"Exactly," she assented. "And last night--oh, I know I'm becoming utterly mad!--the veiled Master was accompanied by a man who walked through the garden with him." "And how," wondered d'Artois, "is that more peculiar than the rest of the dream?" "The Master's companion," replied Antoinette, "is the Marquis des Islots! _Mon Dieu_, is the whole city of Bayonne bound for this devil's garden?" "What?" D'Artois started and glanced sharply at Antoinette, then at Farrell. "_Monsieur le Marquis_ has been added to her dream. Do you see any connection?" "I don't," confessed Farrell. "After all this madhouse she's been through, might it not be a fancied recognition? Pure imagination?" "_Cordieu!_" exclaimed d'Artois. "Would she not sooner imagine that she saw ibn Saoud, or Saladin? That would be more in keeping. _Diable!_ Her seeing _Monsieur le Marquis_ is so wide of any fancy that I am now convinced that she is not dreaming." "Eh, what's that?" demanded Farrell, aghast at the wildness of d'Artois' implication. "That it wasn't a dream? Good Lord, man----" The recurrent nightmare had driven Antoinette Delatour to the verge of distraction, so that d'Artois' contention did not amaze her as much as it did Farrell. "_Mon Dieu_," she sighed wearily, and took Farrell's hand. "It's all become such a terrific confusion ... I don't know who I am. Oh, how my poor back aches from that beating!" "Courage, my dear!" reassured d'Artois. "The enemy has slipped." Then, to Farrell, "_Allons!_ Let us get to work at once. I have several of those hunches." "The quicker the better, Pierre," agreed Farrell. And as Antoinette's slender arms released him, he followed d'Artois down the stairs to the street. _3. The Hand of Hassan_ "Your task, my friend," began d'Artois as, back again at his house, they sat down to plan their campaign against the phantom garden, "will be to watch at the plaza. You will loaf, and drink an occasional _apéritif_, and smoke your way into the day. You may see nothing; but with time and patience your watch will have results. All of Bayonne passes the plaza, sooner or later." "But what," wondered Farrell, "am I to look for?" "People who show signs of hasheesh intoxication, particularly Arabs or other Orientals," answered d'Artois. "You know the symptoms. You have seen enough _hasheeshin_ in Egypt and Syria. I need not describe their manner, or peculiar stare. We are in search of addicts who in addition are fanatic Moslems. A slender clue at best, but while you pursue that, something else may happen. "And I, in the meanwhile, will be doing some private snooping of my own. This _Monsieur_ the Marquis des Islots is due for an investigation. That one has an open reputation for dabbling in obscure arts, and not such a savory reputation either." "But," protested Farrell, "how do hasheesh addicts come into this?"