Dope | Page 3

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This etext was prepared by Alan Johns ([email protected]).

Dope
by Sax Rohmer

PART FIRST
KAZMAH THE DREAM-READER

CHAPTER I
A MESSAGE FOR IRVIN
Monte Irvin, alderman of the city and prospective Lord Mayor of London, paced
restlessly from end to end of the well-appointed library of his house in Prince's Gate.
Between his teeth he gripped the stump of a burnt-out cigar. A tiny spaniel lay beside the
fire, his beady black eyes following the nervous movements of the master of the house.
At the age of forty-five Monte Irvin was not ill-looking, and, indeed, was sometimes
spoken of as handsome. His figure was full without being corpulent; his well-groomed

black hair and moustache and fresh if rather coarse complexion, together with the dignity
of his upright carriage, lent him something of a military air. This he assiduously
cultivated as befitting an ex-Territorial officer, although as he had seen no active service
he modestly refrained from using any title of rank.
Some quality in his brilliant smile, an oriental expressiveness of the dark eyes beneath
their drooping lids, hinted a Semitic strain; but it was otherwise not marked in his
appearance, which was free from vulgarity, whilst essentially that of a successful man of
affairs.
In fact, Monte Irvin had made a success of every affair in life with the lamentable
exception of his marriage. Of late his forehead had grown lined, and those business
friends who had known him for a man of abstemious habits had observed in the City
chophouse at which he lunched almost daily that whereas formerly he had been a noted
trencherman, he now ate little but drank much.
Suddenly the spaniel leapt up with that feverish, spider-like activity of the toy species and
began to bark.
Monte Irvin paused in his restless patrol and listened.
"Lie down!" he said. "Be quiet."
The spaniel ran to the door, sniffing eagerly. A muffled sound of voices became audible,
and Irvin, following a moment of hesitation, crossed and opened the door. The dog ran
out, yapping in his irritating staccato fashion, and an expression of hope faded from
Irvin's face as he saw a tall fair girl standing in the hallway talking to Hinkes, the butler.
She wore soiled Burberry, high-legged tan boots, and a peaked cap of distinctly military
appearance. Irvin would have retired again, but the girl glanced up and saw him where he
stood by the library door. He summoned up a smile and advanced.
"Good evening, Miss Halley," he said, striving to speak genially--for of all of his wife's
friends he liked Margaret Halley the best. "Were you expecting to find Rita at home?"
The girl's expression was vaguely troubled. She had the clear complexion and bright eyes
of perfect health, but to-night her eyes seemed over-bright, whilst her face was slightly
pale.
"Yes," she replied; "that is, I hoped she might be at home."
"I am afraid I cannot tell you when she is likely to return. But please come in, and I will
make inquiries."
"Oh, no, I would rather you did not trouble and I won't stay, thank you nevertheless. I
expect she will ring me up when she comes in."
"Is there any message I can give her?"

"Well"--she hesitated for an instant--"you might tell her, if you would, that I only
returned home at eight o'clock, so that I could not come around any earlier." She glanced
rapidly at Irvin, biting her lip. "I wish I could have seen her," she added in a low voice.
"She wishes to see you particularly?"
"Yes. She left a note this afternoon." Again she glanced at him in a troubled way. "Well, I
suppose it cannot be helped," she added and smilingly extended her hand. "Good night,
Mr. Irvin. Don't bother to come to the door."
But Irvin passed Hinkes and walked out under the porch