Dope - Sax Rohmer

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the lady?”

      “A native, possibly Egyptian, apparently servant of Kazmah, came out a few minutes after Mr. Gray had gone for cab, and went away. Sir Lucien Pyne and lady are still in Kazmah's rooms.”

      “What!” cried Irvin, pulling out his watch and glancing at the disk. “But it's after eight o'clock!”

      “Yes, sir. The place is all shut up, and other offices in block closed at six. Door of Kazmah's is locked. I knocked and got no reply.”

      “Damn it! You're talking nonsense! There must be another exit.”

      “No, sir. Colleague has just relieved me. Left two gents over their wine at Prince's.”

      Monte Irvin's color began to fade slowly.

      “Then it's Pyne!” he whispered. The hand which held the receiver shook. “Brisley—meet me at the Piccadilly end of Bond Street. I am coming now.”

      He put down the telephone, crossed to the wall and pressed a button. The cigar stump held firmly between his teeth, he stood on the rug before the hearth, facing the door. Presently it opened and Hinkes came in.

      “The car is ready, Hinkes?”

      “Yes, sir, as you ordered. Shall Pattison come round to the door?”

      “At once.”

      “Very good, sir.”

      He withdrew, closing the door quietly, and Monte Irvin stood staring across the library at the full-length portrait in oils of his wife in the pierrot dress which she had worn in the third act of The Maid of the Masque.

      The clock in the hall struck half-past eight.

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      It was rather less than two hours earlier on the same evening that Quentin Gray came out of the confectioner's shop in old Bond Street carrying a neat parcel. Yellow dusk was closing down upon this bazaar of the New Babylon, and many of the dealers in precious gems, vendors of rich stuffs, and makers of modes had already deserted their shops. Smartly dressed show-girls, saleswomen, girl clerks and others crowded the pavements, which at high noon had been thronged with ladies of fashion. Here a tailor's staff, there a hatter's lingered awhile as iron shutters and gratings were secured, and bidding one another good night, separated and made off towards Tube and bus. The working day was ended. Society was dressing for dinner.

      Gray was about to enter the cab which awaited him, and his fresh-colored, boyish face wore an expression of eager expectancy, which must have betrayed the fact to an experienced beholder that he was hurrying to keep an agreeable appointment. Then, his hand resting on the handle of the cab-door, this expression suddenly changed to one of alert suspicion.

      A tall, dark man, accompanied by a woman muffled in grey furs and wearing a silk scarf over her hair, had passed on foot along the opposite side of the street. Gray had seen them through the cab windows.

      His smooth brow wrinkled and his mouth tightened to a thin straight line beneath the fair “regulation” moustache. He fumbled under his overcoat for loose silver, drew out a handful and paid off the taximan.

      Sometimes walking in the gutter in order to avoid the throngs upon the pavement, regardless of the fact that his glossy dress-boots were becoming spattered with mud, Gray hurried off in pursuit of the pair. Twenty yards ahead he overtook them, as they were on the point of passing a picture dealer's window, from which yellow light streamed forth into the humid dusk. They were walking slowly, and Gray stopped in front of them.

      “Hello, you two!” he cried. “Where are you off to? I was on my way to call for you, Rita.”

      Flushed and boyish he stood before them, and his annoyance was increased by their failure to conceal the fact that his appearance was embarrassing if not unwelcome. Mrs. Monte Irvin was a petite, pretty woman, although some of the more wonderful bronzed tints of her hair suggested the employment of henna, and her naturally lovely complexion was delicately and artistically enhanced by art. Nevertheless, the flower-like face peeping out from the folds of a gauzy scarf, like a rose from a mist, whilst her soft little chin nestled into the fur, might have explained even in the case of an older man the infatuation which Quentin Gray was at no pains to hide.

      She glanced up at her companion, Sir Lucien Pyne, a swarthy, cynical type of aristocrat, imperturbably. Then: “I had left a note for you, Quentin,” she said hurriedly. She seemed to be in a dangerously high-strung condition.

      “But I have booked a table and a box,” cried Gray, with a hint of juvenile petulance.

      “My dear Gray,” said Sir Lucien coolly, “we are men of the world—and we do not look for consistency in womenfolk. Mrs. Irvin has decided to consult a palmist or a hypnotist or some such occult authority before dining with you this evening. Doubtless she seeks to learn if the play to which you propose to take her is an amusing one.”

      His smile of sardonic amusement Gray found to be almost insupportable, and although Sir Lucien refrained from looking at Mrs. Irvin whilst he spoke, it was evident enough that his words held some covert significance, for:

      “You know perfectly well that I have a particular reason for seeing him,” she said.

      “A woman's particular reason is a man's feeble excuse,” murmured Sir Lucien rudely. “At least, according to a learned Arabian philosopher.”

      “I was going to meet you at Prince's,” said Mrs. Irvin hurriedly, and again glancing at Gray. There was a pathetic hesitancy in her manner, the hesitancy of a weak woman who adheres to a purpose only by supreme effort.

      “Might I ask,” said Gray, “the name of the pervert you are going to consult?”

      Again she hesitated and glanced rapidly at Sir Lucien, but he was staring coolly in another direction.

      “Kazmah,” she replied in a low voice.

      “Kazmah!” cried Gray. “The man who sells perfume and pretends to read dreams? What an extraordinary notion. Wouldn't tomorrow do? He will surely have shut up shop!”

      “I have been at pains to ascertain,” replied Sir Lucien, “at Mrs. Irvin's express desire, that the man of mystery is still in session and will receive her.”

      Beneath the mask of nonchalance which he wore it might have been possible to detect excitement repressed with difficulty; and had Gray been more composed and not obsessed with the idea that Sir Lucien had deliberately intruded upon his plans for the evening, he could not have failed to perceive that Mrs. Monte Irvin was feverishly preoccupied with matters having no relation to dinner and the theatre. But his private suspicions grew only the more acute.

      “Then if the dinner is not off,” he said, “may I come along and wait for you?”

      “At Kazmah's?” asked Mrs. Irvin. “Certainly.” She turned to Sir Lucien. “Shall you wait? It isn't much use as I'm dining with Quentin.”

      “If I do not intrude,” replied the baronet, “I will accompany you as far as the cave of the oracle, and then bid you good night.”

      The trio proceeded along old Bond Street. Quentin Gray regarded the story of Kazmah as a very poor lie devised on the spur of the moment. If he had been less infatuated, his natural sense of dignity must have dictated an offer to release Mrs. Irvin from her engagement. But jealousy stimulates the worst instincts and destroys the best. He was determined to attach himself as closely as the old Man of the Sea attached himself to Es-Sindibad, in order that the lie might be unmasked. Mrs. Irvin's palpable embarrassment and nervousness he ascribed to her perception of his design.

      A group of shop girls and others waiting for buses rendered it impossible for the three to keep abreast,

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