As FitzGerald was now engaged in whispered conference with a pock-marked Malay (who was awaiting his turn), Shafto stood back against the wall, a completely detached figure, acutely sensible of the chill horror of this unknown sphere—­the so-called “underworld.”

He noticed that one or two customers sat round covetously watching the operation of the syringe—­not having the money with which to indulge themselves; he also observed several who appeared to be in the last stage of their existence—­thin to emaciation, mere wrecks, like half-dead flies, scarcely able to crawl about the floor.

Quite in the shadow, he caught sight of a tall figure in European clothes, who was, like himself, an impassive spectator, and, with a start, he recognised Roscoe’s cousin.  To-night he appeared cleaner and more human; he had shaved recently, and there was an undeniable family likeness between him and his relative—­such a resemblance as may exist between a dead and broken branch and one still flourishing upon a healthy tree.  On this occasion he was evidently not ashamed to be seen and recognised, for he nodded to Shafto, then crossed the room and joined him.

“Ah, so you’ve not taken a pull at yourself yet?” said Shafto.

“No, the cocaine debauchee has no power to resist the drug,” he replied in a thin refined voice.  “I am fairly normal to-night; it is not a case of virtuous repentance, but merely because I have no money.”

As he made this statement the despairing eyes that looked into Shafto’s were those of some famishing animal.

“You have the power to raise me from the pit,” he continued in a husky voice; “you can lift me straight into heaven!”

“Only temporarily,” brusquely rejoined Shafto.

“Even that is something when it offers peace and satisfaction to the restless human heart.”

“But surely you can free yourself and your restless heart?  Why not walk out of this filthy den with us?  Roscoe will help you, so will I. Come, be a man!”

“It would be impossible for me to regain the normal balance of life,” declared the victim of the drug; “also, I am no longer a man—­I am a fanatical worshipper of cocaine, and only death can part us.  Some day soon I shall fall out of her train, the police will find me in the gutter and take the debased body to the mortuary, whence, unclaimed and unknown, it will be carried to a pauper’s grave.”

“But can nothing be done to stop this hellish business?”

“Nothing,” replied the victim with emphasis, “nothing whatever, until sales are rendered impossible and the big men—­the real smugglers who are trading in the life-blood of their brothers—­are reached and scotched.  As for myself, I am past praying for; but thousands of others could and ought to be saved—­by drastic measures and a stern exposure.  The fellows in this business are as cunning as the devil; the stuff arrives by roundabout channels and from the most surprising quarters.  Now and then they allow a consignment to be seized, but as a mere blind, a sop, and trade flourishes; there is no business to touch it in the money-making line.”