"Of course, you
know who it is? This, my daughter," turning the sleepy glance towards
Rita, "is our officiating priestess, Mrs. Sin."
The woman so strangely named revealed her gleaming teeth in a swift,
unpleasant smile, then her nostrils dilated and she glanced about her
suspiciously.
"Someone smokes the chandu cigarettes," she said, speaking in a low
tone which, nevertheless, failed to disguise her harsh voice, and with
a very marked accent.
"I am the offender, dear Lola," said Kilfane, dreamily waving his
cigarette towards her. "I have managed to make the last hundred spin
out. You have brought me a new supply?"
"Oh no, indeed," replied Mrs. Sin, tossing her head in a manner oddly
reminiscent of a once famous Spanish dancer. "Next Tuesday you get
some more. Ah! it is no good! You talk and talk and it cannot alter
anything. Until they come I cannot give them to you."
"But it appears to me," murmured Kilfane, "that the supply is always
growing less."
"Of course. The best goes all to Edinburgh now. I have only three
sticks of Yezd left of all my stock."
"But the cigarettes."
"Are from Buenos Ayres? Yes. But Buenos Ayres must get the opium
before we get the cigarettes, eh? Five cases come to London on
Tuesday, Cy.
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