"Yes," a.s.sented Kennedy; "discovered by those same Kiowa Indians, was it not?"

"Perhaps," she admitted, raising her beautiful shoulders in polite deprecation. "The mescal religion, we found, has spread very largely in New Mexico and Arizona among the Indians, and with the removal of the Kiowas to the Indian reservation it has been adopted by other tribes even, I have heard, as far north as the Canadian border."

"Is that so?" asked Kennedy. "I understood that the United States government had forbidden the importation of the mescal plant and its sale to the Indians under severe penalties."

"It has, sir," interposed Alvardo, who had joined us, "but still the mescal cult grows secretly. For my part, I think it might be more wise for your authorities to look to the whiskey and beer that unscrupulous persons are selling. Senor Jameson," he added, turning to me, "will you join us in a little cup of this artificial paradise, as one of your English writers--Havelock Ellis, I think--has appropriately called it?"

I glanced dubiously at Kennedy as Senora Mendez took one of the little b.u.t.tons out of the silver tray. Carefully paring the fuzzy tuft of hairs off the top of it--it looked to me very much like the tip of a cactus plant, which, indeed, it was--she rolled it into a little pellet and placed it in her mouth, chewing it slowly like a piece of chicle.

"Watch me; do just as I do," whispered Kennedy to me at a moment when no one was looking.

The servant advanced towards us with the tray.

"The mescal plant," explained Alvardo, pointing at the little discs, "grows precisely like these little b.u.t.tons which you see here. It is a species of cactus which rises only half an inch or so from the ground.

The stem is surrounded by a clump of blunt leaves which give it its b.u.t.ton shape, and on the top you will see still the tuft of filaments, like a cactus. It grows in the rocky soil in many places in the state of Jalisco, though only recently has it become known to science. The Indians, when they go out to gather it, simply lop off these little ends as they peep above the earth, dry them, keep what they wish for their own use, and sell the rest for what is to them a fabulous sum. Some people chew the b.u.t.tons, while a few have lately tried making an infusion or tea out of them. Perhaps to a beginner I had better recommend the infusion."

I had scarcely swallowed the bitter, almost nauseous decoction than I began to feel my heart action slowing up and my pulse beating fuller and stronger. The pupils of my eyes expanded as with a dose of belladonna; at least, I could see that Kennedy's did, and so mine must have done the same.

I seemed to feel an elated sense of superiority--really I almost began to feel that it was I, not Kennedy, who counted most in this investigation. I have since learned that this is the common experience of mescal-users, this sense of elation; but the feeling of physical energy and intellectual power soon wore off, and I found myself glad to recline in my easy chair, as the rest did, in silent indolence.

Still, the display that followed for an enchanted hour or so was such as I find it hopeless to describe in language which shall convey to others the beauty and splendour of what I saw.

I picked up a book lying on the table before me. A pale blue-violet shadow floated across the page before me, leaving an after-image of pure colour that was indescribable. I laid down the book and closed my eyes.

A confused riot of images and colours like a kaleidoscope crowded before me, at first indistinct, but, as I gazed with closed yes, more and more definite. Golden and red and green jewels seemed to riot before me. I bathed my hands in inconceivable riches of beauty such as no art-gla.s.s worker has ever produced. All discomfort ceased. I had no desire to sleep--in fact, was hyper-sensitive. But it was a real effort to open my eyes; to tear myself away from the fascinating visions of shapes and colours.

At last I did open my eyes to gaze at the gasjets of the chandelier as they flickered. They seemed to send out waves, expanding and contracting, waves of colour. The shadows of the room were highly coloured and constantly changing as the light changed.

Senora Barrios began lightly to play on the piano the transposed Kiowa song, emphasising the notes that represented the drum-beats. Strange as it may seem, the music translated itself into pure colour--and the rhythmic beating of the time seemed to aid the process. I thought of the untutored Indians as they sat in groups about the flickering camp-fire while others beat the tom-toms and droned the curious melody. What were the visions of the red man, I wondered, as he chewed his mescal b.u.t.ton and the medicine man prayed to Hikori, the cactus G.o.d, to grant a "beautiful intoxication?"

Under the gas-lights of the chandelier hung a cl.u.s.ter of electric light bulbs which added to the flood of golden effulgence that bathed the room and all things in it. I gazed next intently at the electric lights. They became the sun itself in their steadiness, until I had to turn away my head and close my eyes. Even then the image persisted--I saw the golden sands of Newport, only they were blazing with glory as if they were veritable diamond dust: I saw the waves, of incomparable blue, rolling up on the sh.o.r.e. A vague perfume was wafted on the air. I was in an orgy of vision. Yet there was no stage of maudlin emotion. It was at least elevating.

Kennedy's experiences as he related them to me afterwards were similar, though sufficiently varied to be interesting. His visions took the forms of animals--a Cheshire cat, like that in "Alice in Wonderland," with merely a grin that faded away, changing into a lynx which in turn disappeared, followed by an unknown creature with short nose and pointed ears, then tortoises and guinea-pigs, a perfectly unrelated succession of beasts. When the playing began a beautiful panorama unfolded before him--the regular notes in the music enhancing the beauty, and changes in the scenes, which he described as a most wonderful kinetoscopic display.

In fact, only De Quincey or Bayard Taylor or Poe could have done justice to the thrilling effects of the drug, and not even they unless an amanuensis had been seated by them to take down what they dictated, for I defy anyone to remember anything but a fraction of the rapid march of changes under its influence. Indeed, in observing its action I almost forgot for the time being the purpose of our visit, so fascinated was I.

The music ceased, but not the visions.

Senora Mendez advanced toward us. The spangles on her net dress seemed to give her a fairy-like appearance; she seemed to float over the carpet like a glowing, fleecy, white cloud over a rainbow-tinted sky.

Kennedy, however, had not for an instant forgotten what we were there for, and his attention recalled mine. I was surprised to see that when I made the effort I could talk and think quite as rationally as ever, though the wildest pranks were going on in my mind and vision. Kennedy did not beat about in putting his question, evidently counting on the surprise to extract the truth.

"What time did Senor Guerrero leave last night?"

The question came so suddenly that she had no time to think of a reply that would conceal anything she might otherwise have wished to conceal.

"About ten o'clock," she answered, then instantly was on her guard, for Torreon had caught her eye.

"And you have no idea where he went?" asked Kennedy.

"None, unless he went home," she replied guardedly.

I did not at the time notice the significance of her prompt response to Torreon's warning. I did not notice, as did Kennedy, the smile that spread over Torreon's features. The music had started again, and I was oblivious to all but the riot of colour.

Again the servant entered. She seemed clothed in a halo of light and colour, every fold of her dress radiating the most delicate tones. Yet there was nothing voluptuous or sensual about it. I was raised above earthly things. Men and women were no longer men and women--they were brilliant creatures of whom I was one. It was sensuous, but not sensual.

I looked at my own clothes. My everyday suit was idealised. My hands were surrounded by a glow of red fire that made me feel that they must be the hands of a divinity. I noticed them as I reached forward toward the tray of little cups.

There swam into my line of vision another such hand. It laid itself on my arm. A voice sang in my ear softly:

"No, Walter, we have had enough. Come, let us go. This is not like any other known drug--not even the famous Cannabis indica, hasheesh. Let us go as soon as we politely can. I have found out what I wanted to know.

Guerrero is not here."

We rose shortly and excused ourselves and, with general regrets in which all but Torreon joined, were bowed out with the same courtly politeness with which we had been received.

As we left the house, the return to the world was quick. It was like coming out from the matinee and seeing the crowds on the street. They, not the matinee, were unreal for the moment. But, strange to say, I found one felt no depression as a result of the mescal intoxication.

"What is it about mescal that produces such results?" I asked.

"The alkaloids," replied Kennedy as we walked slowly along. "Mescal was first brought to the attention of scientists by explorers employed by our bureau of ethnology. Dr. Weir Mitch.e.l.l and Dr. Harvey Wiley and several German scientists have investigated it since then. It is well known that it contains half a dozen alkaloids and resins of curious and little-investigated nature. I can't recall even the names of them offhand, but I have them in my laboratory."

As the effect of the mescal began to wear off in the fresh air, I found myself in a peculiar questioning state. What had we gained by our visit?

Looking calmly at it, I could not help but ask myself why both Torreon and Senora Mendez had acted as if they were concealing something about the whereabouts of Guerrero. Was she a spy? Did she know anything about the loss of the half-million dollars?

Of one thing I was certain. Torreon was an ardent admirer of the beautiful senora, equally ardent with Guerrero. Was he simply a jealous suitor, angry at his rival, and now glad that he was out of the way?

Where had Guerrero gone The question was still unanswered.

Absorbed in these reveries, I did not notice particularly where Kennedy was hurrying me. In fact, finding no plausible answer to my speculations and knowing that it was useless to question Kennedy at this stage of his inquiry, I did not for the moment care where we went but allowed him to take the lead.

We entered one of the fine apartments on the drive and rode up in the elevator. A door opened and, with a start, I found myself in the presence of Miss Guerrero again. The questioning look on her face recalled the object of our search, and its ill success so far. Why had Kennedy come back with so little to report?

"Have you heard anything?" she asked eagerly.

"Not directly," replied Kennedy. "But I have a clue, at least. I believe that Torreon knows where your father is and will let you know any moment now. It is to his interest to clear himself before this scandal about the money becomes generally known. Would you allow me to search through your father's desk?"

For some moments Kennedy rummaged through the drawers and pigeonholes, silently.

"Where does the junta keep its arms stored--not in the meeting-place on South Street does it?" asked Kennedy at length.

"Not exactly; that would be a little too risky," she replied. "I believe they have a loft above the office, hired in someone else's name and not connected with the place down-stairs at all. My father and Senor Torreon are the only ones who have the keys. Why do you ask?"

"I ask," replied Craig, "because I was wondering whether there might not be something that would take him down to South Street last night. It is the only place I can think of his going to at such a late hour, unless he has gone out of town. If we do not hear from Torreon soon I think I will try what. I can find down there. Ah, what is this?"

Kennedy drew forth a little silver box and opened it. Inside reposed a dozen mescal b.u.t.tons.

We both looked quickly at Miss Guerrero, but it was quite evident that she was unacquainted with them.

She was about to ask what Kennedy had found when the telephone rang and the maid announced that Miss Guerrero was wanted by Senor Torreon.

A smile of gratification flitted over Kennedy's face as he leaned over to me and whispered: "It is evident that Torreon is anxious to clear himself. I'll wager he has done some rapid hustling since we left him."