At a certain hour no doubt a closed carriage would be waiting to convey them all home—perhaps the dashing widow had some male friend present who would serve as an escort. Prescott received his pipe, prepared his pill and was soon smoking quietly. Silence rested upon the place—people came not here to converse, but to dream with open eyes, seeing the beautiful things that danced before their eyes like a bright _ignis fatuus_, always eluding their grasp, yet luring them deeper and deeper into the toils. CHAPTER XIII A TERRIBLE DOOM Before Eric Darrell had been in the place ten minutes he made a discovery that had a strong bearing on the case. This was in reference to the artist. Paul Prescott had shown all the signs of an opium smoker’s eagerness to have a draw at the subtle drug when he came in. Nevertheless, Eric had already decided that much of this was assumed. His own experience showed how such a thing could be; hence, he believed another might copy the same signs of distress with equal success. Then Prescott had a reason for coming here other than the desire to smoke. What could it be? Darrell had eyes, and he was able to form conclusions very speedily. He knew that the presence of the dark-veiled woman in the bunk adjoining that taken by the artist, was what had drawn him. Circumstances pointed to this fact—their heads were close together, one resting upon the right, the other upon the left side. The detective’s thoughts were busy. He remembered the note. Could this veiled creature be the party signing that missive? According to the conclusions he had already drawn this could not be so, for he had made up his mind that the writer must be Lillian, and only waited to prove this fact. Who then was the veiled lady? Bah! such a man as Paul Prescott might be engaged in half a dozen little love affairs at one and the same time. He would finally abandon all the rest for the charmer who held his fickle heart most heavily chained, or else whose bank account was the most promising. To a man of Darrell’s steadiness of purpose, there was something almost revolting about such a character as this, and yet he found certain things to study in the artist’s face—points that rather puzzled him when scrutinized. The man was worthy of being analyzed. There might be more to him than even appeared upon the surface. Darrell was wide awake, although he pretended to be already under the magic influence. He was soothed by the odor of the opium, without giving way to it, and watched the couple across the way. The hanging curtains partly concealed him, and he was sure a note passed from one to the other. If the girl thus heavily veiled was in the charge of the widow, the latter did not seem in a condition to watch over her ward, for she had given herself up wholly to her dreams.