The venerable gentleman made a practice of going out to business every morning at ten o’clock, his shiny silk hat set jauntily on the side of his head, a furled umbrella under his arm and a buttonhole in his coat. The police knew him by sight and local constables touched their helmets to him. In the days gone by when Mr. Raymond, as he called himself, had a luxurious white beard and earned an elegant income by writing begging letters and interviewing credulous and sympathetic females, he did not have that name or the reputation which he enjoyed in Montague Street. But now he was clean-shaven and had the appearance of a retired admiral and he received £4 a week for going out of the house every morning at ten o’clock, with his silk hat set at a rakish angle, and his furled umbrella and his neat little boutonniere. He spent most of the day in the Guildhall reading-room and came back at five o’clock in the evening as jaunty as ever.
And his day’s work being ended, he and his hard-faced wife went to their little attic room and played cribbage and their language was certainly jaunty but was not venerable.
On the first floor, behind triple black velvet curtains, men and women smoked day and night. It was a large room, being two rooms which had been converted into one and it had been decorated under Mr. Ballam’s eye. In this room nothing but opium was smoked. If you had a fancy for hasheesh you indulged yourself in a basement apartment. Sometimes Mr. Ballam himself came to take a whiff of the dream-herb, but he usually reserved these visits for such occasions as the introduction of a new and profitable client. The pipe had no ill-effect upon Mr. Ballam. That was his boast. He boasted now to a new client, a rich Spanish artist who had been picked up by one of his jackals and piloted to the International Artists’ Club.
“Nor on me,” said the newcomer, waving away a yellow-faced Chinaman who ministered to the needs of the smokers. “I always bring my own smoke.”
Ballam leant forward curiously as the man took a silver box from his pocket and produced therefrom a green and sticky-looking pill.
“What is that?” asked Ballam curiously.
“It is a mixture of my own, cannabis indica, opium and a little Turkish tobacco mixed. It is even milder than opium and the result infinitely more wonderful.”
“You can’t smoke it here,” said Ballam, shaking his head. “Try the pipe, old man.”
But the “old man”—he was really young in spite of his grey hair—was emphatic.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, “I can smoke at home. I only came out of curiosity,” and he rose to go.
“Don’t be in a hurry,” said Ballam hastily. “See here, we’ve got a basement downstairs where the hemp pipes go—the smokers up here don’t like the smell—I’ll come down and try one with you. Bring your coffee.”
The basement was empty and selecting a comfortable divan Mr. Ballam and his guest sat down.
“You can light this with a match, you don’t want a spirit stove,” said the stranger.
Ballam, sipping his coffee, looked dubiously at the pipe which Gonsalez offered.
“There was a question I was going to ask you,” said Leon. “Does running a show like this keep you awake at nights?”
“Don’t be silly,” said Mr. Ballam, lighting his pipe slowly and puffing with evident enjoyment. “This isn’t bad stuff at all. Keep me awake at nights? Why should it?”
“Well,” answered Leon. “Lots of people go queer here, don’t they? I mean it ruins people smoking this kind of stuff.”
“That’s their look out,” said Mr. Ballam comfortably. “They get a lot of fun. There’s only one life and you’ve got to die once.”
“Some men die twice,” said Leon soberly. “Some men who under the influence of a noxious drug go fantee and wake to find themselves murderers. There’s a drug in the East which the natives call ‘bal.’ It turns men into raving lunatics.”
“Well, that doesn’t interest me,” said Ballam impatiently. “We must hurry up with this smoke. I’ve a lady coming to see me. Must keep an appointment, old man,” he laughed.
“On the contrary, the introduction of this drug into a pipe interests you very much,” said Leon, “and in spite of Miss Maggiore’s appointment—”
The other started.
“What the hell are you talking about?” he asked crossly.
“In spite of that appointment I must break the news to you that the drug which turns men into senseless beasts is more potent than any you serve in this den.”
“What’s it to do with me?” snarled Ballam.
“It interests you a great deal,” said Leon coolly, “because you are at this moment smoking a double dose!”
With a howl of rage Ballam sprang to his feet and what happened after that he could not remember. Only something seemed to split in his head, and a blinding light flashed before his eyes and then a whole century of time went past, a hundred years of moving time and an eternity of flashing lights, of thunderous noises, of whispering voices, of ceaseless troubled movement. Sometimes he knew he was talking and listened eagerly to hear what he himself had to say. Sometimes people spoke to him and mocked him and he had a consciousness that he was being chased by somebody.
How long this went on he could not judge. In his half-bemused condition he tried to reckon time but found he had no standard of measurement. It seemed years after that he opened his eyes with a groan, and put his hand to his aching head. He was lying in bed. It was a hard bed and the pillow was even harder. He stared up at the whitewashed ceiling and looked round
