Part 4 (1/2)

”Look!” he said. ”What is that?”

Mr. Ricardo took the bulb wonderingly.

”It looks to me like the fruit of some kind of cactus.”

Hanaud nodded.

”It is. You will see some pots of it in the hothouses of any really good botanical gardens. Kew has them, I have no doubt. Paris certainly has. They are labelled. 'Anhalonium Luinii.' But amongst the Indians of Yucatan the plant has a simpler name.”

”What name?” asked Ricardo.

”Mescal.”

Mr. Ricardo repeated the name. It conveyed nothing to him whatever.

”There are a good many bulbs just like that in the cup upon the mantelshelf,” said Hanaud.

Ricardo looked quickly up.

”Why?” he asked.

”Mescal is a drug.”

Ricardo started.

”Yes, you are beginning to understand now,” Hanaud continued, ”why your young friend Calladine turned out of St. James's into the Adelphi Terrace.”

Ricardo turned the little bulb over in his fingers.

”You make a decoction of it, I suppose?” he said.

”Or you can use it as the Indians do in Yucatan,” replied Hanaud.

”Mescal enters into their religious ceremonies. They sit at night in a circle about a fire built in the forest and chew it, whilst one of their number beats perpetually upon a drum.”

Hanaud looked round the room and took notes of its luxurious carpet, its delicate appointments. Outside the window there was a thunder in the streets, a clamour of voices. Boats went swiftly down the river on the ebb. Beyond the ma.s.s of the Semiramis rose the great grey-white dome of St. Paul's. Opposite, upon the Southwark bank, the giant sky-signs, the big Highlander drinking whisky, and the rest of them waited, gaunt skeletons, for the night to limn them in fire and give them life. Below the trees in the gardens rustled and waved. In the air were the uplift and the sparkle of the young summer.

”It's a long way from the forests of Yucatan to the Adelphi Terrace of London,” said Hanaud. ”Yet here, I think, in these rooms, when the servants are all gone and the house is very quiet, there is a little corner of wild Mexico.”

A look of pity came into Mr. Ricardo's face. He had seen more than one young man of great promise slacken his hold and let go, just for this reason. Calladine, it seemed, was another.

”It's like bhang and kieff and the rest of the devilish things, I suppose,” he said, indignantly tossing the b.u.t.ton upon the table.

Hanaud picked it up.

”No,” he replied. ”It's not quite like any other drug. It has a quality of its own which just now is of particular importance to you and me. Yes, my friend”--and he nodded his head very seriously--”we must watch that we do not make the big fools of ourselves in this affair.”

”There,” Mr. Ricardo agreed with an ineffable air of wisdom, ”I am entirely with you.”

”Now, why?” Hanaud asked. Mr. Ricardo was at a loss for a reason, but Hanaud did not wait. ”I will tell you. Mescal intoxicates, yes--but it does more--it gives to the man who eats of it colour-dreams.”