He paused and met Shafto’s searching eyes, then went on: 

“It must amaze you to hear a fellow in this sink talking plain grammatical English, but before the cocaine fiend caught and tortured me I had brains.  Joe Roscoe is a good chap—­he has often held out a helping hand, but it was not a bit of use, I only sank deeper.  When I recall the things I have done, the meannesses I have stooped to, I squirm and squirm and squirm!  Well, I am nearly at the end of my tether, and a hair of the dog that bit me is all I ask.  Your friend FitzGerald here, now looking up evidence from that rascally Malay, is working his very best to find some clue to the headquarters of the gang; but they are much too clever and are making their thousands and tens of thousands; profits are enormous, and the servants of the company are well paid for any risks or prosecutions.”

“But what about informers?” asked Shafto.

“Oh, as for betraying secrets or giving the game away, the employes know exactly what to expect.  More than one would-be witness has disappeared; his epitaph is, ‘Found drowned.’  Ah, I see FitzGerald moving, and so you must take your departure out of this inferno into the clean upper-world.”

“You come along with us,” said Shafto, suddenly seizing him by the arm.

But Roscoe threw him off with astonishing force and shook his head emphatically.  Nevertheless he followed the pair to the entrance—­a tall wraith-like form moving behind them, a shadow in the shadows.

As soon as the door had closed and the visitors were once more in the street, the police officer broke out: 

“Upon my word, Shafto, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!  Didn’t I see you slip money into the hand of that broken-down Englishman?”

“Yes, you did,” Douglas boldly admitted; “I was obliged to, right or wrong.  If you had only seen his eyes, his starving, despairing eyes!  I believe they will haunt me as long as I live; somehow I feel to-night as if I had looked through the gates of hell!”

CHAPTER XXII

THE APPROACHING DREAD

The cold weather was waning in the month of March, women and children were flocking to cooler climes than Lower Burma—­chiefly to May Myo, north-east of Mandalay.  Once a stockaded village, it was now a fair-sized and attractive station, with a garrison, a club, many comfortable bungalows, an overflowing abundance of flowers and fruit, and in its neighbourhood beautiful moss-green rides.  When the hot weather had begun to make itself felt, and the brain-fever bird to make himself heard, Mrs. Krauss had insisted on dispatching her niece to this resort, chaperoned by Mrs. Gregory; but as far as she herself was concerned nothing would induce her to leave home.

“I love my own veranda and my own dear bed,” she declared; “I shall have lots of electric fans and ice, all the new books, and Lily will look after me; but you, Sophy, being a new-comer and not acclimatised, must positively depart.”