"Good thing you stayed behind," said Jamison. "I want to vomit. Why people go in hell holes for fun.... But I was very drunk and very amorous. Picked up a woman and fed her liquor. Young, too. Damnation! She got crying drunk and told me everything she knew. I gave her money and left. Punta Arenas is The Master's, body and soul." "One could have guessed it," said Bell grimly. "Nothing like it is," said Jamison. "Every living creature, man, woman, and child, has been fed that devilish poison of his. The keepers of the dives go fawning to the local officials for the antidote. The _jefe politico_ is driven in his carriage to be cured when red spots form before his eyes. The damned place is full of suicides, and women, and--oh, my God! It's horrible!" A humming, buzzing noise set up off in the night somewhere. It kept up for a long time, throttled down. Suddenly it seemed to grow louder, changed in pitch, and dwindled as if into the far, far distance. "That's one of The Master's planes now, no doubt," said Jamison savagely, "going off on some errand for him. He uses this place practically as an experiment station. The human beings here are his guinea pigs. The deputies get a standardized form of the stuff, but he's got it worked out in different doses so he can make a man go mad in hours, if he chooses, instead of after a delay. I don't know how. And The Master--" * * * * * He checked himself sharply. There were shuffling footsteps in the hall outside. A timid tap on the door. Jamison opened it, while Bell dropped one hand inconspicuously to a weapon inside his shapeless clothing. The toothless and filthy old man who kept the hotel beamed in at them. "_Senores_," he cackled. "_Vdes son de Porvenir, no es verdad?_" Jamison hiccoughed, as one who has been out and been drunken ought to do. "_No, viejo_," he rumbled tipsily, "_somos de la estancia del Señor Rubio. Vaya._" The old man seemed to mourn that they did not come from the sheep ranches about Porvenir Bay. But he produced a bottle with a shaking hand, still beaming. "_Tengo muchos amigos en Porvenir_," he chirped amiably. "_Y questa botella--_" "_Démela_," rumbled Jamison. He reached out his hand. "_No mas que poquito!_" said the old man, beaming but anxious as Jamison tilted it to his lips. "_Es visky de gentes...._" He beamed upon Bell, and Bell swallowed a spoonful and seemed to swallow vastly more. He lay back lazily while Jamison in the part of a tipsy sheepherder bullied the old man amiably and eventually chased him out. "You're amused?" asked Jamison sardonically, when there were no more sounds outside. "Because I said you didn't want to meet the young senorita who loved you when she saw you downstairs? Well, Bell, if you used your brain you didn't swallow any of that stuff." Bell started up. Jamison caught him by the shoulder.