he is bright and popular and attracts a lot of useful people into his
web. To see that girl pouring out tea, or sitting at the piano, making
delicious music, who would suppose that 'Heidelberg' was the
headquarters of a gang of thieves? Mrs. Krauss is a back number, her
health has gone to pieces, and lately I believe she is in a bad way."
He paused, and surveying Shafto with half-closed eyes, added:

"I suppose you don't know what her complaint is?"

"Oh, yes--acute neuralgia."

"Acute grandmother!" scoffed FitzGerald. "Guess again!"

"Well--what?"

FitzGerald leant over, took a long breath, and whispered the word
"Cocaine."

"Oh, nonsense!" And Shafto burst out laughing. "Why, man, you're mad!"

"Mad--not a bit of it! I happen to know where she gets the stuff and
I've known for a good while, Krauss has no idea that his wife drugs;
it's all so artfully managed. That Madras ayah is a rare treasure and
as cunning as the devil; she ought to be in our Secret Service. I
needn't tell you that she is extravagantly paid."

"Well--but, Fitz, I don't believe it; no, and I won't believe it."

"All right, then. Look here, have you never noticed how brilliant and
lively Mrs. Krauss is at times, with shining eyes and a colour in her
cheeks? Then on other days, if she does appear, she is limp as a wet
rag, depressed and old; there is a complete lack of all vital force.
Now tell me how you account for that?"

"Her illness," stammered Shafto; "the climate."

"Neither the one nor the other. But bar the cocaine habit, Mrs. Krauss
is all right and straight; she has no suspicion of her husband's ill
practices, nor he of hers."

"And you suspect both?"

"Why not? Suspicion is part of my trade. I think you and I had better
be seeking our beds; I have seen the _chokidar_ peering round the
corner of the staircase; I don't know what he is up to; he may imagine
that we are hatching mischief. I caught his eye when I was whispering
just now, and it is more than likely that he has suspicions of us both!"

CHAPTER XXVII

A ROPE TRICK

This conversation with FitzGerald gave his housemate ample food for
serious reflection. If Krauss was a deep-dyed scoundrel, and his wife
a victim of the cocaine habit, what a home for Sophy! If he could only
take her away from it! But what grounds had he for hoping that she
would marry him? In spite of their pleasant meetings, their rides and
dances, he had never ventured to