round the room and took notes of its luxurious carpet,its delicate appointments. Outside the window there was a thunder inthe streets, a clamour of voices. Boats went swiftly down the river onthe ebb. Beyond the mass of the Semiramis rose the great grey-whitedome of St. Paul's. Opposite, upon the Southwark bank, the giantsky-signs, the big Highlander drinking whisky, and the rest of themwaited, gaunt skeletons, for the night to limn them in fire and givethem life. Below the trees in the gardens rustled and waved. In theair were the uplift and the sparkle of the young summer.
"It's a long way from the forests of Yucatan to the Adelphi Terrace ofLondon," said Hanaud. "Yet here, I think, in these rooms, when theservants are all gone and the house is very quiet, there is a littlecorner of wild Mexico."
A look of pity came into Mr. Ricardo's face. He had seen more than oneyoung man of great promise slacken his hold and let go, just for thisreason. Calladine, it seemed, was another.
"It's like bhang and kieff and the rest of the devilish things, Isuppose," he said, indignantly tossing the button upon the table.
Hanaud picked it up.
"No," he replied. "It's not quite like any other drug. It has aquality of its own which just now is of particular importance to youand me. Yes, my friend"--and he nodded his head very seriously--"wemust watch that we do not make the big fools of ourselves in thisaffair."
"There," Mr. Ricardo agreed with an ineffable air of wisdom, "I amentirely with you."
"Now, why?" Hanaud asked. Mr. Ricardo was at a loss for a reason, butHanaud did not wait. "I will tell you. Mescal intoxicates, yes--but itdoes more--it gives to the man who eats of it colour-dreams."
"Colour-dreams?" Mr. Ricardo repeated in a wondering voice.
"Yes, strange heated charms, in which violent things happen vividlyamongst bright colours. Colour is the gift of this little prosaicbrown button." He spun the bulb in the air like a coin, and catchingit again, took it over to the mantelpiece and dropped it into theporcelain cup.
"Are you sure of this?" Ricardo cried excitedly, and Hanaud raised hishand in warning. He went to the door, opened it for an inch or so, andclosed it again.
"I am quite sure," he returned. "I have for a friend a very learnedchemist in the College de France. He is one of those enthusiasts whomust experiment upon themselves. He tried this drug."
"Yes," Ricardo said in a quieter voice. "And what did he see?"
"He had a vision of a wonderful garden bathed in sunlight, an oldgarden of gorgeous flowers and emerald lawns, ponds with golden liliesand thick yew hedges--a garden where peacocks stepped indolently andgroups of gay people fantastically dressed quarrelled and fought withswords. That is what he saw. And he saw it so vividly that, when thevapours of the drug passed from his brain and he waked, he seemed tobe coming out of the real world into a world of shifting illusions."
Hanaud's strong quiet voice stopped, and for a while there was acomplete silence in the room. Neither of the two men stirred so muchas a finger. Mr. Ricardo once more was conscious of the thrill ofstrange sensations. He looked round the room. He could hardly believethat a room which had been--nay was--the home and shrine of mysteriesin the dark hours could wear so bright and innocent a freshness in thesunlight of the morning. There should be something sinister whichleaped to the eyes as you crossed the threshold.
"Out of the real world," Mr. Ricardo quoted. "I begin to see."
"Yes, you begin to see, my friend, that we must be very careful not tomake the big fools of ourselves. My friend of the College de Francesaw a garden. But had he been sitting alone in the window-seat whereyou are, listening through a summer night to the music of themasquerade at the Semiramis, might he not have seen the ballroom, thedancers, the scarlet cloak, and the rest of this story?"
"You mean," cried Ricardo, now fairly startled, "that Calladine cameto us with the fumes of mescal still working in his brain, that thefalse world was the real one still for him."
"I do not know," said Hanaud. "At present I only put questions. I askthem of you. I wish to hear how they sound. Let us reason this problemout. Calladine, let us say, takes a great deal more of the drug thanmy professor. It will have on him a more powerful effect while itlasts, and it will last longer. Fancy dress balls are familiar thingsto Calladine. The music floating from the Semiramis will revive oldmemories. He sits here, the pageant takes shape before him, he seeshimself taking his part in it. Oh, he is happier here sitting quietlyin his window-seat than if he was actually at the Semiramis. For he isthere more intensely, more vividly, more really, than if he hadactually descended this staircase. He lives his story through, thestory of a heated brain, the scene of it changes in the way dreamshave, it becomes tragic and sinister, it oppresses him with horror,and in the morning, so obsessed with it that he does not think tochange his clothes, he is knocking at your door."
Mr. Ricardo raised his eyebrows and moved.
"Ah! You see a flaw in my argument," said Hanaud. But Mr. Ricardo waswary. Too often in other days he had been leaped upon and trounced fora careless remark.
"Let me hear the end of your argument," he said. "There was then toyour thinking no temptation of jewels, no theft, no murder--in a word,no Celymene? She was born of recollections and the music of theSemiramis."
"No!" cried Hanaud. "Come with me, my friend. I am not so sure thatthere was no Celymene."
With a smile upon his face, Hanaud led the way across the room. He hadthe dramatic instinct, and rejoiced in it. He was going to produce asurprise for his companion and, savouring the moment in advance, hemanaged his effects. He walked towards the mantelpiece and stopped afew paces away from it.
"Look!"
Mr. Ricardo looked and saw a broad Adams mantelpiece. He turned abewildered face to his friend.
"You see nothing?" Hanaud asked.
"Nothing!"
"Look again! I am not sure--but is it not that Celymene is posingbefore you?"
Mr. Ricardo looked again. There was nothing to fix his eyes. He saw abook or two, a cup, a vase or two, and nothing else really expect avery pretty and apparently valuable piece of--and suddenly Mr. Ricardounderstood. Straight in front of him, in the very centre of themantelpiece, a figure in painted china was leaning against a chinastile. It was the figure of a perfectly impossible courtier, feminineand exquisite as could be, and apparelled also even to the scarletheels exactly as Calladine had described Joan Carew.
Hanaud chuckled with satisfaction when he saw the expression upon Mr.Ricardo's face.
"Ah, you understand," he said. "Do you dream, my friend? Attimes--yes, like the rest of us. Then recollect your dreams? Things,people, which you have seen perhaps that day, perhaps months ago, popin and out of them without making themselves prayed for. You cannotunderstand why. Yet sometimes they cut their strange capers there,logically, too, through subtle associations which the dreamer, onceawake, does not apprehend. Thus, our friend here sits in the window,intoxicated by his drug, the music plays in the Semiramis, the curtaingoes up in the heated theatre of his brain. He sees himself step uponthe stage, and who else meets him but the china figure from hismantelpiece?"
Mr. Ricardo for a moment was all enthusiasm. Then his doubt returnedto him.
"What you say, my dear Hanaud, is very ingenious. The figure upon themantelpiece is also extremely convincing. And I should be absolutelyconvinced but for one thing."
"Yes?" said Hanaud, watching his friend closely.
"I am--I may say it, I think, a man of the world. And I askmyself"--Mr. Ricardo never could ask himself anything without assuminga manner of extreme pomposity--"I ask myself, whether a young man whohas given up his social ties, who has become a hermit, and still morewho has become the slave of a drug, would retain that scrupulouscarefulness of his body which is indicated by dressing for dinner whenalone?"
Hanaud struck the table with the palm of his hand and sat down in achair.
"Yes. That is the weak point in my theory. You have hit it. I knew itwas there--that weak point, and I wondered whether you would sei
ze it.Yes, the consumers of drugs are careless, untidy--even unclean as arule. But not always. We must be careful. We must wait."
"For what?" asked Ricardo, beaming with pride.
"For the answer to a telephone message," replied Hanaud, with a nodtowards the door.
Both men waited impatiently until Calladine came into the room. Hewore now a suit of blue serge, he had a clearer eye, his skin ahealthier look; he was altogether a more reputable person. But he wasplainly very ill at ease. He offered his visitors cigarettes, heproposed refreshments, he avoided entirely and awkwardly the object oftheir visit. Hanaud smiled. His theory was working out. Sobered by hisbath, Calladine had realised the foolishness of which