“Ah! now I suppose you think you’re carrying the war into the enemy’s quarter, don’t ye?  Dancing is not compromising—­like solitary rides with a girl before the world is warm, and Miss Bliss, by name and nature, is the only girl in Rangoon who can do a decent turkey trot.  Now, as to Miss Leigh——­”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake leave Miss Leigh alone and talk about something else—­talk about horses.”

“Talk about horses,” repeated FitzGerald in a teasing voice, “and if he isn’t blushing up to his ears!  I’ll tell you what, young Shafto, it’s a treat to see a real blush in this part of the world; blushing is rare in Burma, and I’d just like to have your coloured photograph,” continued FitzGerald, whose methods of chaff were as rude and crude as those of any schoolboy.

“Come, don’t let’s have any more of this, Fitz, or you and I will quarrel.”

FitzGerald grinned from ear to ear, delighted at the rise he had taken out of his companion, touched his cap, and said: 

“All right, yer honour,” but to himself he added, “by Jingo, it’s serious!  Well, well!  However, he’s as poor as a rat and that’s a great comfort.”

Comfort was constituted by the fact that, in these circumstances, there could be no immediate prospect of a break-up of the congenial chummery.

“See here, Mr. Shafto, on your high horse, if you promise not to trail your coat and frighten me, I’ll tell you something that will interest you.  I know you have been poking round with Roscoe and diving into queer places—­are you as keen as ever?”

“I am, of course,” rejoined Shafto, still stiff and unappeased.

“Well, then, I can show you a quarter where Roscoe has never dared to stick his nose—­a cocaine den.”

“Not really?  Surely you couldn’t take me in there.”

“I can so, as one of my subordinates; I am looking for evidence in a murder case; I’ll lend you a coat, and all you will have to do is to look wise and hold your tongue.”

“This is most awfully good of you,” exclaimed Shafto, “and I needn’t tell you I’ll go like a shot.”

“Oh, I’m good now, am I?” jeered FitzGerald; “but, joking apart, this will be an experience.  Not like puppet plays and dances—­but a black tragedy.”

“Yes, I suppose so; I know it’s pretty awful.”

“Cocaine smuggling is playing the very devil with the country and there’s no denying that.”

“But can’t you do something to stop it?”

“Is it stop it?  You might just as well try to stop the Irrawaddy with a pitchfork.  And it’s growing worse; there are some big people in it—­the Hidden Hand Company—­who keep out of sight, pay the money, employ the tools and collar the swag.  They have agents all over this province, as well as India, China and the Straits.”

“Where does the stuff come from?”

“It’s chiefly manufactured in Germany, though some comes from England.”