“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 fiancé—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.