the struggle went on, and was still going on when I opened my eyes and
found myself again at Bon Repos."

As Platzoff ceased speaking, Cleon applied the light, and Ducie in his
eagerness drew a little nearer. Platzoff was dressed à la Turk, and sat
with cross legs on the low divan that ran round the room. Slowly and
deliberately he inhaled the smoke from his pipe, expelling it a moment
later, in part through his nostrils and in part through his lips. The
layer of tobacco at the top of the bowl was quickly burnt to ashes. By
this time the drug below was fairly alight, and before long a thick
white sickly smoke began to ascend in rings and graceful spires towards
the roof of the room. Cleon was gone, and a solemn silence was
maintained by both the men. Platzoff's eyes, black and piercing, were
fixed on vacancy; they seemed to be gazing on some picture visible to
himself alone. Ducie was careful not to disturb him. His inhalations
were slow, gentle and regular. After a time, a thin film or glaze began
to gather over his wide-open eyes, dimming their brightness, and making
them seem like the eyes of someone dead. His complexion became livid,
his face more cadaverous than it naturally was. Then his eyes closed
slowly and gently, like those of an infant dropping to sleep. For a
little time longer he kept on inhaling the smoke, but every minute the
inhalations became fainter and fewer in number. At length the hand that
held the pipe dropped nervelessly by his side, the amber mouthpiece
slipped from between his lips, his jaw dropped, and, with an almost
imperceptible sigh, his head sank softly back on to the cushions
behind, and M. Paul Platzoff was in the opium-eater's paradise.

Ducie, who had never seen anyone similarly affected, was frightened by
his host's death-like appearance. He was doubtful whether Platzoff had
not been seized with a fit. In order to satisfy himself he touched the