This place was furnished with something of Oriental splendor, and the detective could not but admire the barbaric taste of the proprietor. The couches spread around were soft and inviting, Turkish in their make—some had curtains partly drawn, so that the occupant was half screened. Three of these were occupied by women. This was no uncommon sight. That two of them wore veils was evidence that they had not yet been hardened by the drug; but all this would come in time. The third had thrown her veil back, and her set face could be seen, the eyes staring into vacancy, as though sightless. Wretched sinners that they were, drawn onward by the inexorable god at whose altar they worshiped, there was no escape for them—just ahead lay the black gulf of despair, toward which they were hurrying so rapidly, and soon it must close over them. Then—eternity! Darrell never entered here without a feeling of commiseration for the poor souls thus linked with the skeleton arms of death. Had the opportunity ever offered he would gladly have tried to save one or more of them; but he was well aware what a difficult and well nigh impossible task it is to endeavor to save a man against himself. Luckily Eric possessed a peculiar disposition—what little opium he smoked had no effect on him, and he had no longing for the drug as the generality have. On the contrary it almost nauseated him, and he could only have become an habitual opium fiend by long and persistent practice. He glanced around to see where the artist had deposited his frame, and discovered Prescott on the couch next the second veiled lady. Whether this was accident or design the detective was unable to decide as yet, but he had an idea and steadily nursed it. His feeling of mingled disgust and pity was greatest for these women—he knew the one whose face he saw was a well-to-do widow up on Lexington Avenue, and perhaps the others were friends who had come here first in a spirit of bravado and daring curiosity, perhaps upon a wager, and whom the fascination of the drug had already chained to the chariot wheels of the ogre Opium. Those wheels revolved slowly but remorselessly—sooner or later they would crush out the life of all who clung to them. Had Prescott anything in common with this rich and brazen widow and her friends? That he knew the former Darrell had already guessed, for her set expression had momentarily changed at sight of the man, and the detective caught a look of deep cunning, which was returned with a smile and a nod from the man. Eager to learn all he could of the artist’s private character, the detective determined to watch for all he was worth. He was also ready to find out who the two veiled women were, who set aside all modesty and came to this public opium joint because they could not properly prepare and enjoy the drug at their homes.