“It is useless to continue this discussion,” interposed Maurice. “Not only in India, but in every country on the face of the globe have such apparent impossibilities occured. And yet, I repeat, even I do not believe.”
“Then this man whom we both saw go up the stairs must actually have gone down?” I demanded testily. “I am no more a religionist than yourselves, gentlemen. Of modern Spiritulism I know next to nothing, of the claims of Buddhist adepts still less; and yet—Great God! Maurice, there he is again!”
In the middle of my protest I broke off suddenly. I recall perfectly the very words I used.
For my eyes finding no pleasant resting place on the face of our “reformed parson,” had wandered to the courtyard below, and there I saw Mr. Mirrikh walking along the grass-grown pavement with bowed head and arms folded across his breast.
“Certainly he is a most singular looking person,” said Philpot. “So that is the man?”
“That is the man,” I replied.
“I wish I might look beneath that covering,” he mused. “Surely the upper part of the face and the hands are white.”
“Rather yellow,” said I. “If you could see him closely, you—protecting powers! Where is he now?”
We stood there gazing at each other in breathless amazement.
But one second before, and the man had been slowly walking across the interior court of the Nagkon Wat.
Speaking for myself—and my companions testified to the same—not for one instant had my eyes been removed from him, and yet now he was no longer there.
“You see,” said Maurice, cooly lighting a fresh cheroot.
There was not the slightest projection of any sort above the pavement of the court. For the man to have hidden himself from our view was quite impossible. Even Philpot was obliged to admit that.
“Come, let us go down at once and investigate this business,” he exclaimed. “I have seen strange things in my time, but this—”
“Stop!” I said. “Going down will not bring us to that man. Gentlemen, look there!”
There are three towers rising above the roof of the
