“Well, Fitz,” said Roscoe, “I know how you love adventure—­and the smoke of battle, and I feel fairly confident that you will do your best and, let us hope, storm and shatter the cocaine stronghold.”

CHAPTER XXVI

FITZGERALD IMPARTS INFORMATION

Up to the time of the murder of Roscoe, Shafto had kept his experience to himself; even with the evidence of his own eyes he shrank from suspecting anyone connected with Sophy.  After all, there were plenty of Shan posies in Rangoon, and Krauss’s inquiry about the tiger might be just a mere coincidence; but now facts were forming up in stern array, despite his reluctance to face them.  There was no doubt that Krauss had spies and tools, and if that was his grey pony “Dacoit,” what was “Dacoit” doing in the jungle, thirty miles from Rangoon?  It was suspiciously strange that, after Miss Bliss’s mention of a loafer who had given information—­a loafer toasted by Krauss—­an individual answering the description had so promptly disappeared.  Well now, Sophy or no Sophy, FitzGerald must be told!

Shafto found his opportunity the following night, when he and the police officer had the veranda to themselves.  Roscoe, with an actor’s unquenchable ardour for the theatre, was patronising a play.  The tour of “Charley’s Aunt” had reached Rangoon.  The MacNab was dining with the Presbyterian minister.

After the table had been cleared and cheroots produced, without any circumlocution or preface, Shafto plunged into his subject and laid his information and suspicions before his friend who, to his amazement, replied: 

“Oh well, I’ve had my own ideas for some time, me boy.  I have noticed that Krauss is one of the loudest in crowing whenever we make a haul of contraband; it has struck me that his enthusiasm is a bit overdone.  I believe he is in with a pack of swindlers, but has a wonderful knack of safeguarding his own ugly carcass.  His wealth is a well-known fact, but its source is distinctly mysterious.  He is not like the usual business man, who puts by a few thousands every now and then, made in teak or paddy; Krauss has a share in everything that’s any good.  Oil, rubies, trams, wolfram, rubber, and so on.  The capital he invests in these concerns cannot come from ordinary speculation in rice and teak—­so the question is, where does he get it?”

As Shafto made no reply, FitzGerald put down his cheroot, drew his chair closer to the table and, leaning over to his companion, said: 

“Look here, me boy, you are a thundering good sort, and I’d like to tell you one or two small things—­and give you a bit of advice that may be useful.  From what you say, I have no doubt that Krauss suspects that you have seen something of his game—­how much he cannot be sure; but one thing is absolutely certain—­he won’t trust you, and you’ll find that, in some way or other, he’ll have his knife into Douglas Shafto.”