"If you mean the brown stone—yes."

"That stone was slipped into my begging-bowl one day."

"Not much of a find as an eatable!"

"That is so, though according to fairy tales the likes has dropped out of people's mouths before now. Ye may not suspicion the truth, but it's a fine big ruby! I believe it was found stuck in red mud in the ruby district, and someone who had a wish for me dropped it into the patta, and I—who have a wish for you—pass it on."

"But if it is so valuable I could not dream of accepting such a gift," protested Shafto. "You will have to take it back—thanks awfully, all the same."

"Oh, ye never rightly know the price of them stones till they are cut; but the knowledgeable man I showed it to said it might be worth a couple of thousand pounds, and I've come to tell ye this—so that ye can turn it into coin—and if ye wanted to get out of Burma, there ye are!"

"That is most awfully good of you, but I really could not think of accepting your treasure, or its value in money—and I have no wish to leave Burma, the country suits me all right."

As he ceased speaking Shafto got up, unlocked a leather dispatch box and produced the ruby, which he placed in the large, well-kept hand of the visitor.

"Well, now, I call this entirely too bad!" the latter exclaimed as he turned it over. "An' I need not tell ye that I can make no use of the ruby, being vowed to poverty—which you are not; and I want to offer some small return for what ye did for me last time I was down in Rangoon. I can't think what ails ye to be so stiff-necked; is there nothing at all I can do for ye?"

"Well, Mung Baw, since you put it like that, I believe you could give me what would be far more use than a stone—some valuable help."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, I know her."

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

"There is not the smallest chance of my being what you call 'mixed up' with any young devil," said Shafto in a sulky voice. "As for Ma Chit—she is not the sort you suppose."

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

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

"The reason is this, and a good one—these black scorpions employ what they call 'love charms.' Oh yes, laugh, laugh, laugh away! But one of these charms would soon make you laugh the wrong side of your mouth. They are deadly, let me tell you; a cigarette loaded with a certain drug has been the ruin of more than one fine young fellow. I disremember the name of the stuff—it begins with an 'M,' and is surely made in hell itself, for it drives a man stark mad. Once he smokes it he falls into a pit and is lost for ever, body and soul."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XXX

ENLIGHTENMENT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's rather a dull house for poor Sophy," suggested her friend; "when her aunt has one of her bad attacks she sees no visitors for days. Mr. Krauss is absent from morning till night—not that I consider his absence any loss, for I dislike him more than words can express."

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

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

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

"Oh, no! By accident—or on purpose?"

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

"Perhaps he knows too much."

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

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

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

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

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

"Pat FitzGerald is mad about it, too, and is having a great big try to rope in the boss smugglers. He has told me the most terrible tales. Once the drug—it's cocaine and morphia mixed—gets a fast hold of a man, or woman, he or she is doomed!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why do you say that?"

"Tell me who it is."

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

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

Fuchsia's reply was a slow, deliberate nod.

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

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

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

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

There was an agonising pause. Self-deception was no longer possible. With an effort she replied:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ah, if you only could; but, my dear girl, I'm afraid it is too late. I have been questioning Pat FitzGerald—of course without letting him know that I had any 'case' in my mind's eye. From what I have gathered, Mrs. Krauss has been taking this drug for a long time—and is past all help."

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

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



CHAPTER XXXI

SEEING IS BELIEVING

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

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

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

"I am searching for the hypodermic syringe by which you reduce my aunt," pointing to the bed, "to this horrible condition. Come with me, Lily," leading the way to the outer room. "I have something to say to you."

The ayah's face was almost green; she was shaking all over, but after a moment's hesitation she ultimately obeyed in sullen silence.

"I was not aware until two days ago," resumed Sophy, "that my aunt took drugs and that you supplied them."

"I don't know what the missy is talking about," stammered Lily.

"Oh yes, you understand, and Mr. Krauss will understand. At present he has no idea of my aunt's real ailment."

"Missy going to tell him? Well, if I am sent away to Madras and the drug taken from the missis she will soon die—you will see!"

Lily's tone was more triumphant than regretful.

"She will die anyway," rejoined Sophy, "and it were better that she should die in her senses than a drugged victim to cocaine. How long has this been going on?"

"Two, three years—maybe four years."

"Four years!" repeated Sophy incredulously.

"Yes, missis plenty sick—no sleep getting; doctor ordering small dose sleep mixture; missis liking too much, taking more and more, and more."

"And you have kept her supplied—you get it from Ah Shee?"

"If not me, then some other woman. I plenty fond of missis and I kept her secret."

"And, no doubt, she has paid you well."

"Yes, giving money; but too much trouble to get morphia and cocaine and to keep people from talk. One or two times she took too big dose, and then nearly die—but missis will have it all the same—die or no die!"

"Well, now, if I promise you one thing will you promise me another? I will not say a word to Mr. Krauss if you will agree to buy no more cocaine."

"I will promise not to give so much; but no more cocaine taking at all, missis would shrivel up and go out like one bit of paper in a candle! I will do what I can, missy, but missis always taking plenty—two grains is nothing."

"I am astonished," said Sophy, "that my aunt has never been suspected of taking drugs."

"Missy, you never suspect it yourself, and yet you have lived in same house for fifteen months. It was hard to keep it dark, but all the servants know. Of course, that is no matter, and as for the big mem-sahibs, they do not come here now."

"It seems so strange," said Sophy, "that my aunt should have sunk into this state—all through one little dose of morphia."

"Well, you see, missy, she was ill; it was in the rains; she was awfullee melancholy and depressed, and she had not much to fill her mind. She did not sew or ride or make music, like you do. Mr. Krauss was away, she was sick and lonely, and so she got the doctor's prescription made up over and over again. If she could have gone to Europe two years ago she might have cured herself of taking the stuff. Two—three times she has begun to stop it, but it was no good. I have talked to her and given her wise words and tried to help her—and cheat her, but she always found me out; so all I can do or have done is to stand between her and the other mem-sahibs and hide her—trouble."

The sound of light footsteps stealing across the veranda caused Lily to pause—then she added under her breath:

"It is that Moti ayah, missy; she very cunning, same like little snake and we had better go. I will keep my promise, though it will be plenty bother; I am glad that you know—for it will make business more easy for me now there is one less to hide it from."

Thus the conspirators parted, Sophy having maintained from first to last her mastery of the situation.

It was not long before Mrs. Krauss became aware, more by instinct than actual knowledge, that her niece had discovered the real cause of her illness. One evening as Sophy bent over to kiss her and say good night, she took her hand in both of hers and, with tears trickling down her face, whispered:

"Sophy darling, I've tried—it's no use; whatever happens, keep it from him!"

And this was the sole occasion on which Aunt Flora ever alluded to her failing.



CHAPTER XXXII

ON DUTY

The veil that shrouded her aunt's secret being now withdrawn, by a strange paradox a heavy cloud of darkness descended upon Sophy; she seemed to have suddenly passed from a warm glow of sunlight into a cold shadow-land of mystery and fear. Before Herr Krauss and the outer world she still carried a buoyant standard of false high spirits. Her rippling laughter and cheerful repartees were to be heard where young people were assembled at the Gymkhana, or elsewhere; but this Sophy wore another aspect when she sat on duty in her aunt's bedroom, whiling away restlessness and want of sleep with reading and talk, and even cards. Many a time the dawn was breaking before she was at liberty to go to bed. No wonder that she looked pale and fagged—no wonder people gazed at her keenly and inquired about her health. It is not easy even for a girl of two-and-twenty thus to burn the candle at both ends! Riding, dancing, and playing tennis in the daytime, and then sitting up half the night, with a restless and fretful patient. It was this Sophy who conferred so long and earnestly with Lily ayah, respecting methods to be adopted, pretences effected, infinitesimal doses exchanged for the usual amount, and the patient craftily beguiled—but it is almost impossible to beguile a person who is suffering from the fierce craving for a drug; and the want of her normal supply soon began to make itself apparent in Mrs. Krauss, and there were not a few exhausting scenes.

Sophy found it necessary to take her ayah Moti into her confidence—a humiliating obligation (as it happened, Moti had always been in the secret), and among the three it was arranged that the mistress of the house was to be watched and never left alone. Occasionally Mrs. Krauss had disputes and dreadful altercations with Lily; but by degrees she appeared to acquiesce; her strength was unequal to a prolonged struggle, and the victim of cocaine would throw herself down on her bed and moan like some dying animal. These moans pierced the heart of her unhappy niece.

Herr Krauss was seldom at home, but, when in residence, his personality obtruded itself in all directions, and it was surprising to Sophy that he never noticed any cause for anxiety in his wife's appearance, she looked so ill and emaciated; it was true that he was preoccupied with important affairs, and that he only saw her of an evening when the lights were shaded. She still appeared in the afternoon and at dinner, particularly if they were alone. When she received visitors, especially her German neighbours, Sophy felt exceedingly uncomfortable. It seemed to her—although this might be imagination—that the ladies exchanged coughs and significant glances, and noticed the trembling hand with which Mrs. Krauss helped herself to cake, her sudden lapses into silence, her abrupt interruptions and cavernous yawns. For years Mrs. Krauss had been at home once a week to her German neighbours. They are a gregarious nation, and the "Kaffee-Gesellschaft"—an afternoon affair, beginning at four o'clock—is greatly beloved by German women. Here they enjoy strong coffee, chocolate flavoured with vanilla and whipped cream, and every description of rich cake. These coffee parties are generally an orgy of scandal, and that at "Heidelberg" was no exception. Whether Mrs. Krauss was well or ill, the guests never failed to arrive. It was a standing institution and enjoyed their approval and countenance.

One bright hope upheld Sophy; Herr Krauss now talked of returning home—that is, to Germany.

"Business is booming, my dear old lady; I shall close down, and we will all depart. You have been in Burma too long, but in six months we shall be aboard the mail boat and watch the gold Pagoda gradually sinking out of sight. I shall take a handsome place in the neighbourhood of Frankfort, and entertain all my good friends. Then we will make music, and eat, drink, and be merry."

His talk was invariably in this hopeful strain; he never exhibited the least anxiety with regard to his wife's illness; it had become her normal condition, and he spoke of it as "that confounded neuralgia" and cursed the Burmese climate.

Sophy listened and marvelled, and yet she herself had been equally dense. Neuralgia covers various infirmities, just as the cloak of charity covers a multitude of sins. She had become excessively sensitive and suspicious, a sort of domestic detective—a post that was by no means to her taste. She had thought long and earnestly over the situation, and from her reflections emerged the solid word "Duty." It was her duty to fight for her aunt, to contend against the demon drug—and fight she did. Oh, if she could only maintain the struggle until her charge was en route home, what a victory!

Mrs. Krauss never alluded to her illness—a remarkable contrast to many invalids; but one afternoon, as Sophy sat beside her in the dimly-lit lounge, she suddenly broke an unusually long silence:

"Life is very difficult, Sophy, my dear; death is easy, and I shall soon know all about it."

"Oh, Aunt Flo, why do you say this?"

"Because, before long, I shall die. Karl is full of great plans and talks of our wonderful future. I see no future for myself in Europe; I shall remain behind when you and he go down the Irrawaddy—but I am not afraid. On the contrary, I look forward."

"As for death, I hope you are mistaken, Aunt Flora, but I confess that yours is a most enviable frame of mind."

"It is, dear, I suppose, from living so long in the East, I have imbibed some of the people's ideas. In all the world these Burmans cannot be matched for their radiant cheerfulness—they make the best of the present, and, as they say, 'merely die to live again.' There is not one of them who does not believe in and speak of his past life, and look forward to a future existence; this is why they wear such an air of happiness and contentment."

"And do you really believe there is anything in this comfortable faith, Aunt Flora?"

"Yes, my dear, I have a sincere confidence that my soul, not this miserable wicked body, will live again, and be given an opportunity of being better in another world."

"Well, at any rate that is a consoling creed. For my own part, I know little about Buddhism, but I can see that the Burmans are a religious people, much given to worship and offerings, and with a good deal of gaiety in their ceremonies; but, Aunt Flora, although they are delightfully picturesque, and so merry and cheerful, as a mass they are terribly pleasure-loving and lazy; no Burman will work if he can help it; even the women are difficult to get hold of. Mrs. Blake, who is in the District, told me that her ayah, who never exerted herself, had put in for a year's holiday and rest."

"But what had that to do with religion, my dear?"

"Just this—that they are as a race too indolant and easy-going to study any big question, or to take the trouble to think for themselves."

"But what about the hundreds and thousands of holy priests who spend all their rives in profound meditation? What do you say to that? Come now."

"I say that they live a life of incorrigible idleness; they have no need to maintain themselves; they just eat, and sit, and muse; everything is supplied to them, including their yellow robe and betel nut. Their religion is selfish."

"Well, well, I'm too stupid to argue, my dear child, my brain is like cotton wool; but I have my hopes, my sure hopes. Karl is different. He is cultured, he reads Marx and Hegel, and says we are like cabbages and have no future; when we go it is as a candle that is blown out. Oh, here are visitors! What a bore! I shall not appear! Run and tell the bearer."

"Oh, but these are your own special old friends, Mrs. Vansittart and Mrs. Dowler. Do let them come in; they will amuse you—poor dears, you know they always call after dark."

These visitors, friends of former days, were social derelicts, who had, so to speak, "gone ashore" in Rangoon. One was chained to Burma by dire poverty and a drunken husband; the other, who had been a wealthy woman of considerable local importance, was now a childless widow, supporting herself with difficulty by means of a second-rate boarding-house. To these old friends, and in many other cases, Mrs. Krauss had proved a generous and tactful helper. Both visitors were wearing costumes which had been worn and admired at "Heidelberg" and were still fairly presentable.

After a stay of an hour the ladies withdrew, leaving their hostess well entertained but completely exhausted. Then they hastily sought out Sophy in order to express to her, in private, their horror at the terrible change in her aunt.

"Her spirit is there all right," said Mrs. Dowler (who had a hundred-rupee note in her glove), "but oh, my dear Miss Leigh, how she's wasted! I felt like crying all the time I was sitting with her."

"Yes, she should see a doctor, and that this very day," added Mrs. Vansittart.

"Oh, but you know Aunt Flora," protested Sophy; "she cannot bear doctors, and Lily, her ayah, knows pretty well what to do."

"Tell me, Miss Leigh, what is the real truth about your aunt's illness?" said Mrs. Dowler, suddenly dropping her voice to a mysterious whisper. "It has been so long and so tedious—off and on for at least three years. She has been worse the last four months, and indeed ever since you went up to May Myo. It is not a malignant growth, please God?"

"Oh, no, nothing of that sort; just weakness and this relaxing climate."

"She should have returned home years ago," said Mrs. Vansittart; "and when she does go—oh, it will be a bad day and a sad day for me and many others, not to speak of all the animals she has befriended. She is wonderfully sympathetic to dumb creatures and indeed to everybody."

"That's true," echoed her companion, "no one knows of your aunt's good deeds and charities, not even her own servants, and that is saying everything. Her hand has raised many an unfortunate out of the dust."

Thus whispering, advising and hoping and bemoaning, the two ladies were conducted by Sophy to their jointly-hired ticka gharry, and were presently rattled away.

Sophy, too, had her own particular visitors, Mabel Pomeroy, Mrs. Gregory and Fuchsia—Fuchsia, almost daily. To her it seemed that Sophy's confidences were frozen; she rarely mentioned her aunt, and gave evasive answers to her friend's probing inquiries. At last the brave American spoke out:

"You are frightfully changed, my Sophy girl—changed in a month. You have become so dull and absent-minded, and have lost all your pretty colour. Of course, I know the reason, but you can do no good—no, not a scrap. You had much better have gone home when you discovered the secret—you are as thin as a walking-stick, and look as if you sat up all night and never went to bed."

"Well, even if I did and, mind you, I'm not saying that I do, it is no worse for my health than dancing all night, is it? I'm very fond of Aunt Flora, and I'd do more than that for her."

"She has added years to your life; the gay flitting-about Sophy, with her pretty kittenish ways and harmless claws, has been thrust in a sack—and drowned!"

"Well, I do think you might have given her Christian burial," protested Sophy with a laugh.

"Christian burial brings me to the Marriage Service. What do you think—that great stupid Irishman, has at last blundered out a proposal, and in me," rising and making a curtsey, "you behold the future Mrs. Patrick FitzGerald."

"Oh, Fuchsia!" jumping up to embrace her, "I do congratulate you, and I do hope you will be very happy."

"Yes, I believe we shall. I have money and he——" she hesitated, and Sophy added:

"Has a warm, kind heart."

"Oh, well, I was about to say looks, but I'll throw in the heart as well! Next week I am going up to Calcutta to see about the trousseau and business. I'm real sorry to be the means of smashing up the Chummery Quartette."

"And when does the blow fall?"

"Not for some time; Patsy has asked for a long day."

"Fuchsia!"

"Well, no, it's not that; but he's obliged to finish some inspections. He really is fond of me—I dare say he's not as fond of me as Shafto is of someone! But his is a more serious, rigid character. If someone would smile, he would melt like a shovelful of snow on a coal fire!"

"My dear Fuchsia, do give your imagination a rest."

"Maybe you are right, and my tongue, too. I've only just one thing more to say," she paused and walked into the veranda in silence.

In silence Sophy followed her down to the car and, as she tucked in the knee-sheet, she raised her eyes and asked:

"What is this wonderful last word?"

"That I think 'Sophy Shafto' would be a nice easy name to say."

In another second Fuchsia's car had panted away and nothing remained of her visit but a cloud of red dust.



CHAPTER XXXIII

SOPHY

Sophy had a difficult part to act—in fact no less than three separate roles: one with her aunt, one with Herr Krauss, and a third in public. Those who saw Miss Leigh dancing and playing tennis at the Gymkhana, little guessed how she spent the remainder of the day, soothing and interesting a fretful invalid, or sitting up half the night on duty—and on guard. Herr Krauss was frequently from home, being incessantly engaged in winding up his affairs. Business took him one week to Moulmein, the next to Calcutta. This fat, elderly man displayed a sort of volcanic energy; he lived in a fever of repressed excitement and scarcely gave himself time to gobble his huge meals. Numbers of people—principally natives—pressed for interviews; one or two arrived in fine motor-cars; evidently it was not a European business that appeared to absorb all his time and faculties. However, whatever its nationality, Herr Krauss was happy and exultant; there was an expression of assured triumph upon his frog-like visage.

Naturally this triple life left its mark on Sophy, though she kept her miseries and responsibilities to herself. Mrs. Gregory and other friends put their heads together and decided that she looked ill and careworn; and the ever-active Fuchsia laid certain information before Shafto, with the result that the following day he arrived at "Heidelberg" to make a formal call. Of late he found that he could never have a word with Miss Leigh; she rarely rode in the morning and was seldom to be seen at the Gymkhana, and so he, as Fuchsia had suggested, "bearded the lioness in her den"—that is, he called at "Heidelberg" between the orthodox hours of four and five.

"This is very formal," exclaimed Sophy, as he entered the somewhat dusky drawing-room; "visiting hour and visiting card complete. What does it mean?"

"It merely means that I wish to see you," replied Shafto; "I can never get a look in elsewhere. One would almost think that you avoided me and wanted to cut me."

"What a ridiculous idea!" she exclaimed, sitting down and motioning him to a chair.

"Well, it does seem ridiculous that we see so very little of you. I hope you are not ill?"

"No, indeed, why should I be ill? Do I look like an invalid?"

"Since you ask me, I don't think you seem particularly fit. How is Mrs. Krauss?"

"Oh, much the same. Sometimes she is able to be out in the car and sits in the veranda; other days she cannot appear at all."

"And you and Herr Krauss are tete-a-tete! How do you get on together?"

"Oh, pretty well. I only see him at breakfast and dinner, and we talk about food and cooking and the servants. It's all right when he is alone, but when he brings friends to dinner it is rather disagreeable. I understand German now and am able to make out the hateful things they say about us as a nation. Naturally I stick up for my own country. I talk to them in English—they gabble to me in German, and we make an awful clatter. Herr Krauss looks on, or joins in, and roars and bangs the table. I am fighting one to five, and with my back to the wall! They are full of facts that I cannot dispute—not being posted up in statistics. When I attempt to bring forward our side they interrupt and shout me down. Now we have declared open war. Last night I got up and left them in possession of the field, and I have told Herr Krauss that the next time he has a session I prefer to dine alone. He treats it as a splendid joke and says I am a silly, ignorant Backfisch."

"Of course, a lot of it is trade envy," said Shafto; "but the Germans, to give them their due, are energetic, thrifty and pushing, and are taking places in the sun all over the world. Have you heard from Mrs. Milward lately?"

"No, not for some weeks; she writes such amusing letters."

"So I should imagine. She has a wonderfully elastic mind, and says and does the very first thing that comes into her head. Do you remember one day on the Blankshire when, half in joke, she said that we were two young lambs about to be turned out in strange and unknown pastures, and if one of us got into any difficulty the other was bound to help?"

"Yes, I remember perfectly well. It was after Mr. Jones, the missionary, had been giving us a lecture on what he called 'Pitfalls in the East.'"

"Well, now I warn you that I'm going to be officious and interfering. I have a notion that you are in some difficulty. What Mrs. Milward said in joke I repeat in deadly earnest. If you are in any sort of hole, let me lend a hand."

"But why should you imagine that I am in any difficulty or, as you call it, 'a hole'?"

Sophy tried to carry it off gaily, but her eyes fell.

"Because you look so changed and depressed and seem to have lost your spirits. Perhaps, as you have no bodily ailment, there is something on your mind?"

"And who can minister to a mind diseased?" she quoted with a smile. "No, I'm really normal and absolutely sane."

"I wish you wouldn't put me off," he protested; "I know there is something."

"Even if there were, do you expect me to make you my Father Confessor?"

"No, indeed; but I do think you might give us a hint—I mean your friends—of what it is that has come between us."

For a moment she found it difficult to answer. At last she said:

"Well, there is something, I admit; something that claims all my time. I am sorry I cannot tell you more, for it is not my own secret."

"I see—it belongs to another."

Evidently Sophy had discovered the truth at last—a truth that was withering her youth and crushing her to the earth. His quick eye understood the signs of strain and fatigue; all life and light had faded from her face, and he realised that she was, as Fuchsia had described, "terribly changed."

For a moment neither of them spoke; she fidgeted with a turquoise ring—it was much too loose, or her fingers were much too thin, for it suddenly slipped, dropped into her lap and then rolled far away upon the floor with an air of impudent independence.

Shafto, as he searched for and picked up this ring, felt something forcing and driving him to speak and, after a moment's reflection, he made up his mind to dare all.

"I believe I know your secret," was his bold announcement, as he restored her property.

"You!" she ejaculated. "That is impossible."

"At least, I can guess," he said, dropping his voice.

Then he got up and, standing before her with his hands in his pockets, looked down at her steadily and continued:

"It has to do with a drug."

At the word drug she winced visibly, and her pale face changed.

"The drug is cocaine," he went on slowly, "and the victim is—a lady in this house."

Sophy's white cheeks were now aflame; bright tears stood in her eyes; she was passing through a painful crisis. To assent would amount to a betrayal. Should she put him off with a lie? There seemed to be an interminable pause before she spoke.

"Why do you say this to me?" she asked in a low voice.

"FitzGerald has means of finding out curious facts, and sometimes he tumbles into a thing by accident; he is mad keen to scotch this cocaine business, and incidentally discovered that one of Ah Shee's best customers was—you know who. She has been procuring the stuff for the last three years. I believe you have only recently found out the hideous fact, and this accounts for what anyone can see with half an eye—your look of care and anxiety. I am well aware that I have undertaken a dangerous mission in coming here to tell you this. Possibly you may never speak to me again; but I take the risk, because I do want so very, very badly to be of some use and to stand by you."

There was nothing for it but to accept the situation, and at last she said:

"The only way in which you can help me is by keeping silent."

"How long have you known?"

"About six weeks."

"So now I understand why we see you so seldom at tennis or the paper-chases."

"Yes; and now that you do understand, perhaps you will help me and put people off when they ask tiresome questions." She spoke with a catch in her voice. "I scarcely ever leave my aunt. I read and talk and play the piano, and do my best to keep her amused; I am very fond of Aunt Flora."

"You must be!" he exclaimed sharply.

"But, indeed, she is not so much to blame as you suppose. Think of her loneliness and illness! Years of this relaxing climate and intense depression tempted her to seek relief, and once she had touched the drug it gripped her like a vice and made her a prisoner."

"Whom you are struggling to release? Does Herr Krauss know?"

"No; he has no suspicion. No more had I till recently. Lily, the ayah, Mr. FitzGerald, you and I, are all that are in the secret."

"It is much too heavy a load for your shoulders. Won't you tell Mrs. Gregory? She is so practical and so safe, and full of clever expedients and energy."

"No, I shall not open my lips; how could I? Mrs. Gregory is my loyal and kind friend; but once I began to take people into my confidence, I could never tell where it would end; soon it might be all over Rangoon that my aunt takes drugs. As it is I am making a little headway; we have diminished the quantity, and I have great hopes that the craving is less. Of course, I am obliged always to be on guard; that is why I am so rarely able to leave home. Herr Krauss talks of retiring in four months, and if I can only keep Aunt Flora safe until then, the day of our departure means the day of her escape. And now, please, let us talk of something more cheerful. I suppose you have heard about your friend, Mr. FitzGerald, and Miss Bliss?" And she threw him a charming confidential smile.

"Oh yes, rather! FitzGerald was in the most awful funk and talked of writing his proposal, but I choked him off, and told him that it was a cowardly way of putting his fate to the touch—the telephone would have been better—and that he must face the music like a man."

"You wouldn't be in the least nervous in similar circumstances."

"No, honestly, I would not, if I believed the girl cared two straws about me. Anyone that wasn't stone blind could see that Miss Bliss liked FitzGerald; he is a rattling good sort, and I believe they will suit one another splendidly."

But Shafto had not come to "Heidelberg" to discuss FitzGerald and his affairs; he wanted to talk to Sophy about herself.

"I do wish you would confide in Mrs. Gregory," he urged. "She is a tower of strength. I don't think you are strong enough to tackle the situation here."

"Oh, yes I am," she answered, rising; "it's just a question of will-power and holding out. It was good of you to come like this, but now I'm afraid I must send you away. This is the time I always sit with my aunt." As she spoke she approached nearer to the long glass door and, coming out of the gloom of the drawing-room, he saw by the unsparing light the startling alteration in her appearance; she looked so thin and worn, her eyes so large, her face so small—her whole appearance wilted! When he thought of Mrs. Krauss, with her deadly secret, her vampire hold on this girl; then of Krauss and his secret, he could no longer restrain himself. All those influences which stir the deepest emotions of the heart were silently operating on Shafto's. His face assumed a set expression and bad grown suddenly pale.

"Sophy!" he exclaimed.

The word sent her heart galloping.

"I am sure you know that I—I adore you, but somehow I've never ventured to tell you this till now——" He paused, as if the words stuck in his throat, and meanwhile a huge brown insect of the bee tribe entered, booming alarmingly, and knocking itself about the room. "But now I've got to speak out and take risks. There is a terrible cloud over this house—a cloud of shame! I know I am saying all this most awfully badly, but I ask you to let me take you away from 'Heidelberg.'" He broke off abruptly and stood looking into her eyes.

Sophy, no longer pale, returned his gaze steadily. It was not now a question of her aunt's secret, but of her own future. She cared very much for her companion—why deceive herself?—and with the instinct common to her sex, had been aware of his feelings for a long time. All the same, she could not desert her post. She put up her thin hand (it was trembling, Shafto could see) with the gesture of one who was thrusting aside temptation.

"I don't understand about the cloud, but even so, my place is here. Surely you will see that—and—I am, all the same, very—grateful. I"—her voice shook and sank almost to a whisper—-"I am glad that you care for me."

At this moment a curtain was hastily swung aside and Lily appeared.

"Missy, the mem-sahib asking for you now; please to come quickly," and with a swift glance at her "missy" obeyed; the purdah fell heavily behind her slim, white figure and Shafto was alone. His mission had been fruitless, and yet when he rode away from "Heidelberg" in his heart he carried the flower of Hope.



CHAPTER XXXIV

ALL IS OVER

That same evening, as Sophy was sitting alone in the veranda after dinner, Lily ayah appeared, her fat arms uplifted in eloquent appeal.

"Oh, missy—you come with me—I think our mem-sahib soon, soon die!"

"Die!" exclaimed Sophy, springing to her feet.

"Yes, somehow these drug people are too clever—she has got cocaine. I think that water man bring it; anyhow, mem-sahib has taken one big, big dose, and lies as one gone from the world."

"Send at once for Herr Krauss—he is in his office," and Sophy ran towards her aunt's room and found, as Lily had described, that her relative was passing away; indeed, save for her faint breathing, one would have supposed that she had already crossed the border.

Herr Krauss cast one hurried glance, thundered out of the room, and rang up the telephone; then he returned and stood gazing at his wife, his face working with emotion.

"What has happened?" he asked, turning abruptly to Sophy. "Why is she like this? What does it mean?"

"I cannot tell." A reply which could be taken in two ways.

"It must have been some sudden attack—her heart, I suppose. Marling, the nearest doctor, will be here instantly." And as he spoke a square-shouldered, severe-looking man entered. Without a word, but in a most business-like manner, he made an examination of the patient, felt her pulse, turned back her eyelids, and then ejaculated an ominous:

"Ha!"

"What is it?" inquired Krauss; "what is the matter with my wife? Is it serious?"

"Don't you know?" demanded the doctor, turning on him sharply, "it is cocaine poisoning—the stage."

"Cocaine!" echoed Krauss, and his large buff-coloured face turned to a leaden hue. "You are mistaken. That is not possible!"

"Well, if you don't believe me, get another opinion," retorted the doctor brusquely. "Judging from the slight examination I have made, your wife has been taking the drug for years."

"Impossible!" almost shouted Krauss.

"Not at all," rejoined the doctor. "Cocaine has been poisoning people in Rangoon by hundreds. Mrs. Krauss is not the only victim."

Krauss, great heavy man that he was, was now trembling so violently that he was obliged to lean against the wall for support, and, pointing to the bed, he said:

"I had not the slightest suspicion—Gott bewahre, I had not. I thought her ailment was neuralgia. I will pay any money, no matter what fee. Surely, you can do something for her?"

"I am afraid not; Mrs. Krauss is beyond help, and can never recover consciousness. She has been taking quantities of the drug for a long time. Look at her arm!"—turning back the sleeve and revealing an emaciated tell-tale limb.

"Did you know?" said Krauss, appealing to Sophy, who stood at the other side of the bed. The words came in short savage jerks.

"Yes," she replied, "I only discovered it six weeks ago."

"And never told me!" glaring at her with a furious expression.

"No—because Aunt Flora implored me to be silent. I was doing my best to stop it and minimising the doses."

"Ah!" exclaimed the doctor, "that accounts for this. She has been starved and, with the cunning of these morphia maniacs, found means to get a supply, and has absorbed an enormous quantity."

"Ach Gott! it seems incredible," moaned Krauss, now rising and coming towards the bed, and lifting his wife's limp hand. "What could have made her take to it?"

"Illness—loneliness—depression; this enervating climate; having nothing particular to do; an idle woman of forty has no business in Burma."

"But surely you have some remedy?—something that will bring her to? Gott in Himmel! you don't tell me that she will never see me, or speak to me again!"

"No; cocaine is one of the most powerful drugs—the greatest curse in our pharmacopoeia. It is better that she should go like this. Even if she were to survive for a week, she would be a mere inanimate shadow."

"Oh, my poor Flora, my heart's joy! You must not go; you shall not leave me without one word!" And Herr Krauss tumbled down upon his knees and sobbed stertorously.

The doctor, who was surveying him with frigid amazement, suddenly turned and, seizing Sophy by the arm, said:

"You can do no good here now; this is no place for you."

Leading her to the door he closed it inexorably behind her.

Half an hour later she was joined by Lily, her round face wet with tears.

"All is over now, Miss Sahib. My missis always so good to me—my missis done die."



CHAPTER XXXV

MUNG BAW LIES LOW

In some mysterious manner the cause of Mrs. Krauss's death was hushed up; there was no inquest, and the announcement in the Rangoon Gazette merely stated: "On the 8th inst., Flora, the beloved wife of Herr Karl Krauss, suddenly, of heart failure."

Sophy had been carried off to the "Barn" a few hours after her aunt had passed away, and never again entered "Heidelberg." The funeral was large, expensive, and imposing, and included a crowd of rather unexpected and decidedly shabby mourners, who brought with them offerings of cheap, home-made wreaths and crosses, and wore faces of sincere and unaffected grief. Strange to say, the grave prepared to receive Mrs. Krauss was next to that in which lay the remains of Richard Roscoe. The two cocaine victims rested side by side in death, drawn together by the long arm of coincidence.

It had been decided that Sophy was to remain at the "Barn" and accompany Mrs. Gregory when she went home in August. She quickly recovered her looks and spirits amid bright society and cheerful surroundings. There had been an auction at "Heidelberg," everything was disposed of; the accumulation of twelve years was scattered to the winds, the servants were disbanded, and the house was closed.

Herr Krauss sent Sophy a quantity of his wife's jewels, with a letter thanking her for all her care and attention, but she only retained a ring that had been worn daily by her aunt, and returned the remainder, which was afterwards disposed of in Balthazar's Sale Rooms and fetched a handsome sum.

It was said that Herr Krauss had felt his wife's death acutely; he had left Rangoon without the ceremony of farewells, departing no one knew whither.

Time slipped by, and so far had brought no trace of the cocaine gang. On several occasions Shafto had ridden round by the big Kyoung behind the Turtle Tank and met with no success—nothing but a shake of the pongye's shaven head. On his first visit he had dismounted, given his horse to its syce, and boldly approached the monastery, outside of which an imposing group of pongyes was assembled. The attitude of some was lofty and disdainful; others, with a friendly glance, acknowledged the stranger's ceremonious greeting. Towering majestically among his fellows stood Mung Baw, who, throwing them a hasty explanation, advanced to welcome Shafto with a soldierly tread and a jaunty swing of his yellow robe. Then taking him aside he began to talk to him in a cautious undertone:

"I am sorry to tell you I have no kubber yet. If I had some female acquaintance it would so as easy as 'kiss my hand,' but I cannot break my vow or spake to a woman."

"So you have no clue?"

"There's dozens of clues, if I could get hold of one; that's what aggravates me and has me tormented. But I'll worry it out yet, and that's as sure as me name is Mick Ryan."

"I thought it was Mung Baw."

"So 'tis mostly—and officially, but this business I'm on is a white man's job, and if it's to be done, I'll do it." As he spoke he removed his clumsy horn spectacles, and Shafto realised that the eyes gazing unflinchingly into his own were those of an enthusiast, and possibly a hero.

Seen in tell-tale daylight, and without his disfiguring glasses, the pongye looked years younger; hitherto Shafto's impression had been that his strange acquaintance was a man of fifty. Five-and-thirty would be nearer the mark. His eyes were a shade of deep indigo blue, with thick black lashes, high cheek bones were possibly a legacy from his Cingalese grandmother; a square, well-shaped head, firmly set upon a fine pair of shoulders, a square chin and jaw, and a well-cut mouth with shining white teeth, were his inheritance from the West. Undoubtedly if Mung Baw's religion had not compelled him to sacrifice every hair on his body—including his eyebrows—he would have been an uncommonly good-looking fellow, but an absolutely bare face and bald cranium was a heavy handicap—were he Apollo himself!

At least thrice a week Shafto, in the character of a private inquiry officer, rode slowly round by the Kyoung and had a word or two with the tall upstanding priest.

One evening the latter beckoned to Shafto to dismount, and, leading him apart, assured him that he was creeping on at last. "As soon as I know what I think I know, I'll send you a bit of a chit. It's an awful traffic, this infernal trade, now I've seen into it, cheek by jowl; these drugs is worse and crueller than wild animals, and we can't kill them."

"No, worse luck!" assented Shafto; "they kill us. I say, Mung Baw, don't your friends in the monastery wonder why I so often ride round this way and look you up?"

"Oh, yes, some does be as curious as a cat in a strange larder, but I have it all explained to their satisfaction." Then, dropping his voice, he added mysteriously: "They think I'm convarting you!"

"What—to Buddhism!" And Shafto burst out laughing.

"Faix, ye might do worse."

"Possibly; but I am all right as I am."

"That's a good hearing. Well, I'm not for troubling anyone's mind, shure; aren't we all," with a sweep of his powerful hand, "shtriving to reach the same place, and if it's what I expect, I'll hope to meet ye? There's the gong for prayers, and I must fall in."

Two days later Shafto received a letter written in a neat clerkly hand. It said:

"If you will be at the Great Goddema in the woods beyond the Turtle Tank by five o'clock to-morrow, Tuesday, you may hear news,—M.R."

The Great Goddema in the woods is a gigantic image in alabaster, encompassed by palm ferns, and half clothed in flowering creepers. The day of this particular shrine has sunk below the horizon; worshippers are absent and the flowers laid around and about are entirely the contribution of Nature herself. Some day the shrine will disappear altogether, buried, like many others, in appreciative vegetation.

As Shafto approached the rendezvous, he saw the pongye seated on the steps, engrossed in a book with a red cover, which he hastily thrust into some inner pocket as he rose to his feet.

"Ye might not think it, but I'm a great reader," he explained apologetically. "It passes the time and is no sin; the saints themselves were wonderful writers and readers. A friend here gets me books out of the public library, and then I borrow when I can."

"What have you got hold of now?" inquired Shafto.

"'Fifteen Decisive Battles of the World,' and before that, 'Jungle Tales.' I could tell a good few myself; animals and birds does be very friendly and confidential with me; but it's not books I brought you here to talk about, but cocaine and opium."

"Yes, rather. Have you any news?"

"I have so. I've found out what I may call the head lair of the divils."

"Good for you—how splendid! How did you manage it?"

"Bedad, it was a terrible touch-and-go business, as you shall hear. You see, I should first explain how I get so much liberty to go mouching round the bazaars and wharves. Being for so long weak in the head—and also of another country—allowances are made, and I'm looked on as an oddity, and yet well respected, for I'm clever with cures and language. Well, I used to poke about among a lot of scum that has no respect for any cloth whatever—no, nor for life itself; and all the time I felt in me bones I'd surely find what I wanted among a crew that's just the sweepings of creation!

"There was one particular low wharf I used to hang round by way of watching fellows netting fish; and one warm afternoon, as I was meditating there, the chance looked my way. Two half-drunken Chinamen come along quarrelling and sat down near me, and I 'foxed' I was sound asleep. They argued about shares and money, and jabbered away very angry, telling me all I wanted. By and by, when they cooled down a bit, they saw me, an' this was what ye may call a critical moment for Mick Ryan."

"No doubt of that. Go on!"

"At first one of them was undecided as to whether I was asleep—or not. The other brute said: 'No chance take, stick knife in throat, and shove into the water.' You know what these thieves are with their long blades. I tell ye, Mr. Shafto, they might have heard me heart thumping! However, my good angel, Saint Michael himself, had his eye on me, for it turned out that neither of them had a dah with him. Then they come and leant over me, breathing into me face with their filthy rank breath, reeking of napie and pickled eggs, and I snored back like a good one! I snored for my very life, and I done it so natural, they were well satisfied; and I being such a big man and heavy to shift, they give up the notion of slinging me into the Irrawaddy and went off still quarrelling. I stayed on without a move out of me for a full hour; then I got up yawning my head off, and walked away with the clue in me hand!"

"Is the den in Rangoon? There's many a queer place here?"

"No, not in Rangoon itself, but some way up the river; about twenty miles beyond Prome there is a deserted village that was cleared out by cholera twenty years ago. They say a big cholera nat lives there, and no one will go next or nigh it. There's a pagoda, a Kyoung, and a rest house, all smothered in jungle, and a nice little bit of a convenient landing, and 'tis there the Cocaine Company does its business—I learnt all their tricks. The Chinamen gave me a lot of news; it seems they smuggle opium, too, and distribute the stuff up and down the river by boats; on land by pack animals and the railroad. Oh, it's a wonderfully handy situation; they couldn't have picked a better!"

"And what about the people who run it?" asked Shafto.

"Well, the head of them all is gone; he was, as you may have suspicioned yourself, that fellow Krauss. No one knows what's become of him. Some say he's in Calcutta; more think he's dead—died aboard ship; but that may not be true. Them sort of ruffians generally live to a great age. Someone may have put him out, or rather done him in. There were two or three chaps what I've heard talkin' terrible bitter agin him; and one fine young man, Ar Bo, who is back from the Andamans—where he got sent to for three year, on account of this cocaine business—told me that he met a lot of clever fellows from all parts of the world; up to every dodge they were, and one of them instructed him in the way of killing a man stone dead—and not leaving a spot on him! I believe it's some little trick with the head, where it joins the spine. This chap confessed that he had tried it on several with success, and it wouldn't surprise me if he had made an experiment on Krauss!"

"But what about the cocaine?" said Shafto. "How, are we to set about getting a haul?"

"Ye'll have to go aisy, or rather Mr. FitzGerald and the polls must work by stealth; he can take a good few disguised, as it were on a sort of pilgrimage, but well armed, and passing through this village as it were accidental; and with a couple of boats on the river I think they might scare the lot. I'd like to go with them meself, for a bit of sport—only for me yellow robe, it wouldn't look well for me to be seen mixed up with cocaine, thaves and the polls."

"No, I suppose not," agreed Shafto. "You have to think of your cloth. Well, if you will write me down a few details on this slip of paper in my notebook, I will give it to Mr. FitzGerald at once, and I can't tell you how thankful he will be to get hold of it, or how grateful to you we are."

"Oh, I don't want no thanks for what has been a real pleasure. Haven't I seen with me own two eyes all the terrible harm this drug-takin' leads to? And if I've been in a small way the means of puttin' a stop to some of it, I'll be a proud man." He paused to clear his throat, and continued: "I suppose, you have not seen anything of Ma Chit lately?"

"No."

"She keeps you from goin' to the Salters, doesn't she? She's always sittin' about there on the steps, heart-broken, because she can't get a word wid ye! Of course, I'm not surprised she's took a fancy to ye."

"Fancy! Rot!" burst out Shafto. "I can't stand these cheeky Burmese girls. I only hope I may never set eyes on Ma Chit again."

"Well, then, as likely as not ye won't," remarked Mung Baw soothingly. "She has a rich relation up at Thayetmyo, and she's swithering between love and money. Perhaps, after all, money will carry the day. Well, now, I must be goin' to me duties—and me devotions, and I'll bid ye good evening."

* * * * * *

The conversation at "Heidelberg" interrupted by Lily had been resumed on a suitable occasion in the gardens of the "Barn," and Sophy and Shafto were now provisionally engaged.

"I'm a wretched match for you, Sophy," he declared; "I don't believe your mother will allow it. I've no prospects."

"Never mind prospects," was her reckless reply. "We shall have enough to live on. I have a hundred a year of my own, and I'm quite a good manager, with a real taste for millinery. If the worst comes to the worst, I shall open a shop in Phayre Street and make our fortune!"

It was mail day and Shafto, who now dined at the "Barn," was unusually late in appearing. He looked rather excited and out of himself as he entered with many apologies. After dinner he and Sophy paced the drive in the silver moonlight, and she began:

"I could hardly sit still, or eat a morsel, for anyone could see that you were bursting with some great news. What is it?"

"I have two pieces of news, and I'll give you first of all one that concerns ourselves. I saw in the Mail some weeks ago that my uncle, Julian Shafto, was dead. He had no family and left no will; and I found a letter to-day at the office from a lawyer, informing me that I, being next of kin, am heir-at-law, and succeed to the property and a fairly large income."

"Oh, Douglas, how splendid! It sounds too good to be true!"

"I never saw my uncle; he and my father had a disagreement before I was born, and had no communication with one another. He did not even send us a line when my father died. I fancy he was a hard-bitten old bachelor. I've not seen the family place, Shafton Court, and don't know much about it, except I remember my father saying there were one or two fine pictures, a fair library, and, what did not interest him, first-rate partridge shooting."

"Oh, what a piece of good fortune! Do let us go in at once and tell Polly."

"But would you not like to hear my other piece of news, which is even better?"

"It could not be better; but do tell me quickly."

"FitzGerald has brought off a splendid coup up the river—run in the cocaine gang and collared no end of drugs. He is to receive the thanks of the L.G. and the Government reward."

"How did he discover it?"

"A man I know really put him on the track. The cocaine lair was in a village, so deserted and tumble-down and haunted, that no one suspected it, or went near it. A pongye Kyoung, said to be infested by malignant nats and hundreds of snakes, was the head office. Rather a clever dodge."

"Do you think this will put an end to the traffic?"

"No; but it will give it a tremendous set-back; where there is a demand, there will always be a supply, but for a considerable time—at least a year or two—cocaine will be scarce. They caught a good many of the small fry, but as usual the big fish escaped—all but one wealthy Mahommedan, but he is bound to wriggle out somehow. Another point in favour of the short supply of cocaine is the disappearance of Krauss."

"What!" exclaimed Sophy. "Oh, Douglas, surely you don't mean that he was in it?"

"In it—I should think so. Up to his neck!"

"Oh, but are you certain?"

"Quite certain! This will explain his many mysterious journeys, the gangs of natives who were always hanging round his office, and his suspicious opulence. You may have noticed that he had no friends among the better class of Rangooner; whether British or German; they all suspected him of dirty hands. He had no conscience and was absolutely unscrupulous. It was a strange Nemesis that his wife—to whom you say he was devoted—should kill herself with the very drug he was smuggling."

"Yes, poor Aunt Flora," murmured Sophy; "that is a dreadful tale, which I shall always keep from mother. I think if she were to know it, it would nearly break her heart."



CHAPTER XXXVI

THE BOMBSHELL

In spite of the claims of his own affairs, Shafto did not immediately resign his post at Gregory's, for it happened to be an unusually busy season; there was a heavy paddy crop and, owing to fever, the staff were short-handed; therefore, for the present he decided to stick to the ship, especially as Sophy was, so to speak, on board.

Mrs. Gregory and Sophy were returning to England at the end of August; naturally he booked his passage for the same date, and it was a happy coincidence that he and his fiancee were once more to be shipmates on the Blankshire. Meanwhile they were enjoying the time of their lives; the rides or strolls in the grounds or in Dalhousie Park, and dances at the Club, were delightful, and their world was sympathetic and smiled upon the engagement.

Mrs. Gregory loved a wedding. Her rooms, appointments and well-drilled staff readily lent themselves to such festivals, and why, she asked, should Sophy not be married from the "Barn," take a trip up the river for her honeymoon, in order to see something of the real country, and buy her trousseau after her arrival in London?

Fired with this project, both she and Shafto dispatched long and plausible letters to Mrs. Leigh; but Mrs. Leigh declined to entertain the idea and, in equally long and eloquent effusions, set forth the fact that she had seen nothing of her youngest daughter for nearly two years and claimed a share of her company ere she was carried away to another home. She had, however, given a cordial assent to Sophy's engagement, and declared that she would gladly accept Douglas Shafto as a son, but Sophy must be married from home and in the old church at Chelsea.

As Mrs. Gregory returned this letter, she said:

"Well, Sophy, you must only take a sort of pre-honeymoon tour; we will go up to Mandalay, and maybe explore a bit of the Shan hills; I shall coax George to come—he has not had a holiday for ages. Douglas must get a fortnight off duty, and Martin Kerr, our donnish old cousin, who is arriving from Calcutta in a day or two, may accompany us; he is a bachelor, very well off, and has lived all his life like a hermit crab in his college in Oxford. Lately he had a bad breakdown, and was ordered an immense rest and change; so now he has ventured out to blink at the universe beyond Carfax and the High, I expect he will find us shamelessly trivial and ignorant. How his eyes will open when they look upon this glaring world and behold some glaring facts! I shall invite Miss Maitland to join our party; she is of a nice suitable age, and I shall pair her off with Martin; we will take George's durwan, as courier, for he has Upper Burma at his finger-ends, and will see that we are comfortable."

The projected tour proved entirely successful; Mandalay was reached in thirty hours. From Mandalay, after a few days' halt, the explorers fared to farther and less trodden fields, visited the ruby mines, and the wonderful remains of Pagan; occasionally they found the accommodation at zayats, or rest houses, a little rough, but this was handsomely discounted by novel sights and experiences, a full view of the Burman at home, and the easy joys of village life. First of all, there was the morning procession of the stately pongyes, carrying their empty begging-bowls, and looking neither to the right nor left; there were delicious hours in the forests; boating and fishing expeditions on the rivers, or rides to the ruins of ancient cities, half buried in jungle.

Shafto and Sophy saw so many novelties that they were almost bewildered, but not nearly so much bewildered or impressed as was the Professor, when first introduced to the library of an ancient monastery, in comparison with whose age his beloved Bodleian was a mere infant. Here the volumes were written on palm leaves, then rubbed over with oil to toughen and preserve them; the edges were richly gilt and fastened together by drilling a hole at one end, through which a cord was passed, then they were placed in elaborate lacquer boxes. There were countless numbers of such books, devout and mystic, all inscribed in Pali; they included the "Three Baskets of the Law," also the Laws of Manu, which dated from the fifth century before Christ. Professional scribes were kept constantly employed in re-copying and restoring these precious tomes, as the palm leaves only last about a hundred years, after which they become brittle and difficult to decipher, and the copyists have an endless task.

The Professor, attended by an interpreter, haunted the library, made eloquent signs to the pongyes in charge, and was permitted to examine and make notes of the rarest of their frail treasures, for which favour he duly made a generous acknowledgment.

Thanks to Mr. Gregory's courier, the travellers found comfortable quarters in his own ancestral village, and here they were able to watch the inhabitants both at work and play. They saw the oxen treading out grain, men working an oil mill, or caging fish; women weaving gay material, and children plaiting straw mats; so much for day-time occupations! At nights there were songs, dancings, gamblings, and games; these included chess, played somewhat differently from what it is in Europe, but still the same chess as when it crossed the frontiers from China. There was a king, but instead of a queen a general, instead of bishops, elephants; and some of the moves were unusual.

Mr. Gregory, who rather fancied himself as a chess-player, boldly challenged one of the elders and, with the entire village as solemn spectators, suffered, alas! a humiliating defeat. Then Shafto took a hand at dominoes, at which, thanks to May Lee, he was an expert; fortunately he came off conqueror, and thus restored to some extent the credit of the party. These games were played by torchlight, the local band—harp, dulcimer, two drums and clappers—discoursed at intervals; here the inhabitants, unlike those of Rangoon, were early birds. By ten o'clock lights were extinguished, the crowd had dispersed, and a serene silence fell on the soft, purple night.

The College Don had thoroughly enjoyed this excursion into primitive life in Upper Burma; he also enjoyed the stimulating company of Miss Maitland; and in this delightful, highly coloured atmosphere, surrounded by agreeable companions, he fished, joked, flirted, and appeared to have shed his formal Oxford manner, along with his Oxford trencher and gown. He remembered Shafto's father and, on the strength of this memory, the two became excellent friends, and Shafto gave him assistance in the way of adjusting his puttees, helping him over awkward places, advising him what food to avoid and what insects to destroy.

The trip lasted for three weeks and the party returned to Rangoon delighted with their tour, and bringing with them quantities of snapshots, not a few small trophies and mementoes—which included the great Shan hat, purchased by the Professor—and amusing anecdotes of their varied adventures.

"I feel as if I'd had a bird's-eye view of the real country," said Sophy to her friend. "Those great calm seas of green rice, bounded by dark woods, with a white pagoda peeping through here and there; the fierce strong rivers flowing through overhanging forests, and the deep red sunsets, turning old ruins into flames, and then the golden days and silver nights, and all the nice friendly simple people. Douglas and I feel quite sad at the idea of saying good-bye to Burma."

"Well, my clear, the matter lies in your own hands," said Mrs. Gregory briskly, "and after you are married, you can return to Rangoon; there is a fine big empty house in Halpin Road; we might go over and inspect it some morning."

* * * * * *

The assassination of the heir to the Crown of Austria and his Duchess had caused a profound sensation in Europe; ripples of this far-reaching tragedy had spread to the East; the Rangoon bazaar, like every other bazaar, was full of thrilling whispers, and various prudent traders were figuratively drawing in their horns and preparing for big trouble across the "Kala Pani."

It was the first week in August and on Wednesday; there had been a break-neck and exciting paper-chase, with the finish at Government House. Here a profusion of refreshments was displayed and all the world, more or less, was present; the men drinking pegs, the ladies iced coffee, gossiping, discussing the recent performance and various local matters. All at once a Government peon ran quickly through the crowd, a telegraph peon, then a motor arrived with two men (officials) who had not taken part in the paper-chase. Sir Horace Winter, the Lieutenant-Governor, and his military secretary disappeared abruptly indoors, and there was a sudden pause in the continuous chatter.

More than one of the guests experienced a curious thrill, as if there was something electric in the air; then from nowhere in particular the word "War" was whispered. "Great Britain has declared war on Germany." This seemed incredible; people stared at one another aghast, and boldly declared that "it was just a bazaar shave and a mistake," for out in the Far, Far East there had been no preliminary muttering of the storm which was about to burst and drown half the world in tears.

Nevertheless, the news was horribly true. "War" had come; war, after so many years of European peace and prosperity; and newly aroused, startled countries found themselves face to face with the malignity of the unknown.

Presently the Lieutenant-Governor reappeared and verified the whisper. Wires were already active; the 29th Punjaub Infantry had been ordered from Mandalay; guests pressed round, eagerly snatching at scraps of information; Germans and British glanced curiously at one another, and presently the gathering dissolved—to talk, to write, and to cable.

For several days nothing remarkable occurred, save that the outgoing mail carried a number of British who had booked their passages at the last moment. Officers on leave were recalled, a few big business houses were closed and, in the District, many German mills and a large influx of stalwart young employes, who had been working in them and could not speak a word of English, suddenly flocked in, prepared to embark for Europe, to fight for the Fatherland.

Every berth in the Blankshire had been secured, and the night before she sailed the well-known German Club gave its parting dinner; a wild affair, with unlimited quantities of champagne, loud patriotic speeches, songs and shouts of "Deutschland ueber Alles," and finally a smashing of glass, a breaking of furniture, and the customary wrecking of the premises.

In her frequent journeys from Rangoon, the popular Blankshire had never been so crowded as on the present occasion; every berth was taken, chiefly by German passengers, who had also bespoken the chief seats at table and the best positions for their deck chairs; such was the crush that there would be no room whatever for casual travellers from Colombo or Port Said. The British, who were in a comparatively small minority, realised what a very bad time lay before them, when they and their country's enemies must pass weeks and weeks in close proximity. Many had caught the previous steamer, but the remnant included Mrs. Gregory, Sophy, Shafto and MacNab—who was actually paying the passage out of his hoarded funds, and sternly resolved to join the Cameronians. The party were figuratively swamped by the multitude of Teutons, who had swarmed on board, already looking truculent, arrogant and victorious—drinking and toasting one another noisily in vast libations at the bar. On the wharf an immense gathering of natives assembled to speed numbers of kind and generous patrons, who (with an eye to the future) had distributed a considerable amount of largesse and flattery, as well as silk and satin finery. What with the Germans and their native friends, egress from and ingress to the steamer were almost impossible; the gangway was choked, and the shouting and hurrahing actually drowned the noise of the donkey-engine.

Many friends had come to see the last of Mrs. Gregory and her party; the military and official element were bound to remain in Rangoon. Sophy was talking to Miss Maitland and Ella Pomeroy, when a fresh influx of joyous and exultant Germans came pouring down the gangway with the force and violence of a human cataract. Sophy and her friends were thrust rudely apart and, from where she had been pushed against the bulwarks, she saw Frau Wurm pass by, also Frau Muller, who threw her a glance that seemed to distil hatred. She was immediately followed by Bernhard, looking extraordinarily elated and deeply flushed. Catching sight of Sophy he halted, clicked his heels together, and said, with a sort of savage courtesy:

"Ach, so here we are again, you and I, Miss Leigh, on the old ship that brought us out! I am delighted to have your company."

Sophy looked round for some means of escape, but she was helpless, being tightly wedged in between two bulwarks—the bulwark of the Blankshire and Bernhard's solid form—and separated from Mrs. Gregory by a seething crowd of jubilant Teutons.

"So 'Der Tag' has come at last!" he continued, staring into her face with arrogant blue eyes; "and we are on the eve of great events. I am about to join my Brandenburger regiment—every German is a soldier—we have several hundred reservists on board."

Sophy at last found her voice and murmured: "No doubt!"

"I caught sight of Shafto just now. Why is he going home?"

"To serve his country."

"Ah, bah! Better stick to his pen; it takes two years to make a soldier; in ten days we shall be in Paris, in a month in London. And why not? You have no army; we are a nation of fighting men, and you are a nation of shopkeepers!"

"Of course we are not prepared; we would not listen to Lord Roberts; and, on the other hand, you have been arming and drilling and shipbuilding for the last forty years!"