Soames discovered his hair to be bristling; his skin tingled with a nervous apprehension. “That I,” he began dryly, paused and swallowed--“that I perpetrated.... Has it been”... “It has been hinted at by one or two Fleet Street theorists--yes, Soames! But the post-mortem examination of--the victim, revealed the fact that she was addicted to drugs”... “Opium?” asked Soames, eagerly. Gianapolis smiled. “What an observant mind you have, Soames!” he said. “So you have perceived that these groves are sacred to our Lady of the Poppies? Well, in part that is true. Here, under the auspices of Mr. Ho-Pin, fretful society seeks the solace of the brass pipe; yes, Soames, that is true. Have you ever tried opium?” “Never!” declared Soames, with emphasis, “never!” “Well, it is a delight in store for you! But the reason of our existence as an institution, Soames, is not far to seek. Once the joys of Chandu become perceptible to the neophyte, a great need is felt--a crying need. One may drink opium or inject morphine; these, and other crude measures, may satisfy temporarily, but if one would enjoy the delights of that fairyland, of that enchanted realm which bountiful nature has concealed in the heart of the poppy, one must retire from the ken of goths and vandals who do not appreciate such exquisite delights; one must dedicate, not an hour snatched from grasping society, but successive days and nights to the goddess”... Soames, barely understanding this discourse, listened eagerly to every word of it, whilst Gianapolis, waxing eloquent upon his strange thesis, seemed to be addressing, not his solitary auditor, but an invisible concourse. “In common with the lesser deities,” he continued, “our Lady of the Poppies is exacting. After a protracted sojourn at her shrine, so keen are the delights which she opens up to her worshipers, that a period of lassitude, of exhaustion, inevitably ensues. This precludes the proper worship of the goddess in the home, and necessitates--I say NECESSITATES the presence, in such a capital as London, of a suitable Temple. You have the honor, Soames, to be a minor priest of that Temple!” Soames brushed his dyed hair with his fingers and endeavored to look intelligent. “A branch establishment--merely a sacred caravanserai where votaries might repose ere reentering the ruder world,” continued Gianapolis--“has unfortunately been raided by the police!” With that word, POLICE, he seemed to come to earth again. “Our arrangements, I am happy to say, were such that not one of the staff was found on the premises and no visible link existed between that establishment and this. But now let us talk about yourself. You may safely take an evening off, I think”... He scrutinized Soames attentively. “You will be discreet as a matter of course, and I should not recommend your visiting any of your former haunts. I make this proposal, of course, with the full sanction of Mr. King.”