“Evil spirits, a magician, a talisman,” he said to himself.  “I suppose the poor fellow was discharged from the Service as a hopeless lunatic.”

Having arrived at this conclusion, Shafto changed his clothes and went to dinner in the veranda, where he was well chaffed about his recent visitor.

“Been stealing something up at the Pagoda and they sent a Bo after you,” suggested FitzGerald; “I must say your new friend is a rum-looking customer; a powerful, strapping pongye.  He’d make a grand constable!  What did he want?”

“Oh, he merely came to pay a visit of ceremony,” replied Shafto.  “He was in a gharry accident a few weeks ago, and I happened to come to his rescue and pick up the pieces; he called to express his thanks and drop a P.P.C.”

CHAPTER XXI

THE COCAINE DEN

“To-night’s the night,” said FitzGerald to his confederate.  “You and I will creep out in half an hour’s time, and no questions asked.  Roscoe has gone up to Tonghoo about oil; the MacNab is dining at the Pegu Club with one of his Big Pots and talking Flotilla and finance.”

“All right, I’ll be ready in two jiffs—­you won’t forget the coat?”

“Not likely!  We will taxi down to the end of Dalhousie Street, and into the bazaar about half-past nine o’clock, and then proceed on foot.  I am taking two constables—­both armed.”

It was a gay and busy scene; Dalhousie Street—­which, it is said, never sleeps—­was a blaze of light, humming with noise and excitement and packed with crowds of pleasure-seekers; a crude mixture of races, struggling and pushing to their different goals of entertainment.

As the two young men halted for a moment at a popular corner, it seemed as if the whole town and bazaar flowed past in a wave of colour and movement.  Burmans’ and Shans, male and female, clothed in coloured silk and satin, the women decked with flowers and jewellery, all smoking and jabbering in their strange monosyllabic tongue; solid, well-set-up Germans parading in couples; rollicking sailors; Chinamen; Malays in great numbers; stately Sikhs and the inevitable Babu filled the scene.

“They are all out to-night,” observed FitzGerald, “lots of shows on; well, now for ours.”

As he spoke he turned into a narrow street that led through an endless maze of curves and angles and, followed by two stalwart Sikh police, they made their way into the heart of the China bazaar and plunged into the worst slum quarter of this crowded, cosmopolitan city—­a city, at least, in wealth, extent, population and importance.  They passed flaring joss-houses, gambling dens and brazenly naked haunts of vice, and after picking their steps through a particularly noisome gully—­odorous of napie and rotten vegetables—­they arrived at an innocent little door in a high blank wall.  After some whispered parley with an old Chinaman, the pair were admitted and ushered into a large, low saloon, where scores of gamblers were engrossed in the hypnotic pleasures of “Fan Tan,” or the “36 animal lottery,” so popular and so simple!