“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.”