As Carlotta ceased speaking she tapped a curiously shaped bell. In an instant a Chinese servant entered noiselessly.
“I want to smoke, John,” said the woman, with a wave of her hand. Marion’s eyes followed the motion and saw she had pointed toward an “opium layout” on one of the small tables.
The grave girl watched what followed with wide-staring eyes. She had not fully realized yet that she was really a prisoner.
Carlotta, as one who was perfectly familiar with the place, stepped behind a heavy curtain. When she emerged again she had completely discarded her disguise and was dressed in a long, loose Oriental garment.
Without a word to Marion she passed slowly across the room. There was another heavy portiere before her—she disappeared behind it.
In a moment the Chinaman followed, carrying the little table. His movements were so noiseless and cat-like that they were almost uncanny.
Marion walked deliberately toward the curtain and looked behind it, then darted back with an exclamation of horror.
What she saw was another room adjoining the one she was in, but this apartment was fitted with curious berth-like beds, and in three of these she saw women sleeping.
A glance was enough to show her the full horror of the place, for upon one face was stamped the most hideous expression that could be conceived—as if the dreamer was being tormented by unspeakable visions.
Two Chinamen in their native garments, but with queues curled tightly around their heads, were sitting by the sleepers, preparing the opium, and as they rolled the little “pills” in their long yellow fingers, Marion clasped her hands before her eyes—it was too horrible to witness.