black-and-gold evening frock, was smoking a cigarette and playing
auction-bridge with Mr. Levison and the two Japanese; the Misses Smith
and various casual boarders were engrossed at coon-can. Another group
was assembled about the piano. Douglas Shafto sat aloof in the window
seat absorbed in the book on Burma and acquiring information; for even
if he were never to see the country, it was as well to learn something
about it. Rangoon, the capital (that fact he already knew), once a
mere collection of monasteries around the Great Pagoda, was now assumed
to be the Liverpool of the East, the resting-place of Buddha's relics,
and an important industrial centre. As his reading was disturbed by
the boisterous chorus at the piano, and the shrieks of laughter from
the coon-can set, he tucked the volume under his arm and slipped out of
the room as noiselessly as possible. He could rest at peace up in his
"cock loft" and endeavour to puzzle out some means of reaching the land
of the Golden Umbrella--even if he worked his passage as a cabin
steward. In passing the door of Mrs. Malone's den, some strange,
unaccountable impulse constrained him to knock. Yes; he suddenly made
up his mind that he would confide in _her_--and why not? She was
always so understanding, sympathetic and wise.

In reply to a shrill "Come in," he entered and found the old lady
sitting by the open window with a black cat on her lap. The room was
small and homelike; there were some shabby rugs, a few fine prints, a
case of miniatures, and, in a cabinet, a variety of odd "bits" which
Mrs. Malone had picked up from time to time.

"So it's you, Douglas," she exclaimed; "come over and sit down. I'm
always glad to see you; you know you have the private entrée!" and she
laughed. "What have you been doing with yourself to-day?"