Mr. King!...  Mr. King was watching him!

The director of that group, whose structure was founded upon the wreckage of human souls, was watching him!  Because of a certain sympathy which existed between his present emotions and those which had threatened to obsess him whilst the Eurasian was in the room, he half believed that it was she who peered down at him, now... or she, and another.

The lamp swung gently to and fro, turning slowly to the right and then revolving again to the left, giving life in its gyrations to the intermingled figures on the walls.  The atmosphere of the room was nauseating; it was beginning to overpower him....

Creative power of thought... what startling possibilities it opened up.  Almost it seemed, if Sir Brian Malpas were to be credited, that the collective mind-force of a group of opium smokers had created the “glamor” of a woman—­an Oriental woman—­who visited them regularly in their trances.  Or had that vision a prototype in the flesh—­whom he had seen?...

Creative power of thought...  Mr. King!  He was pursuing Mr. King; whilst Mr. King might be nothing more than a thought-form—­a creation of cumulative thought—­an elemental spirit which became visible to his subjects, his victims, which had power over them; which could slay them as the “shell” slew Frankenstein, his creator; which could materialize:...  Mr. King might be the Spirit of Opium....

The faint clicking sound was repeated.

Beads of perspiration stood upon M. Max’s forehead; his imagination had been running away with him.  God! this was a house of fear!  He controlled himself, but only by dint of a tremendous effort of will.

Stealthily watching the lamp, he saw that the arc described by its gyrations was diminishing with each successive swing, and, as he watched, its movements grew slighter and slighter, until finally it became quite stationary again, floating, purple and motionless, upon the stagnant air.

Very slowly, he ventured to change his position, for his long ordeal was beginning to induce cramp.  The faint creaking of the metal bunk seemed, in the dead stillness and to his highly-tensed senses, like the rattling of castanets.

For ten minutes he lay in his new position; then moved slightly again and waited for fully three-quarters of an hour.  Nothing happened, and he now determined to proceed with his inquiries.

Sitting upon the edge of the bunk, he looked about him, first directing his attention to that portion of the wall immediately above.  So cunningly was the trap contrived that he could find no trace of its existence.  Carefully balancing himself upon the rails on either side of the bunk, he stood up, and peered closely about that part of the wall from which the sound had seemed to come.  He even ran his fingers lightly over the paper, up as high as he could reach; but not the slightest crevice was perceptible.  He began to doubt the evidence of his own senses.