Dope | Page 5

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.

CHAPTER II
THE APARTMENTS OF KAZMAH
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 too!" 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