"Listen, I will enlighten you," began d'Artois. "We mentioned the Assassins, the followers of Hassan al Sabbah, the terrible Chief of the Mountains, _n'est-ce pas_? Those Assassins were of the fanatic Ismailian sect of Moslems. Those guests of the garden mentioned in this book"--d'Artois indicated _Siret al Haken_, lying open on the desk--"actually believed that their master had the power of admitting them to paradise for brief visits, at the end of which they were drugged, and dragged forth to awaken once more on earth, and ready for any infamy that might be demanded as the price of returning to the garden." "I have all that," admitted Farrell. "All right, then?" "The sect of the Ismailians," continued d'Artois, "was more than religious. It was political. Its members did not content themselves with theory. And if, as Antoinette's strange dreams indicate, we have a nest of Ismailians--that is, _hasheeshin_--to contend with, sooner or later one or more of them will be noted about town. "As for Antoinette, it is quite possible that she is, without being aware of it, _clairvoyante_. And thus _Monsieur le Marquis_ will bear investigation. Do you therefore stand watch as I directed, while I pursue some private snooping. _À bientôt!_" Whereat d'Artois turned to his desk, leaving Farrell to go to the plaza and seek a table under the striped awning of the café. * * * * * Farrell was none too optimistic, but upon his arrival at Café du Théâtre he assumed an indolence that in any place but southern France would have seemed a pose. But in Bayonne the enjoyment of placid idleness is an ancient art: and thus it was eminently suitable for him to sit and watch the smoke spiralling from the cigarette that smoldered between his fingers. All of the Bayonnais, and all visitors, eventually pass the plaza: Portuguese and Spanish and Italian sailors, Arabs from Algiers and Morocco, Basques from the hills; English tourists on their way to the arcades of rue Port Neuf, where they found the only _épiceries_ in Bayonne where they could buy Scotch whisky; peasants, loafers, soldiers on leave; quietly dressed and unpainted girls who had left behind them, in their rooms beyond the Nive, all the gauds and garniture of their profession. Costly imported cars flashed by, to cross Pont Mayou and Pont de Saint Esprit; ox-carts lumbered past, the drivers, arrayed in dingy smocks, trudging along and reviling their placid beasts. Bayonne marched by in review; and Farrell watched the parade. But despite his apparent idleness, Farrell's gray eyes were occupied with more than wisps of smoke, and the tall glass of _anis del oso_ that sat on the marble-topped table before him. Without in the least shifting his slightly bowed head, he was peering between his drooping eye-lashes at the passers-by, and at the boulevardiers who like himself sat sipping the meridional _apéritif_.