waking life.  And still I stood with closed hands in the shade of the tree; and the people cried out that I was holy, and placed their offerings in my bowl; and I could not make up my mind to abnegate the title they gave me and become as they were.  And still I grew in inward wickedness, till I loathed myself as if I were some vile reptile; and so the struggle went on, and was still going on when I opened my eyes and found myself again at Bon Repos.”

As Platzoff ceased speaking, Cleon applied the light, and Ducie in his eagerness drew a little nearer.  Platzoff was dressed a la Turk, and sat with cross legs on the low divan that ran round the room.  Slowly and deliberately he inhaled the smoke from his pipe, expelling it a moment later, in part through his nostrils and in part through his lips.  The layer of tobacco at the top of the bowl was quickly burnt to ashes.  By this time the drug below was fairly alight, and before long a thick white sickly smoke began to ascend in rings and graceful spires towards the roof of the room.  Cleon was gone, and a solemn silence was maintained by both the men.  Platzoff’s eyes, black and piercing, were fixed on vacancy; they seemed to be gazing on some picture visible to himself alone.  Ducie was careful not to disturb him.  His inhalations were slow, gentle and regular.  After a time, a thin film or glaze began to gather over his wide-open eyes, dimming their brightness, and making them seem like the eyes of someone dead.  His complexion became livid, his face more cadaverous than it naturally was.  Then his eyes closed slowly and gently, like those of an infant dropping to sleep.  For a little time longer he kept on inhaling the smoke, but every minute the inhalations became fainter and fewer in number.  At length the hand that held the pipe dropped nervelessly by his side, the amber mouthpiece slipped from between his lips, his jaw dropped, and, with an almost imperceptible sigh, his head sank softly back on to the cushions behind, and M. Paul Platzoff was in the opium-eater’s paradise.

Ducie, who had never seen anyone similarly affected, was frightened by his host’s death-like appearance.  He was doubtful whether Platzoff had not been seized with a fit.  In order to satisfy himself he touched the gong and summoned Cleon.  That incomparable domestic glided in, noiseless as a shadow.

“Does your master always look as he does now after he has been smoking opium?” asked the Captain.

“Always, sir.”

“And how long does it take him to come round?”

“That depends, sir, on the strength of the dose he has been smoking.  The preparation is made of different strengths to suit him at different times; but always when he has been smoking drashkil I leave him undisturbed till midnight.  If by that time he has not come round naturally and of his own accord, I carry him to bed and then administer to him a certain draught, which has the effect of sending him into a natural and healthy sleep, from which he awakes next morning thoroughly refreshed.”