himself upon the bed, twirling his thumbs in the manner which was his when under the influence of excitement.
“Now, Soames,” continued Gianapolis—“I mean Lucas!—my anticipations, which I mentioned to you on the night of—the accident…you remember?”
“Yes,” said Soames rapidly, “yes.”
“Well, they have been realized. Our establishment, here, continues to flourish as of yore. Nothing has come to light in the press calculated to prejudice us in the eyes of our patrons, and although your own name, Soames”…
Soames started and clutched at the bedcover.
“Although your own name has been freely mentioned on all sides, it is not generally accepted that you perpetrated the deed.”
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
