He was also ready to find out who the two veiled women were, who set aside all modesty and came to this public opium joint because they could not properly prepare and enjoy the drug at their homes.
At a certain hour no doubt a closed carriage would be waiting to convey them all home—perhaps the dashing widow had some male friend present who would serve as an escort.
Prescott received his pipe, prepared his pill and was soon smoking quietly.
Silence rested upon the place—people came not here to converse, but to dream with open eyes, seeing the beautiful things that danced before their eyes like a bright ignis fatuus, always eluding their grasp, yet luring them deeper and deeper into the toils.
CHAPTER XIII
A TERRIBLE DOOM
Before Eric Darrell had been in the place ten minutes he made a discovery that had a strong bearing on the case.
This was in reference to the artist.
Paul Prescott had shown all the signs of an opium smoker’s eagerness to have a draw at the subtle drug when he came in.
Nevertheless, Eric had already decided that much of this was assumed.
His own experience showed how such a thing could be; hence, he believed another might copy the same signs of distress with equal success.