THE AFFAIR AT THE SEMIRAMIS HOTEL
"Yes," said Ricardo.
"He has no servants here at night. He is quite alone and—here is what I find interesting—he has no valet. That seems a small thing to you?" Hanaud asked at a movement from Ricardo. "Well, it is no doubt a trifle, but it's a significant trifle in the case of a young rich man. It is generally a sign that there is something strange, perhaps even something sinister, in his life. Mr. Calladine, some months ago, turned out of St. James's into the Adelphi. Can you tell me why?"
"No," replied Mr. Ricardo. "Can you?"
Hanaud stretched out a hand. In his open palm lay a small round hairy bulb about the size of a big button and of a colour between green and brown.
"Look!" he said. "What is that?"
Mr. Ricardo took the bulb wonderingly.
"It looks to me like the fruit of some kind of cactus."
Hanaud nodded.
"It is. You will see some pots of it in the hot-houses of any really good botanical gardens. Kew has them, I have no doubt. Paris certainly has. They are labelled. 'Anhalonium Luinii.' But amongst the Indians of Yucatan the plant has a simpler name."
"What name?" asked Ricardo.
"Mescal."
Mr. Ricardo repeated the name. It conveyed nothing to him whatever.
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