sis had been seated by them to take down what they dictated, for
I defy anyone to remember anything but a fraction of the rapid march of
changes under its influence. Indeed, in observing its action I almost
forgot for the time being the purpose of our visit, so fascinated was I.
The music ceased, but not the visions.

Senora Mendez advanced toward us. The spangles on her net dress seemed
to give her a fairy-like appearance; she seemed to float over the carpet
like a glowing, fleecy, white cloud over a rainbow-tinted sky.

Kennedy, however, had not for an instant forgotten what we were there
for, and his attention recalled mine. I was surprised to see that when
I made the effort I could talk and think quite as rationally as ever,
though the wildest pranks were going on in my mind and vision. Kennedy
did not beat about in putting his question, evidently counting on the
surprise to extract the truth.

"What time did Senor Guerrero leave last night?"

The question came so suddenly that she had no time to think of a reply
that would conceal anything she might otherwise have wished to conceal.

"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. Let us
go as soon as we politely can. I have fou