drunkard because I liked my glass of wine as well as the best of them—but pardon me, gentlemen, I find I am drifting toward the autobiographical. The sun is growing hot here. Let us go down.”
“One moment,” interposed Maurice, “and I am not only ready to join you, Mr. Philpot, but extend a cordial invitation for you to join us at breakfast. This man—this Mirrikh—you have heard our story—tell me what you think?”
“That he is an unmitigated fraud,” replied Philpot promptly. “A Hindoo adept, doubtless, full of mysticism and bosh, but still possessed of the knowledge of certain perfectly natural laws which, to us, are mysteries, enabling him to perform certain tricks and produce certain appearances which, in our eyes, seem supernatural—that is all.”
“And his face?”
“Either painted or marked by disease.”
“And you account for his disappearance—how?”
“Of course,” he replied, “any theory which I may advance in that regard can be only a theory. I am no Buddhist, thank God, but during my residence in India I have seen many strange things for which I was wholly unable to account. Let us suppose, for instance, the existence of some subtile and hitherto unknown gas—unknown, at least, so far as our western scientists are concerned. Might it not be possible to project that toward the nostrils secretly, and so deaden the senses that the operator who desires to levitate himself—I have adopted your word, you see, Mr. De Yeber—will have time to pass out of sight?”
“Scarcely satisfactory,” I answered promptly. “I’ll swear that nothing of the kind was tried in this case.”
“Don’t be too sure.”
“Have you ever witnessed anything of the sort in India?”
“The transportation of inanimate matter without visible aid—no.”
“Then it is useless for you to theorize.”
“Perhaps so. Still, I repeat, such things have unquestionably been done.”
“Then why not in this case?”
“It is possible, but I must doubt it.”
“No more than I do,” I answered, “and yet what I saw, I saw.”
