The chamber in which the bewildered Robert now found himself was more luxurious, if less rich, than any which he had yet seen.  Low settees of claret-coloured plush were scattered in orderly disorder over a mossy Eastern carpet.  Deep lounges, reclining sofas, American rocking-chairs, all were to be had for the choosing.  One end of the room was walled by glass, and appeared to open upon a luxuriant hot-house.  At the further end a double line of gilt rails supported a profusion of the most recent magazines and periodicals.  A rack at each side of the inlaid fireplace sustained a long line of the pipes of all places and nations ­English cherrywoods, French briars, German china-bowls, carved meerschaums, scented cedar and myall-wood, with Eastern narghilés, Turkish chibooques, and two great golden-topped hookahs.  To right and left were a series of small lockers, extending in a treble row for the whole length of the room, with the names of the various brands of tobacco scrolled in ivory work across them.  Above were other larger tiers of polished oak, which held cigars and cigarettes.

“Try that Damascus settee,” said the master of the house, as he threw himself into a rocking-chair.  “It is from the Sultan’s upholsterer.  The Turks have a very good notion of comfort.  I am a confirmed smoker myself, Mr. McIntyre, so I have been able, perhaps, to check my architect here more than in most of the other departments.  Of pictures, for example, I know nothing, as you would very speedily find out.  On a tobacco, I might, perhaps, offer an opinion.  Now these” ­he drew out some long, beautifully-rolled, mellow-coloured cigars ­“these are really something a little out of the common.  Do try one.”

Robert lit the weed which was offered to him, and leaned back luxuriously amid his cushions, gazing through the blue balmy fragrant cloud-wreaths at the extraordinary man in the dirty pea-jacket who spoke of millions as another might of sovereigns.  With his pale face, his sad, languid air, and his bowed shoulders, it was as though he were crushed down under the weight of his own gold.  There was a mute apology, an attitude of deprecation in his manner and speech, which was strangely at variance with the immense power which he wielded.  To Robert the whole whimsical incident had been intensely interesting and amusing.  His artistic nature blossomed out in this atmosphere of perfect luxury and comfort, and he was conscious of a sense of repose and of absolute sensual contentment such as he had never before experienced.

“Shall it be coffee, or Rhine wine, or Tokay, or perhaps something stronger,” asked Raffles Haw, stretching out his hand to what looked like a piano-board projecting from the wall.  “I can recommend the Tokay.  I have it from the man who supplies the Emperor of Austria, though I think I may say that I get the cream of it.”

He struck twice upon one of the piano-notes, and sat expectant.  With a sharp click at the end of ten seconds a sliding shutter flew open, and a small tray protruded bearing two long tapering Venetian glasses filled with wine.

“It works very nicely,” said Raffles Haw.  “It is quite a new thing ­never before done, as far as I know.  You see the names of the various wines and so on printed on the notes.  By pressing the note down I complete an electric circuit which causes the tap in the cellars beneath to remain open long enough to fill the glass which always stands beneath it.  The glasses, you understand, stand upon a revolving drum, so that there must always be one there.  The glasses are then brought up through a pneumatic tube, which is set working by the increased weight of the glass when the wine is added to it.  It is a pretty little idea.  But I am afraid that I bore you rather with all these petty contrivances.  It is a whim of mine to push mechanism as far as it will go.”

“On the contrary, I am filled with interest and wonder,” said Robert warmly.  “It is as if I had been suddenly whipped up out of prosaic old England and transferred in an instant to some enchanted palace, some Eastern home of the Genii.  I could not have believed that there existed upon this earth such adaptation of means to an end, such complete mastery of every detail which may aid in stripping life of any of its petty worries.”

“I have something yet to show you,” remarked Raffles Haw; “but we will rest here for a few minutes, for I wished to have a word with you.  How is the cigar?”

“Most excellent.”

“It was rolled in Louisiana in the old slavery days.  There is nothing made like them now.  The man who had them did not know their value.  He let them go at merely a few shillings apiece.  Now I want you to do me a favour, Mr. McIntyre.”

“I shall be so glad.”

“You can see more or less how I am situated.  I am a complete stranger here.  With the well-to-do classes I have little in common.  I am no society man.  I don’t want to call or be called on.  I am a student in a small way, and a man of quiet tastes.  I have no social ambitions at all.  Do you understand?”

“Entirely.”

“On the other hand, my experience of the world has been that it is the rarest thing to be able to form a friendship with a poorer man ­I mean with a man who is at all eager to increase his income.  They think much of your wealth, and little of yourself.  I have tried, you understand, and I know.”  He paused and ran his fingers through his thin beard.

Robert McIntyre nodded to show that he appreciated his position.

“Now, you see,” he continued, “if I am to be cut off from the rich by my own tastes, and from those who are not rich by my distrust of their motives, my situation is an isolated one.  Not that I mind isolation:  I am used to it.  But it limits my field of usefulness.  I have no trustworthy means of informing myself when and where I may do good.  I have already, I am glad to say, met a man to-day, your vicar, who appears to be thoroughly unselfish and trustworthy.  He shall be one of my channels of communication with the outer world.  Might I ask you whether you would be willing to become another?”

“With the greatest pleasure,” said Robert eagerly.

The proposition filled his heart with joy, for it seemed to give him an almost official connection with this paradise of a house.  He could not have asked for anything more to his taste.

“I was fortunate enough to discover by your conversation how high a ground you take in such matters, and how entirely disinterested you are.  You may have observed that I was short and almost rude with you at first.  I have had reason to fear and suspect all chance friendships.  Too often they have proved to be carefully planned beforehand, with some sordid object in view.  Good heavens, what stories I could tell you!  A lady pursued by a bull ­I have risked my life to save her, and have learned afterwards that the scene had been arranged by the mother as an effective introduction, and that the bull had been hired by the hour.  But I won’t shake your faith in human nature.  I have had some rude shocks myself.  I look, perhaps, with a jaundiced eye on all who come near me.  It is the more needful that I should have one whom I can trust to advise me.”

“If you will only show me where my opinion can be of any use I shall be most happy,” said Robert.  “My people come from Birmingham, but I know most of the folk here and their position.”

“That is just what I want.  Money can do so much good, and it may do so much harm.  I shall consult you when I am in doubt.  By the way, there is one small question which I might ask you now.  Can you tell me who a young lady is with very dark hair, grey eyes, and a finely chiselled face?  She wore a blue dress when I saw her, with astrachan about her neck and cuffs.”

Robert chuckled to himself.

“I know that dress pretty well,” he said.  “It is my sister Laura whom you describe.”

“Your sister!  Really!  Why, there is a resemblance, now that my attention is called to it.  I saw her the other day, and wondered who she might be.  She lives with you, of course?”

“Yes; my father, she, and I live together at Elmdene.”

“Where I hope to have the pleasure of making their acquaintance.  You have finished your cigar?  Have another, or try a pipe.  To the real smoker all is mere trifling save the pipe.  I have most brands of tobacco here.  The lockers are filled on the Monday, and on Saturday they are handed over to the old folk at the alms-houses, so I manage to keep it pretty fresh always.  Well, if you won’t take anything else, perhaps you would care to see one or two of the other effects which I have devised.  On this side is the armoury, and beyond it the library.  My collection of books is a limited one; there are just over the fifty thousand volumes.  But it is to some extent remarkable for quality.  I have a Visigoth Bible of the fifth century, which I rather fancy is unique; there is a ’Biblia Pauperum’ of 1430; a Ms. of Genesis done upon mulberry leaves, probably of the second century; a ‘Tristan and Iseult’ of the eighth century; and some hundred black-letters, with five very fine specimens of Schoffer and Fust.  But those you may turn over any wet afternoon when you have nothing better to do.  Meanwhile, I have a little device connected with this smoking-room which may amuse you.  Light this other cigar.  Now sit with me upon this lounge which stands at the further end of the room.”

The sofa in question was in a niche which was lined in three sides and above with perfectly clear transparent crystal.  As they sat down the master of the house drew a cord which pulled out a crystal shutter behind them, so that they were enclosed on all sides in a great box of glass, so pure and so highly polished that its presence might very easily be forgotten.  A number of golden cords with crystal handles hung down into this small chamber, and appeared to be connected with a long shining bar outside.

“Now, where would you like to smoke your cigar?” said Raffles Haw, with a twinkle in his demure eyes.  “Shall we go to India, or to Egypt, or to China, or to ­”

“To South America,” said Robert.

There was a twinkle, a whirr, and a sense of motion.  The young artist gazed about him in absolute amazement.  Look where he would all round were tree-ferns and palms with long drooping creepers, and a blaze of brilliant orchids.  Smoking-room, house, England, all were gone, and he sat on a settee in the heart of a virgin forest of the Amazon.  It was no mere optical delusion or trick.  He could see the hot steam rising from the tropical undergrowth, the heavy drops falling from the huge green leaves, the very grain and fibre of the rough bark which clothed the trunks.  Even as he gazed a green mottled snake curled noiselessly over a branch above his head, and a bright-coloured paroquet broke suddenly from amid the foliage and flashed off among the tree-trunks.  Robert gazed around, speechless with surprise, and finally turned upon his host a face in which curiosity was not un-mixed with a suspicion of fear.

“People have been burned for less, have they not?” cried Raffles Haw laughing heartily.  “Have you had enough of the Amazon?  What do you say to a spell of Egypt?”

Again the whirr, the swift flash of passing objects, and in an instant a huge desert stretched on every side of them, as far as the eye could reach.  In the foreground a clump of five palm-trees towered into the air, with a profusion of rough cactus-like plants bristling from their base.  On the other side rose a rugged, gnarled, grey monolith, carved at the base into a huge scarabaeus.  A group of lizards played about on the surface of the old carved stone.  Beyond, the yellow sand stretched away into furthest space, where the dim mirage mist played along the horizon.

“Mr. Haw, I cannot understand it!” Robert grasped the velvet edge of the settee, and gazed wildly about him.

“The effect is rather startling, is it not?  This Egyptian desert is my favourite when I lay myself out for a contemplative smoke.  It seems strange that tobacco should have come from the busy, practical West.  It has much more affinity for the dreamy, languid East.  But perhaps you would like to run over to China for a change?”

“Not to-day,” said Robert, passing his hand over his forehead.  “I feel rather confused by all these wonders, and indeed I think that they have affected my nerves a little.  Besides, it is time that I returned to my prosaic Elmdene, if I can find my way out of this wilderness to which you have transplanted me.  But would you ease my mind, Mr. Haw, by showing me how this thing is done?”

“It is the merest toy ­a complex plaything, nothing more.  Allow me to explain.  I have a line of very large greenhouses which extends from one end of my smoking-room.  These different houses are kept at varying degrees of heat and humidity so as to reproduce the exact climates of Egypt, China, and the rest.  You see, our crystal chamber is a tramway running with a minimum of friction along a steel rod.  By pulling this or that handle I regulate how far it shall go, and it travels, as you have seen, with amazing speed.  The effect of my hot-houses is heightened by the roofs being invariably concealed by skies, which are really very admirably painted, and by the introduction of birds and other creatures, which seem to flourish quite as well in artificial as in natural heat.  This explains the South American effect.”

“But not the Egyptian.”

“No.  It is certainly rather clever.  I had the best man in France, at least the best at those large effects, to paint in that circular background.  You understand, the palms, cacti, obelisk, and so on, are perfectly genuine, and so is the sand for fifty yards or so, and I defy the keenest-eyed man in England to tell where the deception commences.  It is the familiar and perhaps rather meretricious effect of a circular panorama, but carried out in the most complete manner.  Was there any other point?”

“The crystal box?  Why was it?”

“To preserve my guests from the effects of the changes of temperature.  It would be a poor kindness to bring them back to my smoking-room drenched through, and with the seeds of a violent cold.  The crystal has to be kept warm, too, otherwise vapour would deposit, and you would have your view spoiled.  But must you really go?  Then here we are back in the smoking-room.  I hope that it will not be your last visit by many a one.  And if I may come down to Elmdene I should be very glad to do so.  This is the way through the museum.”

As Robert McIntyre emerged from the balmy aromatic atmosphere of the great house, into the harsh, raw, biting air of an English winter evening, he felt as though he had been away for a long visit in some foreign country.  Time is measured by impressions, and so vivid and novel had been his feelings, that weeks and weeks might have elapsed since his chat with the smoke-grimed stranger in the road.  He walked along with his head in a whirl, his whole mind possessed and intoxicated by the one idea of the boundless wealth and the immense power of this extraordinary stranger.  Small and sordid and mean seemed his own Elmdene as he approached it, and he passed over its threshold full of restless discontent against himself and his surroundings.