On the very first evening of the Captain’s arrival at Bon Repos, M. Platzoff had intimated that he was an opium smoker, and that at no very distant date he would enlighten Ducie as to the practice in question.  About a week later, as they sat down to their pipes and coffee, said Platzoff, “This is one of my big smoke-nights.  To-night I go on a journey of discovery into Dreamland—­a country that no explorations can exhaust, where beggars are the equals of kings, and where the Fates that control our actions are touched with a fine eccentricity that in a more commonplace world would be termed madness.  But there nothing is commonplace.”

“You are going to smoke opium?” said Ducie, interrogatively.

“I am going to smoke drashkil.  Let me, for this once, persuade you to follow my example.”

“For this once I would rather be excused,” said Ducie, laughingly.

Platzoff shrugged his shoulders.  “I offer to open for you the golden gates of a land full of more strange and wondrous things than were ever dreamed of by any early voyager as being in that new world on whose discovery he was bent; I offer to open up for you a set of experiences so utterly fresh and startling that your matter-of-fact English intellect cannot even conceive of such things.  I offer you all this, and you laugh me down with an air of superiority, as though I were about to present you with something which, however precious it might be in my eyes, in yours was utterly without value.”

“If I sin at all,” said Ducie, “it is through ignorance.  The subject is one respecting which I know next to nothing.  But I must confess that about experiences such as you speak of there is an intangibility—­a want of substance—­that to me would make them seem singularly valueless.”

“And is not the thing we call life one tissue of intangibilities?” asked the Russian.  “You can touch neither the beginning nor the end of it.  Do not its most cherished pleasures fly you even as you are in the very act of trying to grasp them?  Do you know for certain that you—­you yourself—­are really here?—­that you do not merely dream that you are here?  What do you know?”

“Your theories are too far-fetched for me,” said Ducie.  “A dream can be nothing more than itself—­nothing can give it backbone or substance.  To me such things are of no more value than the shadow I cast behind me when I walk in the sun.”

“And yet without substance there could be no shadow,” snarled the Russian.

“Do your experiences in any way resemble those recorded by De Quincey?”

“They do and do not,” answered Platzoff.  “I can often trace, or fancy that I can, a slight connecting likeness, arising probably from the fact that in the case of both of us a similar, or nearly similar, agent was employed for a similar purpose.  But, as a rule, the intellectual difference between any two men is sufficient to render their experiences in this respect utterly dissimilar.”