.. Mr. King might be the Spirit of Opium....
The faint clicking sound was repeated.
Beads of perspiration stood upon M. Max's forehead; his imagination had
been running away with him. God! this was a house of fear! He controlled
himself, but only by dint of a tremendous effort of will.
Stealthily watching the lamp, he saw that the arc described by its
gyrations was diminishing with each successive swing, and, as he
watched, its movements grew slighter and slighter, until finally it
became quite stationary again, floating, purple and motionless, upon the
stagnant air.
Very slowly, he ventured to change his position, for his long ordeal was
beginning to induce cramp. The faint creaking of the metal bunk seemed,
in the dead stillness and to his highly-tensed senses, like the rattling
of castanets.
For ten minutes he lay in his new position; then moved slightly again
and waited for fully three-quarters of an hour. Nothing happened, and he
now determined to proceed with his inquiries.
Sitting upon the edge of the bunk, he looked about him, first directing
his attention to that portion of the wall immediately above. So
cunningly was the trap contrived that he could find no trace of its
existence. Carefully balancing himself upon the rails on either side of
the bunk, he stood up, and peered closely about that part of the wall
from which the sound had seemed to come.
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