Krauss threw back his head, gave a loud harsh laugh, and tossed off a tumbler of champagne.
“Young Shafto,” he exclaimed, “you are a funny fellow!”
“I do believe there is something in what Mr. Shafto says,” said Fuchsia in her thin nasal voice. “I was told this as a mighty secret—but of course it’s safe here,” throwing a complacent glance round the table, “and I’d just like you all to know that the reason Mr. FitzGerald was sent for in such a hurry is that the police have been given the straight tip, and expect to make a real fine haul of smugglers and opium—this very night!”
Herr Krauss glanced quickly at his neighbour, his eyes flickering.
“Mr. FitzGerald,” she continued, “said that if he could only get hold of one or two big men who are behind the cocaine and opium trade he’d be doing a service to the world; he is most frightfully keen on catching them.”
“Not easy to catch what doesn’t exist,” declared Herr Krauss in his guttural voice.
“But smuggling does exist—surely you know that, and smuggling on an enormous scale,” pronounced Mrs. Pomeroy authoritatively; “there are awful dens off the China bazaar.”
“Yes, the place is honeycombed with them,” supplemented Shafto.
“Pray, how do you know?” demanded Krauss with asperity.
“Well, since you ask me—I’ve been in one or two.”