"About ten o'clock," she answered, then instantly was on her
guard, for Torreon had caught her eye.
"And you have no idea where he went?" asked Kennedy.
"None, unless he went home," she replied guardedly.
I did not at the time notice the significance of her prompt
response to Torreon's warning. I did not notice, as did Kennedy,
the smile that spread over Torreon's features. The music had
started again, and I was oblivious to all but the riot of colour.
Again the servant entered. She seemed clothed in a halo of light
and colour, every fold of her dress radiating the most delicate
tones. Yet there was nothing voluptuous or sensual about it. I
was raised above earthly things. Men and women were no longer men
and women--they were brilliant creatures of whom I was one. It
was sensuous, but not sensual. I looked at my own clothes. My
everyday suit was idealised. My hands were surrounded by a glow
of red fire that made me feel that they must be the hands of a
divinity. I noticed them as I reached forward toward the tray of
little cups.
There swam into my line of vision another such hand. It laid
itself on my arm. A voice sang in my ear softly:
"No, Walter, we have had enough. Come, let us go. This is not
like any other known drug--not even the famous Cannabis indica,
hasheesh.
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