aside.
'I have been blind,' continued Leroux, in a forced, monotonous voice. 'That Mira has not—deceived me, in the worst sense of the word, is in no way due to my care of her. I recognize that, and I accept my punishment; for I deserved it. But what now overwhelms me is the knowledge, the frightful knowledge, that in a sense I have misjudged her, that I have remained here inert, making no effort, thinking her absence voluntary, whilst—God help her!—she has been'…
'Once again, Leroux,' interrupted Dr. Cumberly, 'I must ask you not to take too black a view. I blame myself more than I blame you, for having failed to perceive what as an intimate friend I had every opportunity to perceive; that your wife was acquiring the opium habit. You have told me that you count her as dead'—he stood beside Leroux, resting both hands upon the bowed shoulders—'I have not encouraged you to change that view. One who has cultivated—the—vice, to a point where protracted absences become necessary—you understand me?—is, so far as my experience goes'…
'Incurable! I quite understand,' jerked Leroux. 'A thousand times better dead, indeed.'
'The facts as I see them,' resumed the physician, 'as I see them, are these: by some fatality, at present inexplicable, a victim of the opium syndicate met her death in this flat. Realizing that the inquiries brought to bear would inevitably lead to the cross-examination of Mrs. Leroux, the opium syndicate has detained her; was forced to detain her.'
'Where is the place,' began Leroux, in a voice rising higher with every syllable—'where is the infamous den to which—to which'…
Dr. Cumberly pressed his hands firmly upon the speaker's shoulders.
'It is only a question of time, Leroux,' he said, 'and you will have the satisfaction of knowing that—though at a great cost to yourself—this dreadful evil has been stamped out, that this yellow peril has been torn from the heart of society. Now, I must leave you for the present; but rest assured that everything possible is being done to close the nets about Mr. King.'
'Ah!' whispered Leroux, 'MR. KING!'
'The circle is narrowing,' continued the physician. 'I may not divulge confidences; but a very clever man—the greatest practical criminologist in Europe—is devoting the whole of his time, night and day, to this object.'
Helen Cumberly and Denise Ryland exhibited a keen interest in the words, but Leroux, with closed eyes, merely nodded in a dull way. Shortly, Dr. Cumberly took his departure, and, Helen looking at her companion interrogatively:—
'I think,' said Denise Ryland, addressing Leroux, 'that you should not over-tax your strength at present.' She walked across to where he sat, and examined some proofslips lying upon the little table beside the couch. ''Martin Zeda,'' she said, with a certain high disdain. 'Leave 'Martin Zeda' alone for once, and read a really cheerful book!'
Leroux forced a smile to his lips.
'The correction of these proofs,' he said diffidently, 'exacts no great mental strain, but is sufficient to— distract my mind. Work, after all, is nature's own sedative.'
'I rather agree with Mr. Leroux, Denise,' said Helen;—'and really you must allow him to know best.'
'Thank you,' said Leroux, meeting her eyes momentarily. 'I feared that I was about to be sent to bed like a naughty boy!'
'I hope it's fine to-morrow,' said Helen rapidly. 'A drive to Richmond will be quite delightful.'
'I think, myself,' agreed Leroux, 'that it will hasten my recovery to breathe the fresh air once again.'
Knowing how eagerly he longed for health and strength, and to what purpose, the girl found something very pathetic in the words.
'I wish you were well enough to come out this afternoon,' she said; 'I am going to a private view at Olaf van Noord's studio. It is sure to be an extraordinary afternoon. He is the god of the Soho futurists, you know. And his pictures are the weirdest nightmares imaginable. One always meets such singular people there, too, and I am honored in receiving an invitation to represent the Planet!'
'I consider,' said Denise Ryland, head wagging furiously again, 'that the man is… mad. He had an exhibition… in Paris … and everybody… laughed at him… simply LAUGHED at him.'
'But financially, he is very successful,' added Helen.
'Financially!' exclaimed Denise Ryland, 'FINANCIALLY! To criticize a man's work… financially, is about as… sensible as… to judge the Venus… de Milo… by weight!—or to sell the works… of Leonardo… da Vinci by the… yard! Olaf van Noord is nothing but… a fool… of the worst possible… description… imaginable.'
'He is at least an entertaining fool!' protested Helen, laughingly.
'A mountebank!' cried Denise Ryland; 'a clown… a pantaloon… a whole family of… idiots… rolled into one!'
'It seems unkind to run away and leave you here—in your loneliness,' said Helen to Leroux; 'but really I must be off to the wilds of Soho.'…
'To-morrow,' said Leroux, standing up and fixing his eyes upon her lingeringly, 'will be a red-letter day. I have no right to complain, whilst such good friends remain to me—such true friends.'…
Chapter 26 'OUR LADY OF THE POPPIES'
A number of visitors were sprinkled about Olaf van Noord's large and dirty studio, these being made up for the most part of those weird and nondescript enthusiasts who seek to erect an apocryphal Montmartre in the plains of Soho. One or two ordinary mortals, representing the Press, leavened the throng, but the entire gathering —'advanced' and unenlightened alike—seemed to be drawn to a common focus: a large canvas placed advantageously in the southeast corner of the studio, where it enjoyed all the benefit of a pure and equably suffused light.
Seated apart from his worshipers upon a little sketching stool, and handling a remarkably long, amber cigarette-holder with much grace, was Olaf van Noord. He had hair of so light a yellow as sometimes to appear white, worn very long, brushed back from his brow and cut squarely all around behind, lending him a medieval appearance. He wore a slight mustache carefully pointed; and his scanty vandyke beard could not entirely conceal the weakness of his chin. His complexion had the color and general appearance of drawing-paper, and in his large blue eyes was an eerie hint of sightlessness. He was attired in a light tweed suit cut in an American pattern, and out from his low collar flowed a black French knot.
Olaf van Noord rose to meet Helen Cumberly and Denise Ryland, advancing across the floor with the measured gait of a tragic actor. He greeted them aloofly, and a little negro boy proffered tiny cups of China tea. Denise Ryland distended her nostrils as her gaze swept the picture-covered walls; but she seemed to approve of the tea.
The artist next extended to them an ivory box containing little yellow-wrapped cigarettes. Helen Cumberly smilingly refused, but Denise Ryland took one of the cigarettes, sniffed at it superciliously—and then replaced it in the box.
'It has a most… egregiously horrible… odor,' she commented.
'They are a special brand,' explained Olaf van Noord, distractedly, 'which I have imported for me from Smyrna. They contain a small percentage of opium.'
'Opium!' exclaimed Denise Ryland, glaring at the speaker and then at Helen Cumberly, as though the latter were responsible in some way for the vices of the painter.
'Yes,' he said, reclosing the box, and pacing somberly to the door to greet a new arrival.
'Did you ever in all your life,' said Denise Ryland, glancing about her, 'see such an exhibition… of nightmares?'
Certainly, the criticism was not without justification; the dauby-looking oil-paintings, incomprehensible water-colors, and riotous charcoal sketches which formed the mural decoration of the studio were distinctly 'advanced.' But, since the center of interest seemed to be the large canvas on the easel, the two moved to the edges of the group of spectators and began to examine this masterpiece. A very puzzled newspaperman joined them, bending and whispering to Helen Cumberly:
'Are you going to notice the thing seriously? Personally, I am writing it up as a practical joke! We are giving
