“Djalma set out yesterday.  By declaring that the prince’s wound would grow seriously worse, if he did not lie down in the carriage during all the journey, the doctor got rid of the envoy of the unknown friend, who went away by himself.  The doctor wished to get rid of me too; but Djalma so strongly insisted upon it, that I accompanied the prince and doctor.  Yesterday evening, we had come about half the distance.  The doctor proposed we should pass the night at an inn.  ‘We have plenty of time,’ said he, ’to reach Paris by to-morrow evening’—­the prince having told him, that he must absolutely be in Paris by the evening of the 12th.  The doctor had been very pressing to set out alone with the prince.  I knew by Van Dael’s letter, that it was of great importance to you for Djalma not to be here on the 13th; I had my suspicions, and I asked the doctor if he knew you; he answered with an embarrassed air, and then my suspicion became certainty.  When we reached the inn, whilst the doctor was occupied with Djalma, I went up to the room of the former, and examined a box full of phials that he had brought with him.  One of them contained opium—­and then I guessed—­”

“What did you guess, sir?”

“You shall know.  The doctor said to Djalma, before he left him:  ’Your wound is doing well, but the fatigue of the journey might bring on inflammation; it will be good for you, in the course of to-morrow, to take a soothing potion, that I will make ready this evening, to have with us in the carriage.’  The doctor’s plan was a simple one,” added Faringhea; “to-day the prince was to take the potion at four or five o’clock in the afternoon—­and fall into a deep sleep—­the doctor to grow uneasy, and stop the carriage—­to declare that it would be dangerous to continue the journey—­to pass the night at an inn, and keep close watch over the prince, whose stupor was only, to cease when it suited your purposes.  That was your design—­it was cleverly planned—­I chose to make use of it myself, and I have succeeded.”

“All that you are talking about, my dear sir,” said Rodin, biting his nails, “is pure Hebrew to me.”

“No doubt, because of my accent.  But tell me, have you heard speak of array—­mow?”

“No.”

“Your loss!  It is an admirable production of the Island of Java, so fertile in poisons.”

“What is that to me?” said Rodin, in a sharp voice, but hardly able to dissemble his growing anxiety.

“It concerns you nearly.  We sons of Bowanee have a horror of shedding blood,” resumed Faringhea; “to pass the cord round the neck of our victims, we wait till they are asleep.  When their sleep is not deep enough, we know how to make it deeper.  We are skillful at our work; the serpent is not more cunning, or the lion more valiant, Djalma himself bears our mark.  The array-mow is an impalpable powder, and, by letting the sleeper inhale a few grains of it, or by mixing it with the tobacco to be smoked