f yet?" said Shafto.

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

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

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

"Only temporarily," brusquely rejoined Shafto.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It must amaze you to hear a fellow in this sink talking plain
grammatical English, but before the cocaine fiend caught and tortured
me I had brains. Joe Roscoe is a good chap--he has often held out a
helping hand, but it was not a bit of use, I only sank deeper. When I
recall the things I have done, the meannesses I have stooped to, I
squirm and squirm and _squirm_! Well, I am nearly at the end of my
tether, and a hair of the dog that bit me is all I ask. Your friend
FitzGerald here, now looking up evidence from tha