ginning. Was all this a horrible quirk of his mind, induced by a spy? These strangely different, yet entirely human people around him: were they real, the normal?
And, supposing he were right, right through and through. What could he do about it? If by some freak of luck (for only the veriest luck could help now) Mitchell were rescued, where would they go?
He walked for an hour or two, caring not in what direction his feet took him. Walked on and on, realizing how infinitely absurd it was to conclude that this entire world was mad and he was sane—the only sane person therein. For, even if that were true. . . is not sanity the madness of the greatest number? Finally he stopped and took note of his surroundings.
It was a region of lower middleclass apartment houses, occasional brownstone stooped buildings, and a few stores. Walking along gazing abstractedly at the houses, he noticed a sign on a small plaque, set in the doorway of a three-story building. It read:—
Cult of the Sacred Duality
Nadir Khan, teacher
Second floor.
There was a diagram beneath it, a sort of holy symbol that caught Congreve's eye. The American walked up to it, studied the diagram. Something was stirring in the back of his mind. Then suddenly, with a gasp, he turned and dashed up the stairs.
Nadir Khan turned out to be
tall turbaned East Indian and
an entirely scholarly man. He
greeted Congreve quietly, inquired of
him what he wished.
Congreve hesitated a moment, then plunged into his story. Ending up with the suggestion that had come to him upon noticing the Cult's name and symbol, he asked the Leader if he could shed any further enlightenment.
Khan's excitement showed that Congreve was on the trail of something. The Indian questioned him closely on the details of his flight through space, and of his earlier life. Then he explained what the Cult maintained and taught to those who would listen.
When Congreve left an hour later, he was accompanied to the door by the Indian.
"My devout converts number about thirty, and they will follow us to the end. I shall meet you tonight, my friend, at the appointed place." Congreve went back, a wild hope stirring in his heart and action tingling in his veins.
That night, after the consulate was asleep, Congreve slipped out of his room, down to the basement. Opening several large eases there, using keys he had taken from the consul's desk, he carried many large, Jong and slender implements outside to the automobile that had silently drawn up outside. Willing hands helped him in and stacked the things he had brought with him: the car drove off through the dark streets.
It stopped a half block from the entrance of the Dominion Prison where Mitchell was incarcerated. The three in the car stepped out, Nadir Kahn, Congreve, and another. Out of the shadows of the dark street stepped several other figures.
Two of the newcomers reached into the car, began to distribute the rifles Congreve had brought; the rest peeled off the light overcoats they had been wearing, revealing beneath the uniforms of the Royal American
