It heightens the feelings and sensibilities to distraction, producing what is really hysteria.  If the weather is clear, this drug will make life gorgeous; if it rains, tragic.  Slight vexation becomes deadly revenge; courage becomes rashness; fear, abject terror; and gentle affection or even a passing liking is transformed into passionate love.  It is the drug derived from the Indian hemp, scientifically named Cannabis Indica, better known as hashish, or bhang, or a dozen other names in the East.  Its chief characteristic is that it has a profound effect on the passions.  Thus, under its influence, natives of the East become greatly exhilarated, then debased, and finally violent, rushing forth on the streets with the cry, ’Amok, amok,’—­’Kill, kill’—­as we say, ‘running amuck.’  An overdose of this drug often causes insanity, while in small quantities our doctors use it as a medicine.  Any one who has read the brilliant Theophile Gautier’s ‘Club des Hachichens’ or Bayard Taylor’s experience at Damascus knows something of the effect of hashish, however.

“In reconstructing the story of Georgette Gilbert, as best I can, I believe that she was lured to the den of one of the numerous cults practised in New York, lured by advertisements offering advice in hidden love affairs.  Led on by her love for a man whom she could not and would not put out of her life, and by her affection for her parents, she was frantic.  This place offered hope, and to it she went in all innocence, not knowing that it was only the open door to a life such as the most lurid disorderly resorts of the metropolis could scarcely match.  There her credulity was preyed upon, and she was tricked into taking this drug, which itself has such marked and perverting effect.  But, though she must have been given a great deal of the drug, she did not yield, as many of the sophisticated do.  She struggled frantically, futilely.  Will and reason were not conquered, though they sat unsteadily on their thrones.  The wisp of hair so tightly clasped in her dead hand shows that she fought bitterly to the end.”

Kennedy was leaning forward earnestly, glaring at each of us in turn.  Lawton was twisting uneasily in his chair, and I could see that his fists were doubled up and that he was holding himself in leash as if waiting for something, eyeing us all keenly.  The Swami was seized with a violent fit of trembling, and the other fakirs were staring in amazement.

Quickly I stepped between Dudley Lawton and Kennedy, but as I did so, he leaped behind me, and before I could turn he was grappling wildly with some one on the floor.

“It’s all right, Walter,” cried Kennedy, tearing open the envelope on the table.  “Lawton has guessed right.  The hair was the Swami’s.  Georgette Gilbert was one victim who fought and rescued herself from a slavery worse than death.  And there is one mystic who could not foresee arrest and the death house at Sing Sing in his horoscope.”