Finishing his second glass he placed the perforated spoon over the
fourth, and began now more calmly sipping the third while the water
dripped slowly into the last glass.
Here before my eyes was enacted a more wonderful change than the
gradual transformation of transparent absinthe into an opaque
opalescent liquid. Simard, under the influence of the drink, was
slowly becoming the Simard I had known ten years before. Remarkable!
Absinthe having in earlier years made a beast of the man was now
forming a man out of the beast. His staring eyes took on an expression
of human comradeship. The whole mystery became perfectly clear to me
without a question asked or an answer uttered. This man was no spy,
but a genuine anarchist. However it happened, he had become a victim
of absinthe, one of many with whom I was acquainted, although I never
met any so far sunk as he. He was into his fourth glass, and had
ordered two more when he began to speak.
'Here's to us,' he cried, with something like a civilised smile on his
gaunt face. 'You're not offended at what I said in the meeting, I
hope?'
'Oh, no,' I answered.
'That's right. You see, I once belonged to the Secret Service, and if
my chief was there today, we would soon find ourselves in a cool
dungeon.
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