find me in the gutter and take the debased body to the mortuary, whence, unclaimed and unknown, it will be carried to a pauper's grave."

"But can nothing be done to stop this hellish business?"

"Nothing," replied the victim with emphasis, "nothing whatever, until sales are rendered impossible and the big men—the real smugglers who are trading in the life-blood of their brothers—are reached and scotched. As for myself, I am past praying for; but thousands of others could and ought to be saved—by drastic measures and a stern exposure. The fellows in this business are as cunning as the devil; the stuff arrives by roundabout channels and from the most surprising quarters. Now and then they allow a consignment to be seized, but as a mere blind, a sop, and trade flourishes; there is no business to touch it in the money-making line."

He paused and met Shafto's searching eyes, then went on:

"It must amaze you to hear a fellow in this sink talking plain grammatical English, but before the cocaine fiend caught and tortured me I had brains. Joe Roscoe is a good chap—he has often held out a helping hand, but it was not a bit of use, I only sank deeper. When I recall the things I have done, the meannesses I have stooped to, I squirm and squirm and squirm! Well, I am nearly at the end of my tether, and a hair of the dog that bit me is all I ask. Your friend FitzGerald here, now looking up evidence from that rascally Malay, is working his very best to find some clue to the headquarters of the gang; but they are much too clever and are making their thousands and tens of thousands; profits are enormous, and the servants of the company are well paid for any risks or prosecutions."

"But what about informers?" asked Shafto.

"Oh, as for betraying secrets or giving the game away, the employes know exactly what to expect. More than one would-be witness has disappeared; his epitaph is, 'Found drowned.' Ah, I see FitzGerald moving, and so you must take your departure out of this inferno into the clean upper-world."

"You come along with us," said Shafto, suddenly seizing him by the arm.

But Roscoe threw him off with astonishing force and shook his head emphatically. Nevertheless he followed the pair to the entrance—a tall wraith-like form moving behind them, a shadow in the shadows.

As soon as the door had closed and the visitors were once more in the street, the police officer broke out:

"Upon my word, Shafto, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! Didn't I see you slip money into the hand of that broken-down Englishman?"

"Yes, you did," Douglas boldly admitted; "I was obliged to, right or wrong. If you had only seen his eyes, his starving, despairing eyes! I believe they will haunt me as long as I live; somehow I feel to-night as if I had looked through the gates of hell!"



CHAPTER XXII

THE APPROACHING DREAD

The cold weather was waning in the month of March, women and children were flocking to cooler climes than Lower Burma—chiefly to May Myo, north-east of Mandalay. Once a stockaded village, it was now a fair-sized and attractive station, with a garrison, a club, many comfortable bungalows, an overflowing abundance of flowers and fruit, and in its neighbourhood beautiful moss-green rides. When the hot weather had begun to make itself felt, and the brain-fever bird to make himself heard, Mrs. Krauss had insisted on dispatching her niece to this resort, chaperoned by Mrs. Gregory; but as far as she herself was concerned nothing would induce her to leave home.

"I love my own veranda and my own dear bed," she declared; "I shall have lots of electric fans and ice, all the new books, and Lily will look after me; but you, Sophy, being a new-comer and not acclimatised, must positively depart."

Sophy exerted her utmost eloquence to induce her aunt to follow the fashion and spend, at least, two months in the hills, and her efforts were warmly supported by Mr. Krauss, but his wife made no reply—she merely beamed and shook her head. Eloquence and persuasion were wasted. He and Sophy might just as well have appealed to the alabaster Buddha in the drawing-room. Flora Krauss never argued—possibly this was one phase of her indolent nature. She merely assumed an immovable, negative attitude and met every suggestion with a smile and a shake of the head.

Sophy had no desire to leave Rangoon; she protested that she had only been out seven months and really required no change; but her appeal was silenced by the voice of authority.

"My dear child," said her aunt, "you've no idea what you would be like in three months' time. I am hardened and acclimatised, but your nice complexion would soon take leave, never to return. You would be covered with hideous spots and you would probably get fever. Mrs. Gregory is most anxious for your company and I am equally anxious for your departure. You will have a very good time up at May Myo and go you must!"

Sophy had no alternative and was compelled to obey orders.

"I shall miss you most dreadfully, my dear," said her aunt; "it is so nice to have you flitting about the house, not to speak of your vivacious company and delicious music. Your music is really wonderful; it seems to exorcise an evil spirit that gives me no peace."

"Oh, Aunt Flora," expostulated the girl, "how can you say such things? Surely you don't believe in evil spirits?"

"But, my dear child, how can I help it when I live in a country where millions of people worship and fear them?"

"Those are only ignorant natives; you would not allow their superstitions to affect you."

"Well, at any rate, your playing uplifts and soothes me; I can't imagine how you inherited this gift; your mother was not particularly musical, nor was I. I recollect my misery as a girl in struggling through 'The Harmonious Blacksmith,' and I never remember hearing that we had any musical genius in the family. Of course, the natives here would find an easy answer and say that you had been a great musician in another incarnation."

On hearing this solemn explanation Sophy burst into peals of laughter, at which rejoinder Mrs. Krauss looked both shocked and hurt and, after an awkward silence, the subject dropped.

And so, in spite of Sophy's efforts to remain in Rangoon, she was figuratively driven into the arms of Mrs. Gregory. The Maitlands and the Pomeroys had also invited her to May Myo, but Mrs. Gregory overbore all competition and insisted that she must have Sophy as a companion to share her bungalow and accompany her songs, and departed in triumph, carrying the girl with her.

Mrs. Krauss attended her niece to the railway station, loaded her with books and fruit and saw her off with urgent and affectionate injunctions and many kisses. During the last few months Mrs. Krauss appeared to have become a transformed person; she went about continually in her smart new car, was seen at dances, little dinners and the theatre, and had recovered a faint shadow of her former good looks and something of her old animation.

Herr Krauss naturally attributed this change to her niece, and showed his gratitude to Sophy in various abrupt ways, suffering her to mix with the English society without sneers or interference. Sophy did not now see so much of the German community; she was aware that Mrs. Muller and others no longer approved of her, and Frau Wurm had said openly, "that although the girl had done her best to learn how to keep a house, her heart had never been in the business and she was not schwaermerisch to German people or German ways!"

* * * * * *

Whilst Sophy Leigh had been enjoying herself at May Myo, among the green hills and soft airs of Upper Burma, Shafto, in the oppressive sultry heat, had had some pleasant and unpleasant experiences.

The pleasant experience was that his salary had been raised. Now he could afford to buy another horse and keep a tum-tum; with a heavier purse he was able to send home some well-chosen and handsome presents—a China crepe shawl for Mrs. Malone, ivory carvings to the Tebbs, an Indian chuddah to his aunt and a heavy gold bangle for each of the girls. Unfortunately one gift to "Monte Carlo" had a dire and unexpected result—it brought him a deluge of letters from Cossie, who was rapturous over his promotion and "his beautiful, exquisite, darling gift," which she wore on her arm day and night!

"I felt sure you had not forgotten me," was her ominous opening; "you could not; there is a secret telepathy between us, and I am always thinking of you, dear old boy."

Several mails later there arrived a letter from Sandy, the contents of which almost made his cousin's hair stand on end. After one or two preliminary sentences, Shafto's eyes fell upon these lines:

"By this you will have heard that our Cossie will be afloat; she has been very restless and unsettled for a long time—almost ever since you left; nothing seems to please her. First she took up nursing and soon dropped that; then she took up typing and soon dropped that. At last she has got the wish of her life, which is to go abroad. She has answered an advertisement and secured a top-hole situation, as lady nurse in Rangoon. She starts in ten days in the ship that took you out—the Blankshire, and is so busy and excited that she is nearly off her nut."

The same post delivered a thick letter from Cossie, which her ungrateful and distracted relative tore up unread. Already, in his mind's eye, Shafto could see Cossie permanently established in Rangoon, informing everyone that she was his cousin, bombarding him with chits, worrying him for visits, treats and attentions. Heaven be praised! neither of his horses carried a lady, it was as much as he could do to ride them himself. He could not possibly leave Rangoon and so effect his escape; he was nailed down to his work, not like his lucky chums, whose business duties occasionally carried them up the country. His job was confined to Rangoon itself, for eight hours a day.

The prospect filled him with despair; life would become intolerable. A vivid imagination painted the picture of Cossie, helpless and plaintive, appealing for information and advice, coming to him to patch up disputes between her and her employer, to take her on the lakes, to the gymkhana, or the theatre on her days out. And what would Sophy Leigh think when she saw him accompanied by Mrs. So-and-So's European nurse? Putting her absurd partiality for him on one side, Cossie in her normal condition was a good-natured, amiable creature, and, of course, when she arrived in Burma he, as her only relative in the country, would be bound to look after her and show her attention; probably all the world would believe that they were engaged! Unchivalrous as was the idea, he had a hateful conviction that it would not be Cossie's fault if they did not arrive at that conclusion.

With this sword of Damocles hanging over his head, and the object of his apprehension being daily brought nearer and yet nearer, Shafto was and looked abjectly miserable. FitzGerald rallied him boisterously on his glum appearance, and on being "off his feed."

"What on earth ails you?"

To his well-intended queries he invariably received the one brief unsatisfactory answer: "Nothing."

Roscoe, too, endeavoured to puzzle out the mystery. It was not the lack of money—Shafto was prompt in his payments; his door was never haunted by bill-collectors, nor had he got into hot water in his office; both his horses were sound. What could it be?

In due course the Blankshire was signalled and arrived, and the usual mob of people swarmed aboard to meet their friends. Among these, carrying a heavy heart, was Shafto; after all, he realised that he must do the right thing and go to receive his cousin; but, amazing to relate, there was no Miss Larcher among the passengers! On inquiry he was presented to an excited lady, who had brought her all the way from Tilbury, filling the situation of lady nurse. Miss Larcher had not completed the voyage, but had landed at Colombo! On hearing of his relationship to her late employe, Mrs. Jones, a hot-tempered matron, fell figuratively tooth and nail upon defenceless Shafto. In a series of breathless sentences she assured him that "his cousin, Miss Larcher, was no better than an adventuress, and had behaved in the most dishonest and scandalous manner."

After a moment—to recover her breath—she went on in gasps:

"I took her on the recommendation of a mutual acquaintance, and at our interview she appeared quite all right and most anxious to please; but once on board ship, with her passage paid, I soon discovered that she was not anxious to please me, but any and every unmarried man she could come across! Such a shameless and outrageous flirt I never saw. As to her duties, she was absolutely useless; I don't believe she had ever washed or dressed a child in her life before she came to me; she did nothing but dress herself and sit about the deck with men, leaving me to do her work. When I spoke to her she simply laughed in my face; the children couldn't endure her and screamed whenever she came near them. So I was obliged to do nursemaid whilst she danced and amused herself—and all at my expense. She made no secret of the fact that she was on the look out for a husband; and she has gained her end—for she is married."

"Married!" repeated Shafto. The news was too good to be true.

"Well, at least they landed at Colombo with that intention," announced the lady sourly; "she and a coffee planter, a widower, with a touch of black blood. They were going up country to his estate, and she declared that she was about to have the time of her life—but I doubt it."

This piece of news was an unspeakable relief to Shafto. The hypocrite listened to the long list of his cousin's enormities with a downcast and apologetic air, whilst all the time he could have shouted for joy. When at last he was permitted an opportunity of speaking, he assured the angry matron that he much deplored Miss Larcher's shortcomings. His sympathy even took a practical form, for he generously offered to refund Mrs. Jones half of Miss Larcher's passage money; this the lady vouchsafed to receive and subsequently always spoke of young Shafto as "a remarkably nice, gentlemanly fellow." Little did she suspect that the cheque so punctually lodged at her banker's was in the form of a heartfelt thank-offering—the price of a young man's peace!



CHAPTER XXIII

MYSTERY AND SUSPICION

One evening after dinner the four chums—unusual circumstance—were all present; MacNab, seated at the big round table, engaged in putting up a remarkably neat parcel, the others lounging at ease, smoking and talking.

"Bedad, I know the address of that!" drawled FitzGerald from his long cane chair, "St. Andrew's Lodge, Crieff, Perthshire, N.B. Ahem—presents endear absents."

"N.B.," retorted MacNab, "you don't send many!"

"Why, man alive, it's all I can do to keep myself in boots! And you're wrong about presents, for I did send my sister a ruby ring out of 'Top-Note's' winnings. Things are getting so bad with me financially"—here he struck a match and then went on—"that some day I'll be obliged to make a present of myself!"

Shafto, who was reading, looked up over the edge of his book and said:

"How do you know you won't be declined with thanks?"

"I will take an observation and make sure, me boy—I'm not a confounded fool. Talking of fools—what about your crazy expedition to-morrow? I say," addressing himself particularly to Roscoe and MacNab, "did you know that this fellow is going out tiger shooting? Tiger shooting, if you please! Tiger shooting is to be his way of spending the Sabbath; what do you say to that, my stiff-necked Presbyterian?"

"Tiger shooting where?" inquired Roscoe.

"Somewhere near Elephant Point, with Stafford of the Buffers," replied Shafto. "We have got leave, a pass and two trackers."

"You'll find it a pretty expensive business," remarked the canny Scotsman.

"Worse than that!" supplemented Roscoe. "There will be no bag, no tiger skin, claws, whiskers, or fat. As long as I've been in Rangoon—and that's some years—I've been hearing of this same tiger. Dozens of parties have been out after him, with no success; he is still living on his reputation—just a myth and a fortune to the trappers. Lower Burma is much too wet a district for the great cat tribe."

"But I am told that there are plenty of elephants and tigers in this district," argued Shafto. "And what about the tiger that was actually crawling on the Pagoda not so very long ago! Why, hundreds of people saw the brute; it was shot by a fellow called Bacon."

As this was a hard and unanswerable fact Roscoe was for the moment silenced. After a short pause he continued:

"All the same, I don't believe in the Elephant Point tiger; the other was no doubt a pious beast—who came from Chin Hills to make a pilgrimage."

"You'll have a fine, rough journey, me boy." said FitzGerald; "nasty deep swamps, terrible thorn thickets, grass ten foot high—it wouldn't be my idea of pleasure."

"No," retorted Shafto, "tiger shooting and turkey-trotting are widely apart."

"But look here," exclaimed FitzGerald, as if struck by a thought and now sitting holt upright. "Mind you keep your eyes skinned and your ears pricked when you are down there," and he threw his friend a significant glance; "you never know your luck, and you might happen on valuable kubber—and start some rare sort of game."

FitzGerald's warning was amply justified; the tiger-shooting expedition proved a much rougher business than the sportsmen had anticipated. Once they quitted the roads and foot-path, vegetation became rank and overpowering and in places impassable. Swampy ground, dense thorn thickets and elephant grass made progress enormously difficult—the jungle guards well its many secrets and is full of dangers to mankind.

It was a bright moonlight night when Shafto and his companions alighted at the selected area and tossed for posts. These were at a considerable distance apart, each in a tree, over a "tie-up"—which, on this occasion, happened to be a goat.

The hours dragged along slowly; Shafto, doubled up in a cramped position on a machan, felt painfully stiff and was obliged to deny himself the comfort of a cigarette. There was no sound beyond the bleat of the victim—unwittingly summoning its executioner, the buzz of myriads of insects, the bass booming of frogs and the stealthy, mysterious movements of night birds and small animals. Then by degrees the moon waned and the stars faded—though the sky was still light. It was about three o'clock in the morning and Shafto was beginning to agree with Roscoe respecting the tiger myth and to feel uncommonly drowsy, when his ear was struck by a far-away sound, entirely distinct from buzzing insects or booming frogs.

The spot which had been thoughtfully selected by the trapper, was within a few hundred yards of a small cove, chosen as an inviting place for the tiger to come and slake his thirst. The distant sound came from this direction and, by degrees, a faint but definite pulsation grew more audible and distinct, and finally resolved itself, into the steady throbbing of a motor-launch. It was approaching.

Then from the back of Shafto's mind he dragged out a memory of FitzGerald's mention of a broken-down petrol boat. Here was probably the very one—by no means a derelict; on the contrary, a fast traveller. For a moment he was startled, then promptly made up his mind. This was a chance, perhaps, to secure some really valuable kubber. More than once he had heard it rumoured that, in these distant creeks and bays, some of the smugglers had discharged their valuable cargo. Well, if the cargo was now about to be landed, here was his opportunity! As the bleating of the goat would undoubtedly give him away, he must get rid of the animal immediately, so he quickly shinned down the tree and commanded the trapper to remove it.

"Tiger not coming to-night," he explained to the astonished Burman, who rejoined:

"Tiger coming soon, soon, now; after the waning of the moon."

"Oh well, never mind," said Shafto impatiently, "you take away the goat. Look sharp—take him quickly, quickly and keep him."

This was an extraordinary thakin, who, at the very climax of the tiger hour, climbed out of the machan and liberated the bait! Certainly these English folk were mad.

"You go towards the camp," he ordered, "and take my gun."

The Burman, still completely bewildered, obeyed; he could not understand the situation, but he felt bound to do what he was told, and presently he disappeared, moving with obvious reluctance, leading the goat and carrying gun and cartridges. His employer did not immediately follow, but remained for a considerable time motionless—listening. The pulsation had almost ceased—evidently the motor-boat had arrived at her destination, which was unfortunately not in his immediate vicinity. He crept stealthily along in the direction of the possible anchorage, fighting his way through roots and undergrowth; it was all of no use—a barrier of morass and elephant grass proved absolutely impassable, so he turned back towards his camp, pausing now and then to listen. He could make out voices—one in an authoritative key summoning "Mung Li." Well, he had at least discovered something definite—he was in the vicinity of smugglers. In a short time he discovered something else; through a breach in the undergrowth he caught a glimpse of a Burman leading a stout, grey pony carrying a European saddle and—unless his eyes entirely deceived him—the animal was Krauss's well-known weight carrier, "Dacoit."

Two evenings later, at the Gymkhana Club, Krauss lounged up to Shafto, who happened to be looking on at a billiard match. Taking a cigar out of his mouth he astonished him by saying:

"Well, so you had no luck after that tiger down the river!"

This was taking the bull by the horns indeed. "No," replied Shafto, "but Stafford saw him and got a shot. He is there all right."

"Perhaps you will have another try?" suggested Krauss.

"Perhaps so—but not for some time."

"Too much work, eh? Gregory is doing a big trade just now."

"Pretty well," rejoined Shafto, who was secretly surprised that Krauss should accost and talk to him in this way. Hitherto their acquaintance had been slight and, when he had been to tea at "Heidelberg," the master of the house was invariably absent.

"How is Mrs. Krauss? I hope she is better."

"No, she has been pretty bad the last few weeks—her niece is coming home in a day or two and that will cheer her up." As he concluded he gave Shafto a nod and a curious look and then, with a sort of elephantine waddle, lounged away.

So far Shafto had never spoken of his kubber; even with the evidence of his own eyes he shrank from suspecting anyone connected with Sophy Leigh; but links were joined in spite of his reluctance to face facts. How could Krauss have known that he had gone tiger shooting? Surely the affairs of an insignificant fellow like himself never crossed the mental horizon of such a big and busy person as Karl Krauss? There was no doubt that the animal he had seen near Elephant Point bore a suspicious resemblance to Krauss's weight-carrying grey pony! What was "Dacoit" doing in the jungle, thirty miles from Rangoon? He could make a pretty good guess. Krauss had motored down, sent the animal on ahead, and ridden through the grass and jungle in order to superintend the landing.

Could this be a fact? Or was the whole thing a mere coincidence? Was he obsessed by FitzGerald and suspecting an honest man, who might have been shooting in the swamps—why not?



CHAPTER XXIV

SENTENCE OF DEATH

When Sophy Leigh returned from May Myo she had half expected her aunt to meet her at the station, and was much concerned to discover, when she arrived home, that Mrs. Krauss had suffered a serious collapse, had not been out of the house for weeks, but was confined to her own apartments, nursed and attended by the ever-faithful Lily. Her condition seemed as serious as when Sophy had arrived from England, ten months previously, she found the patient propped up among her pillows, weak, apathetic, and terribly wasted. She looked dreadfully ill and her whole appearance was unkempt and strange.

"Oh, my dear Aunt Flora," said Sophy kneeling beside her and taking her limp hand, "why did you not let me know? Why did you not wire for me? I would have come back at once."

"No, no, no!" murmured Mrs. Krauss as she rolled her head slowly from side to side and closed her drowsy, dark eyes.

"But yes, yes, yes! and when you wrote to me you never said one word about being ill—though I might have suspected it. Your writing was so feeble—so shockingly shaky. How long has my aunt been like this?" she asked, appealing to Lily.

"About three—four weeks," replied the pouter pigeon, with calm unconcern; "ever since Mr. Krauss went to Singapore."

"Most of her friends have been away and my aunt has had no one to look after her, except you? Did the German ladies come to see her?"

"They did—yes, three, four times; asking plenty questions. Mem-sahib would not receive them, she liking only be left alone."

To-day Mrs. Krauss appeared almost unconscious of Sophy's presence and to be sunken in a sort of stupor.

As soon as Herr Krauss arrived home Sophy accosted him and deplored her aunt's condition.

"If you had only sent me a line I would have been here the next day."

"Oh yes, of course," he acquiesced brusquely. "She wanted you to have a good time. I have been away, too. Now that you are here I expect she will pick up, same as before."

"But do you not think that Aunt Flora should see a doctor? The pain is so agonising that she seems quite stupid and dazed!"

"A doctor—no," he replied; "she would not allow him inside the compound; her complaint comes and goes after the manner of its kind; just now it has been troublesome and this damp climate is bad for neuralgia. Your aunt refuses to leave home, and so there it is! Lily knows the remedies; she has been with us for years, and I have every confidence in her nursing."

After this Sophy realised that there was nothing more to be said or done, but patiently to await her aunt's recovery.

It was now the cool weather and, by degrees, Mrs. Krauss was able to leave her bed and repose in a long chair in the veranda. As her husband predicted, Sophy's company was a wonderful help towards her convalescence. She liked to hear all the news from May Myo about the people, their clothes, their doings and their gaieties. She even roused herself to play patience and picquet, to read, to enjoy Sophy's music, but she showed no inclination to emerge into society, or receive friends.

"You must go about and amuse yourself, Sophy; I do not feel up to motoring round, as I did last winter, but I won't keep you cooped up here with me—then we should have, not one invalid, but two. You must enjoy your young days, mix with other young people, dance and ride, bring me the gossip and tell me all your love affairs, honour bright! Mrs. Gregory has promised to chaperon you until I am better."

"No, indeed, Aunt Flora, I'd much rather stay with you," she protested. "I could not enjoy myself half so much if you are not with me. Don't you remember how nice it was last year, talking over everything together after dances and the theatre? I will play to you and read aloud, and if I ride in the morning, that will be as much outing as I shall require."

But in spite of Sophy's anxious protestations, once more her aunt consigned her to the charge of Mrs. Gregory, who, delighted in the responsibility, escorted her to dances and tennis parties, rode with her, and proved, in spite of the disparity in their years, a dear and congenial friend.

When at home Sophy would sit with her relative in her darkened room, which always seemed to hold a peculiar and distinctive atmosphere, resembling that of a chemist's shop. She brought her all the news that she thought would interest or amuse her, read the letters from home, tempted her to drive out, and read her new novels; but in these days Aunt Flora seemed to take but a languid interest in life, and her recovery was strangely tardy and fitful. On some days she was better, on others worse. Occasionally she would crawl out to the motor, or appear at dinner, but she looked dreadfully ill, her face so yellow and wrinkled, her whole appearance unkempt and peculiar. She was also abstracted and odd in her manner, at times even a little incoherent; and her eyes had a glazed, fixed expression. Sometimes as Sophy sat in the darkened room her mind was burdened with vague anxieties; she recalled the looks and questions of Frau Wurm; could it be altogether neuralgia that brought her aunt to such a pass? And if not, what? A casual eye might suppose that the invalid was under the influence of drink, but this was not the case. Mrs. Krauss was exceedingly temperate—her favourite stimulant was strong black coffee.

The rains were over and Rangoon was unusually full, and the committee of the Pegu Club decided to give a dance. This dance was to be the cheeriest of the season, the secretary had exerted himself to the utmost, and the great ballroom looked particularly well, all colour and glow, with splashes of bright shades, a profusion of palms and flowers, and a reckless prodigality of electric light. Practically everyone was present, even Herr Krauss, who, on this supreme occasion, had volunteered to chaperon his niece. The band was playing the newest waltzes and a varied assortment of Rangoon residents swung over the polished floor—men well known and otherwise, stout girls of German ancestry, daughters of judges, and soldiers, princesses of the Burmese dynasty, and dark-eyed maidens of Anglo-India.

Shafto had only succeeded in securing two dances with Sophy Leigh—besides the privilege of conducting her to supper. They were resting in the veranda, after a long, exhausting waltz, watching the crowd pour out of the ballroom; among others they noticed, approaching them, Mr. FitzGerald and his partner, Miss Fuchsia Bliss, a little frail American, who had dropped out of a touring party from the Philippines, and since then, as she expressed it, "had been staying around in Rangoon," first at the Lieutenant-Governor's, next at the Pomeroys', now, with a slight descent in the scale of precedence, with the Gregorys. She had struck up a demonstrative but sincere friendship with Sophy Leigh and stood in the forefront of her admirers.

Fuchsia Bliss was an orphan, absolutely independent in every sense of the word, who looked considerably younger than her real age, and appeared so small and so fragile that, like thistledown, she might almost be blown away. Nevertheless, she was anything but light, in either head or purse. Fuchsia was not pretty; indeed, to be honest, was barely good-looking. Her complexion was colourless, her thick hair a dull, ashen shade, her eyes, though remarkably lively, were much too small, her chin, on the other hand, was much too long. Beautifully marked brows, white teeth, and a fairy figure, were her assets; and, as she herself said, "she had plenty of snap!" Miss Bliss was uncommonly shrewd and vivacious. Her friends (these were many) were somewhat afraid of Fuchsia's plain speaking (her thoughts were too close to her tongue); she professed to be enormously interested in Burma and found it such a quaint old country, declared that the pagodas were "too sweet for words," and the Burmese women "just the dearest, daintiest, best tricked out, little talking dolls!"

(A cynical critic might have compared Miss Fuchsia herself to a "talking doll.")

"America," she announced, "was a brand-new nation, bubbling over with energy and vim, whilst this drowsy old Eastern land was most deliciously restful and ancient—it made a nice change."

Down at the bottom of a good-sized heart Miss Fuchsia was aware that it was not altogether an admiration for the East which detained her lingering in Burma. For the first time in her life the pale-faced heiress was seriously interested in one of the other sex. This fortunate man happened to be Patrick FitzGerald, of the Burmese Police; a fellow without a penny beyond his pay, but well set up, self-possessed, and handsome; a capital partner, a congenial spirit, and a complete contrast to herself.

The couple now approached Shafto and his companion, FitzGerald, rather warm, mopping his good-looking face, Miss Bliss, tripping airily beside him, in an exquisite green toilet, still—as always—talking.

"Only think—he has got to go!" she announced with a dramatic gesture, halting in front of Sophy as she spoke. "Isn't it too—too awfully provoking? He has been sent for, right now in the middle of the ball—engaged to me for two more waltzes, supper and an extra, and here am I, side-tracked!"

"A true bill—I am off," said FitzGerald, with a significant glance at Shafto; "I leave Miss Bliss and my reputation in your hands."

"Miss Bliss can take good care of herself," she announced, sitting down.

"No doubt of that," assented Shafto; "all the same, Miss Leigh and I will attend Miss Bliss to supper."

"No, no," she protested, "I have planned to take in Mr. Gregory."

"That is if you can get hold of him," argued her late partner; "he is playing bridge."

"Oh well, anyway, I shan't go begging!" said Fuchsia, leaning back on the lounge and crossing her tiny, exquisitely shod feet.

"But whoever dreamt of that?" exclaimed Shafto. "And here by great good luck comes Gregory. I say, he looks as if his last partner had gone No Trumps on a Yarborough!"

Almost before he had joined them the police officer disappeared, and the party adjourned to the supper-room, where they found places at the same round table as Mrs. Pomeroy and Herr Bernhard. Herr Krauss, a ponderous free lance, who was completely detached, joined the circle uninvited, and pushed his huge person into an empty chair, next to Miss Bliss. The soup, hot quails, and champagne were above criticism. Miss Bliss, as usual, did most of the talking and entertained the company.

"What a difference there is between our dancing and the native performance," she remarked. "Our tangos and turkey-trotting are just an amusement, ending in a feast, whilst their diversion is mostly prayers, intoning, gongs, and bells, burning candles and telling beads. The Burmese seem to be always thinking of their souls; Oriental nations beat us at religion."

"Religion, such as it is!" rejoined Bernhard with a sneer. "After all, what does it amount to with them but the fear of evil spirits and the propitiation of nats and demons? Crowds go to the Pagoda and offer flowers, prayers and candles, yet all the time their faith is not in Buddha, but in devils. They cover up their pillars and offer sacrifices to the nats, build them nice little houses, make them flattering speeches, and look for a return in the shape of a piece of luck! Buddhism is merely a philosophy—not a religion," he concluded sententiously.

"Well, there is one item in their faith which I admire," said Shafto; "they have no fear of death—they firmly believe that we shall pass into another existence, and how we fare in the next world depends on our good or evil deeds in this."

"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," pronounced 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 noble 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 brimming glass.

"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 passing 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."

"Look here, Joe," said FitzGerald, "your cousin was murdered for giving me information. He knew the risk he was running, he knew that there are eyes and ears all over the place, and the chances were ninety to one he would be put out of the way—he hinted as much in his letter. Now then, I'm going to put my back into the business, and if I don't find out something about this cocaine smuggling, I'll—I'll——" he reflected for a moment and added abruptly, "never go to another dance! It's a syndicate who had this crime carried out; they have their hired assassins like the 'Black Hand' in Sicily. Some of the crew are bound to be in Rangoon, for Roscoe's sentence and execution took place within a few hours. Now it is my aim and intention to discover who they are—and to carry war into the enemy's quarter."

"Well, Fitz," said Roscoe, "I know how you love adventure—and the smoke of battle, and I feel fairly confident that you will do your best and, let us hope, storm and shatter the cocaine stronghold."



CHAPTER XXVI

FITZGERALD IMPARTS INFORMATION

Up to the time of the murder of Roscoe, Shafto had kept his experience to himself; even with the evidence of his own eyes he shrank from suspecting anyone connected with Sophy. After all, there were plenty of Shan posies in Rangoon, and Krauss's inquiry about the tiger might be just a mere coincidence; but now facts were forming up in stern array, despite his reluctance to face them. There was no doubt that Krauss had spies and tools, and if that was his grey pony "Dacoit," what was "Dacoit" doing in the jungle, thirty miles from Rangoon? It was suspiciously strange that, after Miss Bliss's mention of a loafer who had given information—a loafer toasted by Krauss—an individual answering the description had so promptly disappeared. Well now, Sophy or no Sophy, FitzGerald must be told!

Shafto found his opportunity the following night, when he and the police officer had the veranda to themselves. Roscoe, with an actor's unquenchable ardour for the theatre, was patronising a play. The tour of "Charley's Aunt" had reached Rangoon. The MacNab was dining with the Presbyterian minister.

After the table had been cleared and cheroots produced, without any circumlocution or preface, Shafto plunged into his subject and laid his information and suspicions before his friend who, to his amazement, replied:

"Oh well, I've had my own ideas for some time, me boy. I have noticed that Krauss is one of the loudest in crowing whenever we make a haul of contraband; it has struck me that his enthusiasm is a bit overdone. I believe he is in with a pack of swindlers, but has a wonderful knack of safeguarding his own ugly carcass. His wealth is a well-known fact, but its source is distinctly mysterious. He is not like the usual business man, who puts by a few thousands every now and then, made in teak or paddy; Krauss has a share in everything that's any good. Oil, rubies, trams, wolfram, rubber, and so on. The capital he invests in these concerns cannot come from ordinary speculation in rice and teak—so the question is, where does he get it?"

As Shafto made no reply, FitzGerald put down his cheroot, drew his chair closer to the table and, leaning over to his companion, said:

"Look here, me boy, you are a thundering good sort, and I'd like to tell you one or two small things—and give you a bit of advice that may be useful. From what you say, I have no doubt that Krauss suspects that you have seen something of his game—how much he cannot be sure; but one thing is absolutely certain—he won't trust you, and you'll find that, in some way or other, he'll have his knife into Douglas Shafto."

"Same as the late Richard Roscoe?"

"Let us hope he won't feel obliged to take such strong measures; but I wouldn't put it past him to do you a devilish nasty turn."

"This is pleasant but indefinite."

"Well, let me advise you to take cover; do not go about alone after dark, or on foot."

"I never do, except over to the Salters."

"Don't stir, even over to the Salters, or when you do go, take Roscoe; he and Salter are birds of a feather—a couple of philosophers, clever, deeply-read cranks. I shall notify to my men to keep a sharp eye on you."

"So then I'm to be under police protection, am I?"

"I am afraid it will be a distressing necessity; but the fact will naturally be known only to you and me."

"So you honestly believe that Krauss is not on the square?"

FitzGerald nodded and then replied:

"He does not associate with the best German people here—I think they smell a rat; and the English give him a fairly wide berth. His manners are impossible; even in Rangoon money is not everything, and his record is peculiar. He came away from China stony-broke, picked up a few thousands in Singapore and then settled in Rangoon about twelve years ago—and Rangoon has suited him down to the ground. When they first arrived Mrs. Krauss was an extraordinarily handsome woman, popular and lively; could keep a whole dinner-table going and was always splendidly dressed. On the whole, a valuable, but unconscious tool! Latterly her health has failed and she has subsided. Besides his German hangers on, the oddest sort of guests collect at 'Heidelberg,' though you and I may not meet them—men from Calcutta, the Straits and even China. Not long ago I came across Krauss's brown motor in a block in Phayre Street. I happened to glance inside; there was Krauss himself and two fat natives, one a notorious budmash, and I noticed that, after I had passed, a hand pulled down the blind. Why? In a place like this, and indeed everywhere, a man is judged by his friends. Krauss tries to keep in with Rangoon society and poses as a brusque, eccentric sort of a fellow, with a rude manner and a good heart. The days of his grand dinner-parties came to an end some time ago. Now the fat grey spider at 'Heidelberg' has to rely more or less on his wife's pretty niece; she is bright and popular and attracts a lot of useful people into his web. To see that girl pouring out tea, or sitting at the piano, making delicious music, who would suppose that 'Heidelberg' was the headquarters of a gang of thieves? Mrs. Krauss is a back number, her health has gone to pieces, and lately I believe she is in a bad way." He paused, and surveying Shafto with half-closed eyes, added:

"I suppose you don't know what her complaint is?"

"Oh, yes—acute neuralgia."

"Acute grandmother!" scoffed FitzGerald. "Guess again!"

"Well—what?"

FitzGerald leant over, took a long breath, and whispered the word "Cocaine."

"Oh, nonsense!" And Shafto burst out laughing. "Why, man, you're mad!"

"Mad—not a bit of it! I happen to know where she gets the stuff and I've known for a good while, Krauss has no idea that his wife drugs; it's all so artfully managed. That Madras ayah is a rare treasure and as cunning as the devil; she ought to be in our Secret Service. I needn't tell you that she is extravagantly paid."

"Well—but, Fitz, I don't believe it; no, and I won't believe it."

"All right, then. Look here, have you never noticed how brilliant and lively Mrs. Krauss is at times, with shining eyes and a colour in her cheeks? Then on other days, if she does appear, she is limp as a wet rag, depressed and old; there is a complete lack of all vital force. Now tell me how you account for that?"

"Her illness," stammered Shafto; "the climate."

"Neither the one nor the other. But bar the cocaine habit, Mrs. Krauss is all right and straight; she has no suspicion of her husband's ill practices, nor he of hers."

"And you suspect both?"

"Why not? Suspicion is part of my trade. I think you and I had better be seeking our beds; I have seen the chokidar peering round the corner of the staircase; I don't know what he is up to; he may imagine that we are hatching mischief. I caught his eye when I was whispering just now, and it is more than likely that he has suspicions of us both!"



CHAPTER XXVII

A ROPE TRICK

This conversation with FitzGerald gave his housemate ample food for serious reflection. If Krauss was a deep-dyed scoundrel, and his wife a victim of the cocaine habit, what a home for Sophy! If he could only take her away from it! But what grounds had he for hoping that she would marry him? In spite of their pleasant meetings, their rides and dances, he had never ventured to hint at his real feelings, knowing that he was far from being what is called "an eligible match," and having a surprisingly humble opinion of his own merits. He was now receiving five hundred rupees a month, which, after all, did not go far in expensive Rangoon. Could a man marry on such an income, or on the supposition that what was barely enough for one would be sufficient for two?

As far as he was in a position to judge, Sophy's ideas were not extravagant, and she would be better almost anywhere than in her present abode; but he had not the slightest right to suppose that she cared two pins for him; on the other hand, he had a hateful and well-founded conviction that not a few of the young men among her acquaintances would be glad to claim Miss Leigh as a wife. There were Fotheringay the A.D.C., Gubbins of the Oil Company, and one or two others, fluttering about her and scorching their wings.

* * * * * *

After a month of procrastination and delay, the Rangoon Commissariat Department, under an energetic new official, decided to embark a collection of sixty elephants, which had long been awaiting transport from the neighbourhood of Rangoon, to India. Now a large sailing-ship had been chartered to carry this interesting cargo across the Bay of Bengal to Vizagapatam, where they would be scattered to work in all parts of the country.

The sailing-ship was anchored across the river at Dallah, and, in order to reach their destination, the elephants were called upon to swim the Rangoon River—sixty, no fewer, mostly young animals which had been caught and trained, the property of the Indian Government. The move took place upon Thursday (the Garrison holiday), and a large number of people were assembled to witness this unusual departure. The emigrants were ranged up in groups, two huge tuskers appeared to be in charge of the business of embarkation, and, to do them justice, carried it out with conspicuous success, taking it in turn to convoy select parties across the river, here a mile wide. The "personally conducted" were at first delighted to be in the water. They splashed and played about like huge porpoises, and were smacked and kept in order like naughty children by their great tusker nurse, and eventually guided to a landing. Some, on the other hand, did not enjoy the excursion, were alarmed by the force of the current and turned tail. These were chased, vigorously chastised, herded in the way they should go, and escorted to the other side—all save one, which obstinately refused to quit terra firma, and was accordingly fastened to a launch, in order to be towed across; but the powerful and headstrong brute towed the launch inland and, having utterly smashed it and destroyed several bamboo sheds, effected its triumphal escape.

Meanwhile the fifty-nine were assembled at Dallah, patiently awaiting their fate. A number of people had collected on the landing-stage, close to the big ship, to watch her strange cargo being placed on board. The lower hold of this huge four-master had been entirely cleared, and into this receptacle the devoted elephants were lowered by a gigantic steam crane. Meanwhile they were formed up behind a huge shed in order that none should witness the scheme of departure, or the undignified transfer of its companions. A selected victim was coaxed, flattered, caressed, and then marched proudly down the pier between two deceitful and majestic tuskers, a pair of stern old gentlemen that would stand no nonsense; soothed and bribed by a generous supply of sugar-cane, the unsuspicious traveller was halted directly under the crane; a belly-band encircled his enormous waist, and to this was attached a hook; then, at a given signal, the astonished animal was suddenly hoisted into the air. And what a sight! Trunk waving madly, legs wildly reaching for foothold, a helpless and ridiculous monster, endeavouring to clutch the rigging. Presently the frantic passenger was slowly lowered to the hold, where his own beloved mahout and a pile of luscious lucerne awaited his agitated arrival.

Lookers-on found the spectacle of a helpless elephant struggling in mid-air excessively amusing, and the immediate neighbourhood of the ship was crowded. Here were the Pomeroys, Maitlands, Morgans, Puffles, Mrs. Gregory, Miss Leigh, and numbers of others, including Shafto, who, much interested in this novel sight, had taken several snapshots. Just as he snapped the last elephant, he felt the sharp jerk of a rope round his ankles, and in another second was swept into the racing Irrawaddy.

As the water surged over his head, the sharp shock and the submersion momentarily took away his breath. Shafto was a strong swimmer, but the current was tremendous and not to be denied; it carried him right out into the middle of the river, spinning him round and round like a leaf in a torrent. He realised his danger and that his lease of life could now be counted by seconds. His thoughts flew straight to Sophy; with a sensation of piercing agony he felt that he would never see her again. By extraordinary good fortune a steam launch which was crossing had noticed the swimmer's dark head, as well as the shouts and the signals from the landing-stage, and promptly overtook him, drew him breathless and half drowned on board, and landed him at Dallah. Shafto had had a miraculous escape, for those who fall into the Irrawaddy rarely emerge alive; his adventure was much discussed and debated for one whole day at Gregory's and elsewhere.

"How on earth did it happen? Lucky you were clear of the ship, otherwise you would have been sucked underneath and never been found," remarked a friend; "we cannot imagine how you tumbled in—did anyone shove you?"

"Oh, I just tripped over a rope," he announced, when questioned at the Club; but to FitzGerald he confided the truth—the whole truth:

"I was standing pretty close to the edge of the stage—among a lot of natives, as it happened—taking snapshots of the elephants, when all of a sudden I felt a rope twist round my legs; it gave a sort of sharp pull, and the next moment I was in the water! It's a nasty experience to have the Irrawaddy closing over your head; I have its taste in my mouth still! I'll swear that there were hands at the end of the rope, and that I saw no rope about when I first came on the pier, for I happened to be early—and it was pretty empty. Later, there was a big crowd and a lot of pushing and hustling. I noticed several Chinamen hanging round and pressing together; now that I come to think of it, they surrounded me. The rope was not the usual thick hawser, but something thinner and more flexible—more like whipcord such as a fellow could carry in his pocket."

"What did I tell you?" said FitzGerald, thumping on the table with both his fists. "We must get a move on and try to corner Krauss; that rope was a preliminary experiment, and all but landed you in Kingdom Come!"



CHAPTER XXVIII

MA CHIT

Although Shafto had many acquaintances and continual engagements, he never forgot his first friends, the Salters, and still strolled over of an evening, accompanied by Roscoe, to sit in the veranda, talk, smoke, and listen, until his companions began to discuss such abstract questions as, "What is the real driving force of life?" or to argue on the philosophy of Buddhism, or Herbert Spencer's "Descriptive Sociology" and the "Unknowable."

When conversation turned in this direction Shafto felt entirely out of his element and slipped indoors to play games with Rosetta or her mother. Recently it had struck him that Ma Chit appeared to have become more or less a permanent member of the establishment, being so constantly with her cousin. She took an enthusiastic interest in Rosetta's brick-building, superintended and sharply criticised Mee Lay's games of dominoes, and even suggested herself as a substitute. Burmese dominoes are black, with brass points, and held in the hand like cards. Mrs. Slater, a keen and clever opponent, indignantly refused to relinquish her post to her relative, and was radiant and triumphant when she carried off a stake of eight annas. Shafto would have enjoyed these matches, and this contest of wits and luck, had Ma Chit been elsewhere, instead of leaning on his chair, looking over his hand, laughing, throwing quick glances, and making idiotic remarks. Once he had been not a little startled to find her tiny brown fingers inserted between his collar and his neck! He shook them off impatiently; he hated such practical jokes, and said so in no measured terms.

More than once, he had been solemnly assured, the fascination of this girl's personality worked like a charm, and it had become disagreeably evident that she wished to cast a spell over him. How often had her bright black eyes imparted an alluring tale! However, he felt himself well protected by an impenetrable shield on which was inscribed the name of "Sophy," and Ma Chit gracefully posturing with tingling bangles and twittering talk, had no more effect upon her prey than on a stone image. No; although she hung over him, tapped him with too eloquent fingers, whispered jokes in his ear, and filled his nostrils with an exquisite and voluptuous perfume, she was powerless!

One evening he happened to be playing chess with Salter; Roscoe was at pwe; Mee Lay was putting Rosetta to bed, but Ma Chit was present, listening, smiling, and smoking her white cheroot. At the conclusion of a close and hard-fought game, in which Shafto was victorious she leant over, gazed into his eyes, and stroked his face with two caressing fingers. As he drew back quickly, she burst out laughing and exclaimed:

"But why are you so shy, dear boy? Always so shy—so odd and so foolish?"

Shafto found the siren undeniably pretty and seductive, but at the same time irrepressible and odious. He hated her catlike litheness, her undulating walk, and the unmistakable invitation of her whole personality.

"Come, Ma Chit, behave yourself!" said her host sternly. "If you can't—you don't come here again."

The beauty received this admonition with a scream of laughter, tossed a flower at Salter, wafted a kiss to his guest, and faded away into the veranda.

By degrees, thanks to his constant encounters with Ma Chit, Shafto avoided the Salters' bungalow, and Roscoe made his visits alone; but as it was not more than three hundred yards from the chummery Shafto had a painful conviction that, when dusk and darkness had fallen, the neighbourhood of his compound was haunted—not by the malignant and resident nat, but by the graceful and sinuous figure of a little Burmese girl! Once a stone, to which was attached a paper, was thrown into his room. On it was inscribed in a babu's clerkly hand:

"Do come and talk to Ma Chit."



CHAPTER XXIX

MUNG BAW

Returning one evening from a lively dinner at the "Barn," Shafto was surprised to see a light in his room, and still more surprised to find the pongye once again seated on his bed.

"Oh, so you've come back!" he exclaimed aghast, and a shadow of annoyance settled on his face.

"I have so," calmly responded this late visitor; "as I was passing I thought I'd give you a call in. I came down a couple of weeks back—as I have some small business here and wanted to show myself to a doctor. I don't hold with them native medicines and charms, and I'm inclined to a weakness in me inside."

"Why, you look as strong as a horse!" was Shafto's unsympathetic rejoinder, as he sank into a chair and pulled out a cigarette. The pongye contributed a special personal atmosphere, composed of turmeric, woollen stuff and some fiercely pungent herb.

"Looks is deceitful, and so is many a fine fellow," observed the pongye in a dreamy voice. After this pronouncement he relapsed into a reflective silence—a silence which conveyed the subtle suggestion that the visitor was charged with some weighty mission. At any rate, it was useless for Shafto to think of undressing and going to bed, since his couch was already occupied by the holy man, who appeared to be established for the night.

Interpreting Shafto's envious glance, he said:

"You'll excuse me sitting on the charpoy, but I've got entirely out of the use of chairs, and me bones are too stiff to sit doubled up on the floor like a skewered chicken."

"Oh, that's all right," said Shafto, who was very sleepy. "I suppose you have just come from Upper Burma?"

"Yes, that's the part I most belong to and that suits me. I can't do with this soft, wet climate, though I am an Irishman. I'm from Mogok, that's the ruby mine district, but what I like best is the real jungle. Oh, you'd love to see the scenery and to walk through miles and miles of grand trees on the Upper Chindwin; forests blazing with flowers and alive with birds, not to speak of game. Many's the time I've been aching for the hould of a gun, but, of course, it was an evil thought."

"Your religion forbids you to take life?"

"That's true; I've not tasted meat for years, but there's not a word to be said agin fish or an odd egg."

"Tell me something more about your new faith!"

"Well now, let me think," said the pongye meditatively. "We have no regular service for marriage or burial, and no preaching. We keep the five great rules—poverty, chastity, honesty, truth, and respect all life. There are two hundred and twenty-seven precepts besides. Most men can say them off out of the big book of the Palamauk, and there are stacks and stacks—thousands of stacks—of sacred writings, but I just stick to the five commandments, the path of virtue and the daily prayers. The singing and chanting is in Pali—a wonderful fine, loud language. Many of the pongyes is teachers, for every boy in Burma passes through their hands; but I'm no schoolmaster, though I was once a clerk in the Orderly room. I could not stand the gabble of them scholars, all roaring out the same words at the top of their voices for hours together."

"I can't imagine how you pass your time," remarked Shafto, "or how you stand the idleness—a man like you who were accustomed to an active life."

"Oh, I get through me day all right. In the early morning there's prayers and a small refreshment, and I sit and meditate; the young fellows, like novices, sweep and carry water and put flowers about the Buddha; then we all go with our bowls in our hands, parading through the village, looking neither right nor left, but we get all we want and more—for giving is a great merit. When we return to the kyoung we have our big midday meal, and then for a few hours I meditate again. The life suits me. It's a different country from India, with its blazing sun and great bare plains; there the people seldom has a smile on them. Here they are always laughing; here all is green and beautiful, with fine aisy times for flowers and birds and beasts. There's peace and kindness. Oh! it's a fine change from knocking about in barracks and cantonments, drilling and route-marching and sweating your soul out. By the way, have ye the talisman I give you?"