“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?”