urried 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.

"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 fr