Sophy had a difficult part to act—in fact no less than three separate roles: one with her aunt, one with Herr Krauss, and a third in public. Those who saw Miss Leigh dancing and playing tennis at the Gymkhana, little guessed how she spent the remainder of the day, soothing and interesting a fretful invalid, or sitting up half the night on duty—and on guard. Herr Krauss was frequently from home, being incessantly engaged in winding up his affairs. Business took him one week to Moulmein, the next to Calcutta. This fat, elderly man displayed a sort of volcanic energy; he lived in a fever of repressed excitement and scarcely gave himself time to gobble his huge meals. Numbers of people—principally natives—pressed for interviews; one or two arrived in fine motor-cars; evidently it was not a European business that appeared to absorb all his time and faculties. However, whatever its nationality, Herr Krauss was happy and exultant; there was an expression of assured triumph upon his frog-like visage.

Naturally this triple life left its mark on Sophy, though she kept her miseries and responsibilities to herself. Mrs. Gregory and other friends put their heads together and decided that she looked ill and careworn; and the ever-active Fuchsia laid certain information before Shafto, with the result that the following day he arrived at "Heidelberg" to make a formal call. Of late he found that he could never have a word with Miss Leigh; she rarely rode in the morning and was seldom to be seen at the Gymkhana, and so he, as Fuchsia had suggested, "bearded the lioness in her den"—that is, he called at "Heidelberg" between the orthodox hours of four and five.

"This is very formal," exclaimed Sophy, as he entered the somewhat dusky drawing-room; "visiting hour and visiting card complete. What does it mean?"

"It merely means that I wish to see you," replied Shafto; "I can never get a look in elsewhere. One would almost think that you avoided me and wanted to cut me."

"What a ridiculous idea!" she exclaimed, sitting down and motioning him to a chair.

"Well, it does seem ridiculous that we see so very little of you. I hope you are not ill?"

"No, indeed, why should I be ill? Do I look like an invalid?"

"Since you ask me, I don't think you seem particularly fit. How is
Mrs. Krauss?"

"Oh, much the same. Sometimes she is able to be out in the car and sits in the veranda; other days she cannot appear at all."

"And you and Herr Krauss are tÊte-À-tÊte! How do you get on together?"

"Oh, pretty well. I only see him at breakfast and dinner, and we talk about food and cooking and the servants. It's all right when he is alone, but when he brings friends to dinner it is rather disagreeable. I understand German now and am able to make out the hateful things they say about us as a nation. Naturally I stick up for my own country. I talk to them in English—they gabble to me in German, and we make an awful clatter. Herr Krauss looks on, or joins in, and roars and bangs the table. I am fighting one to five, and with my back to the wall! They are full of facts that I cannot dispute—not being posted up in statistics. When I attempt to bring forward our side they interrupt and shout me down. Now we have declared open war. Last night I got up and left them in possession of the field, and I have told Herr Krauss that the next time he has a session I prefer to dine alone. He treats it as a splendid joke and says I am a silly, ignorant Backfisch."

"Of course, a lot of it is trade envy," said Shafto; "but the Germans, to give them their due, are energetic, thrifty and pushing, and are taking places in the sun all over the world. Have you heard from Mrs. Milward lately?"

"No, not for some weeks; she writes such amusing letters."

"So I should imagine. She has a wonderfully elastic mind, and says and does the very first thing that comes into her head. Do you remember one day on the Blankshire when, half in joke, she said that we were two young lambs about to be turned out in strange and unknown pastures, and if one of us got into any difficulty the other was bound to help?"

"Yes, I remember perfectly well. It was after Mr. Jones, the missionary, had been giving us a lecture on what he called 'Pitfalls in the East.'"

"Well, now I warn you that I'm going to be officious and interfering. I have a notion that you are in some difficulty. What Mrs. Milward said in joke I repeat in deadly earnest. If you are in any sort of hole, let me lend a hand."

"But why should you imagine that I am in any difficulty or, as you call it, 'a hole'?"

Sophy tried to carry it off gaily, but her eyes fell.

"Because you look so changed and depressed and seem to have lost your spirits. Perhaps, as you have no bodily ailment, there is something on your mind?"

"And who can minister to a mind diseased?" she quoted with a smile.
"No, I'm really normal and absolutely sane."

"I wish you wouldn't put me off," he protested; "I know there is something."

"Even if there were, do you expect me to make you my Father Confessor?"

"No, indeed; but I do think you might give us a hint—I mean your friends—of what it is that has come between us."

For a moment she found it difficult to answer. At last she said:

"Well, there is something, I admit; something that claims all my time. I am sorry I cannot tell you more, for it is not my own secret."

"I see—it belongs to another."

Evidently Sophy had discovered the truth at last—a truth that was withering her youth and crushing her to the earth. His quick eye understood the signs of strain and fatigue; all life and light had faded from her face, and he realised that she was, as Fuchsia had described, "terribly changed."

For a moment neither of them spoke; she fidgeted with a turquoise ring—it was much too loose, or her fingers were much too thin, for it suddenly slipped, dropped into her lap and then rolled far away upon the floor with an air of impudent independence.

Shafto, as he searched for and picked up this ring, felt something forcing and driving him to speak and, after a moment's reflection, he made up his mind to dare all.

"I believe I know your secret," was his bold announcement, as he restored her property.

"You!" she ejaculated. "That is impossible."

"At least, I can guess," he said, dropping his voice.

Then he got up and, standing before her with his hands in his pockets, looked down at her steadily and continued:

"It has to do with a drug."

At the word drug she winced visibly, and her pale face changed.

"The drug is cocaine," he went on slowly, "and the victim is—a lady in this house."

Sophy's white cheeks were now aflame; bright tears stood in her eyes; she was passing through a painful crisis. To assent would amount to a betrayal. Should she put him off with a lie? There seemed to be an interminable pause before she spoke.

"Why do you say this to me?" she asked in a low voice.

"FitzGerald has means of finding out curious facts, and sometimes he tumbles into a thing by accident; he is mad keen to scotch this cocaine business, and incidentally discovered that one of Ah Shee's best customers was—you know who. She has been procuring the stuff for the last three years. I believe you have only recently found out the hideous fact, and this accounts for what anyone can see with half an eye—your look of care and anxiety. I am well aware that I have undertaken a dangerous mission in coming here to tell you this. Possibly you may never speak to me again; but I take the risk, because I do want so very, very badly to be of some use and to stand by you."

There was nothing for it but to accept the situation, and at last she said:

"The only way in which you can help me is by keeping silent."

"How long have you known?"

"About six weeks."

"So now I understand why we see you so seldom at tennis or the paper-chases."

"Yes; and now that you do understand, perhaps you will help me and put people off when they ask tiresome questions." She spoke with a catch in her voice. "I scarcely ever leave my aunt. I read and talk and play the piano, and do my best to keep her amused; I am very fond of Aunt Flora."

"You must be!" he exclaimed sharply.

"But, indeed, she is not so much to blame as you suppose. Think of her loneliness and illness! Years of this relaxing climate and intense depression tempted her to seek relief, and once she had touched the drug it gripped her like a vice and made her a prisoner."

"Whom you are struggling to release? Does Herr Krauss know?"

"No; he has no suspicion. No more had I till recently. Lily, the ayah, Mr. FitzGerald, you and I, are all that are in the secret."

"It is much too heavy a load for your shoulders. Won't you tell Mrs. Gregory? She is so practical and so safe, and full of clever expedients and energy."

"No, I shall not open my lips; how could I? Mrs. Gregory is my loyal and kind friend; but once I began to take people into my confidence, I could never tell where it would end; soon it might be all over Rangoon that my aunt takes drugs. As it is I am making a little headway; we have diminished the quantity, and I have great hopes that the craving is less. Of course, I am obliged always to be on guard; that is why I am so rarely able to leave home. Herr Krauss talks of retiring in four months, and if I can only keep Aunt Flora safe until then, the day of our departure means the day of her escape. And now, please, let us talk of something more cheerful. I suppose you have heard about your friend, Mr. FitzGerald, and Miss Bliss?" And she threw him a charming confidential smile.

"Oh yes, rather! FitzGerald was in the most awful funk and talked of writing his proposal, but I choked him off, and told him that it was a cowardly way of putting his fate to the touch—the telephone would have been better—and that he must face the music like a man."

"You wouldn't be in the least nervous in similar circumstances."

"No, honestly, I would not, if I believed the girl cared two straws about me. Anyone that wasn't stone blind could see that Miss Bliss liked FitzGerald; he is a rattling good sort, and I believe they will suit one another splendidly."

But Shafto had not come to "Heidelberg" to discuss FitzGerald and his affairs; he wanted to talk to Sophy about herself.

"I do wish you would confide in Mrs. Gregory," he urged. "She is a tower of strength. I don't think you are strong enough to tackle the situation here."

"Oh, yes I am," she answered, rising; "it's just a question of will-power and holding out. It was good of you to come like this, but now I'm afraid I must send you away. This is the time I always sit with my aunt." As she spoke she approached nearer to the long glass door and, coming out of the gloom of the drawing-room, he saw by the unsparing light the startling alteration in her appearance; she looked so thin and worn, her eyes so large, her face so small—her whole appearance wilted! When he thought of Mrs. Krauss, with her deadly secret, her vampire hold on this girl; then of Krauss and his secret, he could no longer restrain himself. All those influences which stir the deepest emotions of the heart were silently operating on Shafto's. His face assumed a set expression and had grown suddenly pale.

"Sophy!" he exclaimed.

The word sent her heart galloping.

"I am sure you know that I—I adore you, but somehow I've never ventured to tell you this till now——" He paused, as if the words stuck in his throat, and meanwhile a huge brown insect of the bee tribe entered, booming alarmingly, and knocking itself about the room. "But now I've got to speak out and take risks. There is a terrible cloud over this house—a cloud of shame! I know I am saying all this most awfully badly, but I ask you to let me take you away from 'Heidelberg.'" He broke off abruptly and stood looking into her eyes.

Sophy, no longer pale, returned his gaze steadily. It was not now a question of her aunt's secret, but of her own future. She cared very much for her companion—why deceive herself?—and with the instinct common to her sex, had been aware of his feelings for a long time. All the same, she could not desert her post. She put up her thin hand (it was trembling, Shafto could see) with the gesture of one who was thrusting aside temptation.

"I don't understand about the cloud, but even so, my place is here.
Surely you will see that—and—I am, all the same, very—grateful.
I"—her voice shook and sank almost to a whisper—-"I am glad that you
care for me."

At this moment a curtain was hastily swung aside and Lily appeared.

"Missy, the mem-sahib asking for you now; please to come quickly," and with a swift glance at her "missy" obeyed; the purdah fell heavily behind her slim, white figure and Shafto was alone. His mission had been fruitless, and yet when he rode away from "Heidelberg" in his heart he carried the flower of Hope.