At her feet--proof indisputable of the truth of the story she had been told--lay a charred fragment of the cigar that had doubtless been between his lips when he had sunk into that fatal sleep.

The memory of Peter's words flashed through her brain.
He had smoked opium.

She wondered if Peter really knew.

But of what avail now to conjecture?
He was gone, and only this mad native vagabond had witnessed his going.
And at that, another thought pierced her keen as a dagger, rending its way through living tissues.

The manner of the man's appearing, the horror with which he had inspired her, the mystery of him, all combined to drive it home to her heart.