The doctor raised his eyes to Godfrey's.

"What do you make of it?" he asked.

"A clue, certainly," said Godfrey; "but scarcely to the murderer."

The doctor looked at it again for a moment, and then nodded. "I'd better put it back where I found it, I guess," he said, and dropped it beside the chair.

And then, suddenly, I remembered Swain. I turned to find him still drooping forward in his chair, apparently half-asleep.

"Doctor," I said, "there is someone else here who is suffering from shock," and I motioned toward the limp figure. "Or perhaps it's something worse than that."

The doctor stepped quickly to the chair and looked down at its occupant. Then he put his hand under Swain's chin, raised his head and gazed intently into his eyes. Swain returned the gaze, but plainly in only a half-conscious way.

"It looks like a case of concussion," said the doctor, after a moment. "The left pupil is enlarged," and he ran his hand rapidly over the right side of Swain's head. "I thought so," he added. "There's a considerable swelling. We must get him to bed." Then he noticed the bandaged wrist. "What's the matter here?" he asked, touching it with his finger.

"He cut himself on a piece of glass," Godfrey explained. "You'd better take him over to my place, where he can be quiet."

"I've got my car outside," said the doctor, and together he and I raised Swain from the chair and led him to it.

He went docilely and without objection, and ten minutes later, was safely in bed, already dozing off under the influence of the opiate the doctor had given him. "He'll be all right in the morning," the latter assured me. "But he must have got quite a blow over the head."

"I don't know what happened to him," I answered. "You'll come back with me, won't you?"

"Yes; I may be useful," and he turned the car back the way we had come. "Besides," he added, frankly, "I'm curious to learn what happened in that house to-night."

He had certainly shown himself equal to emergencies, I reflected; and I liked his voice and his manner, which was cool and capable.

"My name is Lester," I said. "I'm a lawyer staying with Mr. Godfrey. We heard Miss Vaughan scream and ran over to the house, but we don't know any more than you do."

"My name is Hinman, and I'm just a country doctor," said my companion; "but if I can be of any help, I hope you'll call upon me. Hello!" he added, as we turned through the gate into the grounds of Elmhurst, and he threw on the brake sharply, for a uniformed figure had stepped out into the glare of our lamps and held up his hand.

The police had arrived.



CHAPTER IX

FIRST STEPS

We found a little group of men gathered about the chair in which sat the huddled body. Two of them I already knew. One was Detective-sergeant Simmonds, and the other Coroner Goldberger, both of whom I had met in previous cases. Simmonds was a stolid, unimaginative, but industrious and efficient officer, with whom Godfrey had long ago concluded an alliance offensive and defensive. In other words, Godfrey threw what glory he could to Simmonds, and Simmonds such stories as he could to Godfrey, and so the arrangement was to their mutual advantage.

Goldberger was a more astute man than the detective, in that he possessed a strain of Semitic imagination, a quick wit, and a fair degree of insight. He was in his glory in a case like this. This was shown now by his gleaming eyes and the trembling hand which pulled nervously at his short, black moustache. Goldberger's moustache was a good index to his mental state—the more ragged it grew, the more baffling he found the case in hand!

Both he and Simmonds glanced up at our entrance and nodded briefly. Then their eyes went back to that huddled figure.

There were three other men present whom I did not know, but I judged them to be the plain-clothes-men whom Simmonds had brought along at Godfrey's suggestion. They stood a little to one side until their superiors had completed the examination.

"I didn't stop to pick up my physician," Goldberger was saying. "But the cause of death is plain enough."

"Doctor Hinman here is a physician," I said, bringing him forward. "If he can be of any service...."

Goldberger glanced at him, and was plainly favorably impressed by Hinman's dark, eager face, and air of intelligence and self-control.

"I shall be very glad of Dr. Hinman's help," said Goldberger, shaking hands with him. "Have you examined the body, sir?"

"Only very casually," answered Hinman. "But it is evident that the cause of death was strangulation."

"How long has he been dead?"

Hinman lifted the stiff hand again and ran his fingers along the muscles of the arm.

"About four hours, I should say."

Goldberger glanced at his watch.

"That would put his death at a little before midnight. The murderer must have come in from the grounds, crept up behind his victim, thrown the cord about his neck and drawn it tight before his presence was suspected. The victim would hardly have remained seated in the chair if he had known his danger. After the cord was round his throat, he had no chance—he could not even cry out. There's one thing I don't understand, though," he added, after a moment. "Where did that blood come from?" and he pointed to the dark spots on the collar of the white robe.

Hinman looked up with a little exclamation.

"I forgot," he said. "Did you find the handkerchief? No, I see you didn't," and he pointed to where it lay on the floor. "I noticed it when I first looked at the body."

Without a word, Goldberger bent and picked up the blood-stained handkerchief. Then he and Simmonds examined it minutely. Finally the coroner looked at Godfrey, and his eyes were very bright.

"There can be only one inference," he said. "The dead man is not bleeding—the cord did not cut the flesh. The blood, then, must have come from the murderer. He must have been injured in some way—bleeding profusely. Look at this handkerchief—it is fairly soaked."

I am sure that, at that instant, the same thought was in Godfrey's mind which flashed through mine, for our eyes met, and there was a shadow in his which I knew my own reflected. Then I glanced at Hinman. He was looking at the handkerchief thoughtfully, his lips tightly closed. I could guess what he was thinking, but he said nothing.

Goldberger laid the handkerchief on the table, at last, and turned back to the body. He bent close above it, examining the blood spots, and when he stood erect again there was in his face a strange excitement.

"Lend me your glass, Simmonds," he said, and when Simmonds handed him a small pocket magnifying-glass, he unfolded it and bent above the stains again, scrutinising each in turn. At last he closed the glass with an emphatic little snap. "This case isn't going to be so difficult, after all," he said. "Those spots are finger-prints."

With an exclamation of astonishment, Simmonds took the glass and examined the stains; then he handed it to Godfrey, who finally passed it on to me. Looking through it, I saw that Goldberger was right. The stains had been made by human fingers. Most of them were mere smudges, but here and there was one on which faint lines could be dimly traced.

"They seem to be pretty vague," I remarked, passing the glass on to Hinman.

"They're plenty clear enough for our purpose," said Goldberger; "besides they will come out much clearer in photographs. It's lucky this stuff is so smooth and closely-woven," he added, fingering a corner of the robe, "or we wouldn't have got even those. It's as hard and fine as silk."

"How do you suppose those marks came there, Mr. Goldberger?" Godfrey asked, and there was in his tone a polite scepticism which evidently annoyed the coroner.

"Why, there's only one way they could come there," Goldberger answered impatiently. "They were put there by the murderer's fingers as he drew the cord tight. Do you see anything improbable in that?"

"Only that it seems too good to be true," Godfrey answered, quietly, and Goldberger, after looking at him a moment, turned away with a shrug of the shoulders.

"See if you can get the cord loose, Simmonds," he said.

The cord was in the form of a running noose, which had been knotted to hold it in place after being drawn tight. Although it had not cut the flesh of the neck, it had sunk deeply into it, and Simmonds worked at the knot for some moments without result. I suspect his fingers were not quite as steady as they might have been; but it was evidently an intricate knot.

"That's a new one on me," he said, at last. "I can't get it loose."

Godfrey bent close above it and looked at it.

"It is a peculiar knot," he agreed. "If you'll permit a suggestion, Mr. Goldberger, you'll cut the cord and leave the knot as it is. It may help us to find the man who made it."

"You're right," agreed Goldberger, promptly. "Cut the cord, Simmonds."

Simmonds got out his pocket-knife, opened it and slipped the blade under the cord, cut it, and pulled it out of the ridge of flesh. He looked at it a moment, and then handed it to Goldberger. The latter examined it carefully.

"It's stained with blood, too," he remarked, and passed it on to Godfrey.

"It looks like curtain-cord," Godfrey said, and made a little tour of the room. "Ah!" he added, after a moment, from the door opening into the grounds. "See here!"

He was holding up the end of the cord by which the curtains covering the upper part of the double doors were controlled.

"You were right, Mr. Coroner," he said, "in thinking that the murderer entered by this door, for he stopped here and cut off a piece of this cord before going on into the room."

"Then he must also have stopped to make it into a noose," remarked Goldberger. "If he did that, he was certainly a cool customer. It's a wonder his victim didn't hear the noise he made."

"Making a knot isn't a noisy operation," Godfrey pointed out; "besides, the back of the chair was toward the door. And then, of course, it's possible his victim did hear him."

"But then he would have jumped from the chair," objected Simmonds.

"Not necessarily. Suppose you were sitting there, and heard a noise, and looked around and saw me standing here, you wouldn't jump from the chair, would you?"

"No; I'd have no reason to jump from you."

"Perhaps Vaughan thought he had no reason to jump from the man he saw—if he saw anyone. I'm inclined to think, however, that he didn't suspect anyone else was in the room until he felt the cord about his throat."

"And, of course," said Goldberger, taking the cord again and looking at it, "it was while the murderer was making it into a noose with his blood-stained fingers that he stained it in that way. Don't you agree, Mr. Godfrey?"

"That is a possible explanation," Godfrey conceded.

"But why did he make this second knot?" inquired the coroner; "the knot which holds the noose tight and prevents it from slipping?"

"If he hadn't knotted it like that he would have had to stand there holding it until his victim was dead. As it was, he didn't have to wait."

I shivered a little at the thought of the scoundrel calmly tying the knot to secure his noose, and then leaving his victim to twitch his life out.

"It's no little trick to tie a knot like that," Godfrey added, thoughtfully. "I should like to study it."

"All right," agreed Goldberger; "you can have it whenever you want it," and he got a heavy manila envelope out of his pocket and placed the cord carefully inside. "Now we must get that robe off. We can't run any risk of having those finger-prints smeared."

It was a difficult job and a revolting one, for the body had stiffened into its huddled posture, but at last the robe was removed and the body itself lying at full length on its back on the couch. Seen thus, with the light full on it, the face was horrible, and Goldberger laid his handkerchief over the swollen and distorted features, while, at a sign from him, Simmonds pulled down the portiere from the inner door and placed it over the body. Then the coroner picked up the robe and held it out at arms' length.

"What kind of a freak dress is this, anyway?" he asked.

"It's a robe," said Godfrey. "Mr. Vaughan was a mystic."

"A what?"

"A mystic—a believer in Hinduism or some other Oriental religion."

"Did he dress this way all the time?"

"I believe so. It is probably the dress of his order."

Goldberger rolled the robe up carefully, and said nothing more; but I could see from his expression that he had ceased to wonder why Vaughan had come to a strange and violent end. Surely anything might happen to a mystic! Then he placed the blood-stained handkerchief in another envelope, and finally put his hand in his pocket and brought out half a dozen cigars.

"Now," he said, "let's sit down and rest awhile. Simmonds tells me it was you who called him, Mr. Godfrey. How did you happen to discover the crime?"

The question was asked carelessly, but I could feel the alert mind behind it. I knew that Godfrey felt it, too, from the way in which he told the story, for he told it carefully, and yet with an air of keeping nothing back.

Of the mysterious light he said nothing, but, starting with my finding of the letter and summoning Swain to receive it, told of the arrangements for the rendezvous, dwelling upon it lightly, as a love-affair which could have no connection with the tragedy. He passed on to his own arrival from the city, to Swain's return from the rendezvous, and finally to the screams which had reached us, and to the discovery we had made when we burst into the house.

"I summoned Dr. Hinman immediately," he added, "for Miss Vaughan seemed to be in a serious condition; then I called Simmonds, and suggested that he stop for you, Mr. Coroner, for I knew that the case would interest you. Dr. Hinman arrived perhaps half an hour ahead of you, and had Miss Vaughan put to bed at once. And I guess you know the rest," he concluded.

We had all listened intently. I was pretty sure that Simmonds would make no inferences which Godfrey wished to avoid; but I feared the more penetrating mind of the coroner. His first question proved that I was right to do so.

"Where is this man Swain?" he asked.

"He was suffering from the shock," said Godfrey, "and Lester and Dr. Hinman took him over to my place and put him to bed. That's where they were when you got here."

"He seemed to be suffering from a slight concussion," Hinman explained. "There was a swelling on one side of his head, as though some one had struck him, and the pupils of his eyes were unsymmetrical. He had also a cut on the wrist," he added, after an instant's hesitation.

"Ah!" commented Goldberger, with a glance at Godfrey. "Had it been bleeding?"

"He cut himself when crossing the wall," Godfrey explained; "a mere scratch, but I believe it did bleed a good deal."

"Ah!" said Goldberger again; and then he turned to the doctor. "Did I understand you to say that he went to sleep?"

"He certainly did. I gave him a good strong opiate to make sure of it."

"Do you think he'll sleep till morning?"

"He'll sleep nine or ten hours, at least."

"Then that's all right," said Goldberger, and settled back in his chair again. "But didn't anybody live in this house except that old man and his daughter? Aren't there any servants?"

"There must be some somewhere about," answered Godfrey, to whom the question was addressed; "but Lester and I looked through the lower floor and part of the upper one and didn't find any. There's a bell there by the door, but nobody answered when I rang. We didn't have time to go all over the house. We did find one thing, though," he added, as if by an afterthought.

"What was that?"

"There's an adept in one of the rooms upstairs."

Goldberger sat up and stared at him.

"An adept?" he repeated. "What's that?"

"An expert in mysticism. I judge that Vaughan was his pupil."

"Do you mean he's a Hindu?" asked the coroner, as though that would explain everything.

But Godfrey was having his revenge.

"I don't know whether he's a Hindu or not," he said, airily. "I didn't get a very good look at him."

"What was he doing?" Goldberger demanded.

"He was just sitting there."

Again Goldberger stared at him, this time suspiciously.

"But, good heavens, man!" he cried. "That was three or four hours ago! You don't suppose he's sitting there yet!"

"Yes," said Godfrey drily, "I think he is."

Goldberger's face flushed, and he sprang to his feet impatiently.

"Show me the room," he commanded.

"Glad to," said Godfrey laconically, and led the way out into the hall.

The whole crowd tailed along after him. As I rose to follow, I saw that the outside world was turning grey with the approaching dawn.

The nurse, hearing our footsteps on the stairs, looked out in alarm, and held up a warning finger. Godfrey paused for a word with her.

"How is she?" he asked.

"Sleeping quietly," said the nurse; "but please don't make any more noise than you can help."

"We won't," Godfrey promised, and crossed the hall to the door leading into the little entry. Then he paused and looked around at Goldberger. "Better go slow here," he cautioned. "The adept has a pet cobra."

"A snake?"

"The deadliest snake in the world."

Goldberger drew back a little, as did all the others.

"I don't think it will bite us, though," added Godfrey, cheerfully, "if we don't crowd it. It's sitting there, too," and he opened the outer door, passed through, and held back the curtain at the farther end.

I was just behind Goldberger and Simmonds, and I heard their gasp of amazement, as they saw what lay beyond.

The scene had not changed in the slightest detail. The crystal sphere still softly glowed, with intangible shadows flitting across its surface; the adept still sat cross-legged staring into its depths; opposite him, the cobra, its hood distended, swayed slowly to and fro.

But as we stood there staring, a single delicate ray of sunlight coming through a pin-hole in the curtained window, struck the sphere and seemed to extinguish it. The glow within it flickered and fluttered and finally vanished, and it hung there dull and grey. An instant later, the motionless figure raised its arms high in air, with a motion somehow familiar; then it got slowly to its feet, crossed to the window, drew back the curtain and flung wide the shutter.

The sun was just peeping over the trees to the east, and for a second its light blinded me. Then I saw the adept bowing low before it, his arms still extended. Once, twice, thrice he bowed, as before a deity, while we stood there staring. Then he turned slowly toward us.

"Enter, friends," he said calmly. "The peace of the Holy One be on you, and his love within your hearts!"



CHAPTER X

THE WHITE PRIEST OF SIVA

The adept was an impressive figure, as he stood there with the sun behind him, throwing a yellow nimbus around his head. The robe he wore was of a rich purple, and gave an added effect of height and dignity to a figure already tall. His hair was dark and crinkled like wind-swept water, his complexion dark, but with an under-blush of red in the cheeks. His lips were scarlet and his eyes coal-black and of an arresting brilliance. The whole effect he gave was of transcendent energy and magnetism, nor did he show the slightest fatigue from his long vigil.

His eyes swept our faces, as we stood crowded there in the doorway. He did not seem surprised. If there was any expression in his face except courteous inquiry, it was one of carefully suppressed amusement.

"Enter, friends," he repeated. "What is it you desire?"

His voice was rich and deep, and he spoke with a peculiar intonation, but without accent. It was something of a shock to hear the ordinary words of English speech coming from his lips, for they seemed formed to utter prophecies in unknown tongues.

Goldberger took one step into the room, and then stopped abruptly. Following his eyes, I saw that the cobra had also awakened from its trance, and was regarding us steadily and hissing slightly. The adept smiled as he saw us shrink back.

"Do not fear," he said. "Come, Toto," and stepping across the room, he lifted the cobra in one hand and held it a moment close to him, gently stroking the distended hood. The snake curled itself about his arm and seemed to cuddle to him, but it kept its eyes fixed on us. I could not but smile at the incongruity of its name. Toto was well enough for a French poodle, but for a cobra!

After a moment, the adept lifted the lid of a round basket which stood on the floor near the divan, dropped the snake gently into it, and fastened down the lid. Then he clapped his hands softly, and an instant later the curtains at the rear of the room parted and a strange figure appeared between them.

It was the figure of a man, not over five feet tall and very thin. He was almost as dark as a full-blooded negro, and the white burnoose which was thrown about his shoulders and covered him to just below the hips, made him look even darker. His legs were bare and seemed to be nothing but skin and bone. The flat-nosed face, with its full lips and prominent eyes, reminded me of an idol I had seen pictured somewhere.

The newcomer bowed low before the adept, and, at a sign from him, picked up Toto's basket and disappeared with it through the curtains. He had not even glanced in our direction. The adept turned back to us.

"Now, friends," he said, "will you not enter?"

Goldberger led the way into the room and stopped to look about it. The walls were hung with black velvet, so arranged that windows and doors could be covered also, and the room was absolutely devoid of furniture, save for a low, circular divan in the centre of which stood the crystal sphere, supported, as I saw now, by a slender pedestal.

"I have a few questions to ask you," began Goldberger at last, in a voice deferential despite himself.

"Proceed, sir," said the adept, courteously.

"Do you know that Mr. Vaughan is dead?"

The adept made a little deprecating gesture.

"Not dead," he protested. "A man does not die. His soul rejoins the Over-soul, that is all. Yes, I know that at midnight the soul of my pupil passed over."

"How did you learn that?" Goldberger demanded.

"I saw it in the sphere," replied the adept calmly.

"Where were you at the time?"

"I was gazing at the sphere."

"Do you mean," asked Goldberger incredulously, "that you sat for five hours and more staring at that thing?"

"My vigil began at sundown," said the adept, with a slight smile. "Last night was the White Night of Siva. It must be spent in meditation by all who follow him."

Goldberger worried his moustache with nervous fingers, as he stared at the adept, plainly at a loss how to proceed.

"Perhaps," ventured Godfrey, softly, "your crystal could give us some further information which we very much desire."

The adept turned his dark eyes on the speaker, and it seemed to me that they glittered more coldly, as though they recognised an adversary.

"What information, sir?" he asked.

"Information as to the manner of Mr. Vaughan's passing—can you tell us anything of that?"

The adept shook his head.

"I only saw the soul as it passed over. I knew, however, that it had been torn from the body by violence."

"How did you know that?" broke in Goldberger.

"Because of its colour," answered the adept; and then, when he saw our benumbed expressions, he explained. "Souls which pass in peace are white; souls which the body has driven forth by its own hands are black; souls which are torn from the body by an alien hand are red. My pupil's soul was red."

I could see that Goldberger did not know whether to snort with derision or to be impressed. He ended by smiling feebly. As for me, I admit I was impressed.

"When an alien hand, as you put it, is used," said the coroner, "we call it murder in this country, and the law tries to get hold of the alien and to send his soul after his victim's. That's what we are trying to do now. We are officers of the law."

The adept bowed.

"Any assistance I can give you," he said, softly, "I shall be glad to give; though to do murder, as you call it, is not always to do wrong."

"Our law doesn't make such nice distinctions," said Goldberger, drily. "May I ask your profession?"

"I am a White Priest of Siva," said the adept, touching his forehead lightly with the fingers of his left hand, as in reverence.

"Who is Siva?"

"The Holy One, the Over-soul, from whom we come and to whom we all return."

Again Goldberger worried his moustache.

"Well," he said, at last, "until the mystery is cleared up, I must ask you not to leave this house."

"I have no wish to leave it, sir."

"And the other fellow—the fellow who took away the snake—where was he last night?"

"He slept in a small room opening into this one."

"May I look into it?"

"Certainly," and the adept swept aside the curtains.

The room into which we looked was not more than ten feet square, and empty of furniture, except for a mat in the middle of the floor and three or four baskets set against the wall. On the mat was squatted the attendant, his legs crossed with feet uppermost, and his hands held palm to palm before him. On the floor in front of him were what looked to me like a strip of cloth, a bone and a tooth. He did not raise his eyes at our entrance, but sat calmly contemplating these relics.

Goldberger's moustache lost a few more hairs as he stood staring down at this strange figure.

"What are those things? His grandmother's remains?" he asked, at last.

"Those are the attributes of Kali," said the adept gravely, as one rebuking blasphemy.

"Very interesting, no doubt," commented the coroner drily. "Would it disturb the gentleman too much to ask him a few questions?"

"He speaks no English, but I shall be glad to translate for you."

The coroner thought this over for a moment, and then shook his head.

"No," he said; "I'll wait for the court interpreter. You might tell him, though, that there will be officers of the law on duty below, and that he is not to leave the house."

"I will caution him," answered the adept, and let the curtain fall, as we passed out.

"I suppose there are some other servants somewhere about the place?" asked Goldberger.

"There are three—they sleep on the floor above."

"Are they Hindus, too?"

"Oh, no," and the adept smiled. "Two of them are German and the other is Irish."

The coroner reddened a little, for the words somehow conveyed a subtle rebuke.

"That is all for to-day," he said; "unless Mr. Simmonds has some questions?" and he looked at his companion.

But Simmonds, to whom all these inquiries had plainly been successive steps into the darkness, shook his head.

"Then we will bid you good-morning," added Goldberger, still a little on his dignity. "And many thanks for your courtesy."

The adept responded with a low bow and with a smile decidedly ironical. I, at least, felt that we had got the worst of the encounter.

Goldberger, without a word, led the way up the stair that mounted to the attic story, and there soon succeeded in routing out the three servants. The Germans proved to be a man and wife, well past middle age, the former the gardener and the latter the cook. Erin was represented by a red-haired girl who was the housemaid. All of them were horrified when told their master had been murdered, but none of them could shed any light on the tragedy. They had all been in bed long before midnight, and had not been disturbed by any of the noises of the night.

This could be the more readily understood when, as a little investigation showed, we found that they had all slept with doors locked and windows closed and shuttered. Any sounds from the house would really have to penetrate two doors to reach them, for their rooms were at the end of an entry, closed by an outer door. As to the windows, it was the rule of the house that they should always be closed and tightly shuttered during the night. They knew of no especial reason for the rule, though the Irish girl remarked that, with heathen in the house and lunatics, there was no telling how the nights were spent.

They were all evidently innocent of any connection with the tragedy; but Goldberger, for some ridiculous reason, brought them downstairs with him and made them look at their master's body. This had no result except to send the Irish girl into hysterics, and Hinman for a few minutes had another patient on his hands.

"Well," said Goldberger, passing his hand wearily across his forehead, "I guess there's nothing more to be done. And I'm dead tired. I had just got to bed when Simmonds called me. I'll set the inquest for ten o'clock to-morrow morning, and I'll hold it here in this room. We'll want you here, Mr. Godfrey, and you, Mr. Lester. And—oh, yes," he added suddenly, "we'll want that Mr. Swain, whose story I haven't heard yet. No doubt of his appearing is there?"

"Absolutely none," I assured him.

"I could put him under guard, of course," said Goldberger, pensively, "for I'm sure he'll prove to be a very important witness; but if you will be personally responsible for him, Mr. Lester...."

"I will," I agreed, and Goldberger nodded.

"Have him here at ten o'clock, then," he said.

"Dr. Hinman would better see him again to-day," I suggested.

"I'll call about four o'clock this afternoon," the doctor promised; and, leaving Goldberger to complete his arrangements and Simmonds to post his men, Godfrey and I stepped out upon the lawn.

It was after five o'clock and the sun was already high. It scarcely seemed possible that, only six hours before, Swain had crossed the wall for the first time!

"We'd better go out as we came," Godfrey said, and turned across the lawn. He walked with head down and face puckered with thought.

"Can you make anything of it?" I asked, but he only shook his head.

We soon reached the ladder, and Godfrey paused to look about him. The shrubbery was broken in one place, as though some heavy body had fallen on it, and this was evidently the mark of Swain's wild jump from the wall.

At last, Godfrey motioned me to precede him, and, when I was over, reached one ladder down to me and descended to my side. We replaced the ladders against the shed, and then walked on toward the house. As we turned the corner, we found Mrs. Hargis standing on the front porch.

"Well, you are out early!" she said.

"Yes," laughed Godfrey; "fact is, we haven't been to bed yet. Will you have something to eat, Lester, before you turn in?"

A glass of milk was all I wanted; and five minutes later I mounted to my room. I glanced in for a moment at Swain, who seemed to be sleeping peacefully; and then darkened my room as well as I could and tumbled into bed. I must have dropped asleep the moment my head touched the pillow, for I remember nothing more until I opened my eyes to find Godfrey standing over me.



CHAPTER XI

SWAIN'S STORY

"I hate to wake you, Lester," Godfrey said, smiling, "but it's nearly four o'clock. Dr. Hinman will be here before long, and if you're going to hear Swain's story, you'll have to be getting up."

I sat up in bed at once, all trace of sleepiness vanished.

"How is he?" I asked.

"He seems to be all right. He's been up for some time. I haven't said anything to him about last night—I wanted the doctor to see him first; besides, I thought you ought to be present."

"I'll be down right away," I said, and twenty minutes later, I found Godfrey and Swain sitting together on the front porch. As Swain returned my greeting, I was relieved to see that his eyes were no longer fixed and staring, but seemed quite normal.

"Mrs. Hargis has your breakfast ready," said Godfrey, "and I think I'll join you. Will you come, Mr. Swain?"

"No, thank you," Swain replied. "I had my breakfast only about an hour ago. I'll just sit here, if you don't mind."

"All right," said Godfrey, "we won't be long," and together we went back to the dining-room.

Mrs. Hargis was there, and greeted us as though stopping out till dawn and breakfasting at four o'clock in the afternoon were the most ordinary things in the world. A copy of the Record was lying, as usual, on the table, and a black headline caught my eye:

WORTHINGTON VAUGHAN MURDERED

* * * * *

RICH RECLUSE STRANGLED TO DEATH AT HIS HOME IN THE BRONX

* * * * *

I glanced at Godfrey in surprise.

"Yes," he said, reddening a little, "I was just in time to 'phone the story in for the last edition. I called the doctor first, though, Lester—you must give me credit for that! And it was a beautiful scoop!"

"What time did you get up?" I asked.

"About noon. I sent down the full story for to-morrow morning's paper just before I called you."

"Any developments?"

"None that I know of. Of course, I haven't heard Swain's story yet."

"Godfrey," I said, "it seems to me that this thing is going to look bad for Swain—I think Goldberger suspects him already. A good deal depends upon his story."

"Yes, it does," Godfrey agreed.

We finished the meal in silence. It was not a long one, for I, at least, was anxious to get back to Swain. As we rejoined him on the porch, Dr. Hinman's car came up the drive. He got out and shook hands with us. As he greeted Swain, I saw him glance anxiously into his eyes—and saw also that the glance reassured him.

"You're feeling better to-day," he said, sitting down by Swain's side.

"Yes," said Swain quietly, "I'm feeling all right again."

"How is Miss Vaughan, doctor?" I asked.

Swain jerked round toward the doctor.

"Is Miss Vaughan ill?" he demanded.

"She had a shock last night," answered the doctor, slowly; "but she's getting along nicely. She'll have to be kept quiet for a few days."

I was looking at Swain curiously. He was rubbing his head perplexedly, as though trying to bring some confused memory to the surface of his mind.

"I seem to remember," he said, "that Miss Vaughan fainted, and that I picked her up." Then he stopped and stared at us. "Is her father dead?"

"Yes," I said, and he fell to rubbing his head again.

I glanced at Hinman, and he nodded slightly. I took it for assurance that Swain might be questioned. Godfrey, who had gone indoors to get some cigars, came back with a handful. All of us, including Swain, lighted up.

"Now, Swain," I began, "I want you to tell us all that you remember of last night's happenings. Both Mr. Godfrey and Dr. Hinman are in my confidence and you may speak freely before them. I want them to hear your story, because I want their advice."

There was a pucker of perplexity on Swain's face.

"I've been trying, ever since I woke up this morning, to straighten out my remembrance of last night," he began, slowly; "but I haven't succeeded very well. At least, everything seems to stop right in the middle."

"Go ahead," I said, "and tell us what you do remember. Maybe it will grow clearer as you recall it, or maybe we can fill in the gaps. Begin at the moment you went over the wall. We know everything that happened up to that time. You remember that clearly, don't you?"

"Oh, yes," said Swain. "I remember all that," and he settled back in his chair. "Well, after I went down the ladder, I found myself in a clump of shrubbery, and beyond that was a path. I knew that the arbour where I was to meet Miss Vaughan was in the corner of the grounds at the back next to Mr. Godfrey's place, so I turned back along the wall, leaving the path, which curved away from it. It was very dark under the trees, and I had to go slowly for fear of running into one of them. But I finally found the arbour. I struck a match to assure myself that it was empty, and then sat down to wait. Once or twice I fancied I heard some one moving outside, but it was only the wind among the trees, I guess, for it was fully half an hour before Miss Vaughan came."

I could see how his hand was trembling on the arm of his chair, and he paused a moment to collect himself.

"What Miss Vaughan told me," he went on, at last, and I saw that of the details of the meeting he did not intend to speak, "convinced me that her father was quite mad—much worse than I had suspected. I knew, of course, that he was a student of the supernatural, but since the coming of this yogi...."

"This what?" Hinman interrupted.

"A yogi," Swain answered, turning toward him, "is, as nearly as I can make out, a sort of high priest of Hinduism. He knows all its secrets, and is supposed to be able to do all sorts of supernatural things. This fellow who lived with Mr. Vaughan is a yogi. Mr. Vaughan was his disciple."

"Where did the yogi come from?" Godfrey asked.

"I don't know. I don't think Miss Vaughan knows. He arrived, with his attendant, about six months ago; and since then things have gone from bad to worse. There has been crystal-gazing and star-worship and necromancy of all sorts. I confess I didn't understand very much of it," he added. "It was all so wild and weird; but it ended not only in Mr. Vaughan's becoming a convert to whatever religion it is the yogi practises, but in a determination that his daughter should become a priestess of the cult. It was from that she wished me to help her to escape."

He stopped and again rubbed his head slowly.

"As I tell it," he went on, at last, "it sounds absurd and unbelievable; but as she told it, there in the darkness, with those strange rustlings round us, it sent the chills up and down my spine. Perhaps those Orientals do know more about the supernatural than we give them credit for; at any rate, I know that Miss Vaughan had been impressed with the yogi's power. It fascinated and at the same time horrified her. She said he had a hideous snake, a cobra, which he petted as she would pet a kitten...."

His voice broke off again, and he wiped the perspiration from his forehead. I myself felt decidedly nervous. Godfrey threw away his cigar, which had broken in his fingers.

"At any rate," Swain went on, "I was so upset by what she told me that I could think of nothing to do except to beg her to come away with me at once. I remembered my promise to you, Mr. Lester, but I was sure you would approve. I told her about you—that it was into your hands the letter had fallen. She said she had seen you looking at her from a tree and had known at a glance that she could trust you. You didn't tell me you were in a tree," he added.

"Yes," I said, awkwardly. "I was just taking a little look over the landscape. Rather foolish of me, wasn't it?"

"Well, it was mighty fortunate, anyway. She had written the letter, but she had no idea how she was going to get it to me."

"You mean she couldn't go out when she wanted to?" demanded Godfrey.

"I gathered from what she told me," said Swain, his face flushing with anger, "that she has been practically a prisoner ever since the yogi arrived. Besides, even if she had succeeded in mailing the letter, it wouldn't have reached me until too late."

"In what way too late?"

"Her father seems to have had a sudden turn for the worse yesterday; he became almost violent in insisting that she consent to his plan. He told her that the life of his own soul as well as of hers depended upon it. He threatened—I don't know what. The yogi talked to her afterwards. He, of course, believed, or pretended to believe, as her father did; moreover, he told her that her father would certainly suffer a serious mental shock if she refused, perhaps a fatal one. In despair, she finally agreed, on the condition that she be given three days in which to prepare herself. If she did not hear from me in that time, she had made up her mind to consent."

Swain stopped again, and I lay back in my chair, wondering if such things were possible in this twentieth century, here within the boundaries of Greater New York! My brain reeled at the absurdity of it!

"Vaughan was undoubtedly suffering from mania," said Dr. Hinman, in a low voice. "The symptoms, as Mr. Swain describes them, are unmistakable."

"It was that argument I used," said Swain. "I told her that, since he was clearly mad, she must, in self-defence, place herself beyond his reach. But she refused to leave him. Then, I argued, in kindness to him she must have him committed to some institution where he would be taken care of, and where he might, in time, regain his sanity. I told her that it would be criminal folly to permit him to remain longer under the influence of the yogi. She had to agree with me; and she finally consented to sign an affidavit to the facts as I have told them, and a petition asking that a commission be appointed to examine her father. You were to have drawn up the papers to-day, Mr. Lester, and I was to have taken them to her for signature to-night."

"That would have settled the matter," said Godfrey, thoughtfully. "It's too bad it wasn't settled in that way. What else happened, Mr. Swain?"

"Miss Vaughan had grown very nervous, with all this discussion, and at last she sprang to her feet and said she must go, or her father would discover her absence. We rose to leave the arbour, and at that instant, a white-robed figure sprang to her side, seized her and tore her away from me. I was too startled for an instant to resist; then, as I started toward them, Marjorie pushed me back.

"'Go! Go!' she cried. 'It is my father!'

"But he stopped me. In a voice shaking and husky with rage, he warned me that if I entered the place again, my life would be forfeit. I can't repeat the horrible things he said. I could see his eyes gleaming like a wild beast's. He cursed me. I had never been cursed before," and Swain smiled thinly, "and I confess it wasn't pleasant. Then he led his daughter away.

"I stood staring after them. I didn't know what to do. I felt like a madman myself. I sat down and tried to collect my thoughts. I saw that some new plan must be made—that there was no hope of meeting Marjorie again. I was sick with fear for her; I thought of following to the house and compelling her to come with me at once. And then, suddenly, I saw two eyes gleaming at me. They were not human eyes—they were too close together—and they were swaying gently back and forth in the air, about a foot from the ground. I gazed at them, fascinated, and then I heard a soft, low whistle, followed by a faint hissing, as the eyes fell forward.

"In a flash, I knew what it was—the cobra; I knew why it was there—Vaughan had said my life was forfeit. I sprang up with a shriek, dashed along the seat to the door and out into the darkness. I struck my head against something—a tree, I suppose; but I kept on, and reached the wall and got over it somehow—it is all confused, after that. I seem to remember hearing Marjorie scream, and finding her lying beside her father, who was dead—but I can't put things together," and he rubbed his head helplessly.

"I'll put them together for you," said Godfrey. "When you ran into the tree, you suffered a partial concussion. It's lucky it wasn't total, or Toto would have got you!"

"Toto?"

"That, I believe, is the cobra's name," explained Godfrey, with a smile; "unless, of course, there are two of them." And he told Swain in detail of the events which had followed.

Swain listened with staring eyes. I did not blame him. Indeed, I felt that my own eyes were staring a little, though I already knew the story. But Godfrey, with a gift of narration born of long newspaper experience, told it in a way that made its horror salient and left one gasping.

"There is one question I want to ask you, Swain," he said, in conclusion, "and I want you to think carefully before you answer it. During your altercation with Mr. Vaughan, did you at any time touch him?"

"Touch him? No, of course not," and Swain shook his head decidedly.

"You are sure of that?" asked Godfrey earnestly.

"Perfectly sure," said Swain, looking at him in astonishment. "I was never within three feet of him."

Godfrey sprang to his feet with a gesture of relief.

"I seem to need a cocktail," he said, in another tone. "Isn't that the prescription for all of us, doctor?"

"Yes," assented Hinman, smiling, "and, after that, complete change of subject!"



CHAPTER XII

GUESSES AT THE RIDDLE

We tried to follow Dr. Hinman's prescription, but not with any great success, for it is difficult to talk about one thing and think about another. So the doctor took himself off, before long, and Swain announced that he himself would have to return to the city. He had come out without so much as a tooth-brush, he pointed out; his trousers were in a lamentable condition, and, while Godfrey's coat was welcome, it was far from a perfect fit.

"Which reminds me," he added, "that I don't know what has become of my own coat and shirt."

I looked at Godfrey quickly.

"No, I forgot them," he said. "They're over in the library at Elmhurst," he added to Swain. "You can get them to-morrow."

"I shall have to be there to-morrow, then?"

"Yes, at the inquest; I've promised to produce you there," I said.

"At what time?"

"You'd better be there by ten."

"Very well; that's all the more reason for getting back to my base of supplies. If I went on the stand looking like this, the jury would probably think I was the murderer!" he added, laughing.

My answering smile was decidedly thin. Godfrey did not even try to force one.

"Wait a few minutes," he suggested, "and I'll take you down in my car. I'll try to get back early, Lester," he added, apologetically. "I'm far from an ideal host—but you'll find some books on my desk that may interest you—I got them up to-day. Take a look at them after dinner."

He went back to bring out his car, and Swain sat down again beside me.

"Mr. Lester," he said, in a low voice, "I hope you haven't forgotten your promise."

"What promise?"

"To put Miss Vaughan in a safe place and to look after her interests."

"No," I said, "I haven't forgotten. I am going to ask to see her after the inquest to-morrow. If she wishes us to represent her, we will."

"And to protect her," he added, quickly. "She hasn't even a mad father now!"

"She's safe enough for the present," I pointed out. "Dr. Hinman has employed another nurse, so that one is with her all the time."

"I won't be satisfied," said Swain, "till you get her out of that house and away from those damned Hindus. One nurse, or even two, wouldn't stop them."

"Stop them from what?"

"I don't know," and he twisted his fingers helplessly.

"Well, the police will stop them. There are three or four men on duty there, with orders to let no one in or out."

His face brightened.

"Ah, that's better," he said. "I didn't know that. How long will they be there?"

"Till after the inquest, anyway."

"And you will see Miss Vaughan after the inquest?"

"Yes."

"And urge her to go to Mr. and Mrs. Royce?"

"Yes—but I don't think she'll need much urging. I'll get a note from Mrs. Royce. I'll telephone to Mr. Royce now, and you can stop and get the note as you come up in the morning."

Godfrey's car glided up the drive and stopped at the porch. Swain held out his hand and clasped mine warmly.

"Thank you, Mr. Lester," he said; and a moment later the car turned into the highway and passed from sight.

Then I went in, got Mr. Royce on the 'phone, and give him a brief outline of the incidents of the night before. He listened with an exclamation of astonishment from time to time, and assented heartily when I suggested that Miss Vaughan might be placed in Mrs. Royce's care temporarily.

"She's a beautiful girl," I concluded, "and very young. I agree with Swain that she mustn't be left alone in that house."

"Certainly she mustn't," said my partner. "I'll have Mrs. Royce write the note, and get a room ready for her."

"Of course," I said, "it's possible she won't come—though I believe she'll be glad to. Or there may be a family lawyer who will want to look after her. Only she didn't appear to know of any when she was talking to Swain."

"Well, bring her along if you can," said Mr. Royce. "We'll be glad to have her. And take your time about coming back, if you're needed up there. We're getting along all right."

I thanked him, and hung up; and presently Mrs. Hargis came to summon me to dinner. That meal over, I went in to Godfrey's desk to see what the books were he had suggested that I look at. There was quite a pile of them, and I saw that they all related to mysticism or to the religions of India. There was Sir Monier Williams's "Brahmanism and Hinduism," Hopkins's "The Religions of India," a work on crystallomancy, Mr. Lloyd Tuckey's standard work on "Hypnotism and Suggestion," and some half dozen others whose titles I have forgotten. And as I looked at them, I began to understand one reason for Godfrey's success as a solver of mysteries—no detail of a subject ever escaped him.

I lit my pipe, sat down, and was soon deep in the lore of the East. I must confess that I did not make much of it. In that maze of superstition, the most I could do was to pick up a thread here and there. The yogi had referred to the White Night of Siva, and I soon found out that Siva is one of the gods of Hinduism—one of a great trilogy: Brahma the creator, Vishnu the preserver, and Siva the destroyer. He had also spoken of the attributes of Kali, and, after a little further search, I discovered that Kali was Siva's wife—a most unprepossessing and fiendish female.

But when I passed on to Hinduism itself, and tried to understand its tenets and its sects, I soon found myself out of my depth. They were so jumbled, so multitudinous, and so diverse that I could get no clear idea of them. I read of the Vedas, the Upanishads, the Brahmanas; of metaphysical abstractions too tenuous to grasp; of karna or action, of maya or illusion, and I know not what "tangled jumble of ghosts and demons, demi-gods, and deified saints, household gods, village gods, tribal gods, universal gods, with their countless shrines and temples and din of discordant rites." At last, in despair, I gave it up, and turned to the book on crystallomancy.

Here, at least, was something comprehensible, if not altogether believable, and I read with interest of the antiquity of crystal-gazing as a means of inducing hallucination for the purpose of seeking information not to be gained by any normal means. I read of its use in China, in Assyria, in Egypt, in Arabia, in India, in Greece and Rome; of how its practitioners in the Middle Ages were looked upon as heretics and burnt at the stake or broken on the wheel; of the famous Dr. Dee, and so down to the present time. The scryers or seers sometimes used mirrors, sometimes vessels filled with water, but usually a polished stone, and beryl was especially esteemed.

The effect of gazing at these intently for a time was to abstract the mind from normal sensory impressions, and to induce a state of partial hypnosis during which the scryer claimed he could perceive in the crystal dream-pictures of great vividness, scenes at a distance, occurrences of the past, and of the future.

I was still deep in this, when I heard a step outside, the door opened, and Godfrey came in. He smiled when he saw what I was doing.

"How have you been getting along?" he asked.

"Not very well," and I threw the book back on the table. "The crystal-gazing isn't so bad—one can understand that; but the jumble of abstractions which the Hindus call religion is too much for me. I didn't know it was so late," I added, and looked at my watch; but it was not yet eleven o'clock.

"I'm earlier than usual," said Godfrey. "I cut loose as soon as I could, because I thought we'd better talk things over. I saw Simmonds in town to-night."

"Ah," I said; "and what did he tell you?"

"Nothing I didn't know already. The police have discovered nothing new—or, if they have, they're keeping it dark until to-morrow. Simmonds did, however, regale me with his theory of the case. He says the murder was done either by one of the Hindus or by young Swain."

"What do you think?" I asked.

"I'm inclined to agree with Simmonds," said Godfrey, grimly. "With the emphasis on the Hindus," he added, seeing the look on my face, "I don't believe Swain had any hand in it."

"Neither do I," I agreed, heartily. "In fact, such a theory is too absurd to discuss."

"Just the same," said Godfrey, slowly, "I'm glad he didn't touch Vaughan. If he had happened to seize him by the neck, while they were struggling together,—in other words, if those finger-prints Goldberger found had happened to be Swain's—things would have looked bad for him. I'm hoping they'll turn out to belong to one of the Hindus—but, as I said to Goldberger, I'm afraid that's too good to be true."

"Which one of the Hindus?" I asked.

"Oh, the Thug, of course."

I sat bolt upright.

"The Thug?" I echoed.

"Didn't you get that far?" and Godfrey picked up one of the books and ran rapidly through the pages. "You remember we found him squatting on the floor with a rag and a tooth and a bone in front of him?"

"Yes."

"And do you remember how the yogi described them, when Goldberger asked him about them?"

"Very distinctly—he called them the attributes of Kali."

"Now listen to this: 'The Thugs are a religious fraternity, committing murders in honor of Kali, the wife of Siva, who, they believe, assists them and protects them. Legend asserts that she presented her worshippers with three things, the hem of her lower garment to use as a noose, a rib to use as a knife, and a tooth to use as a pick-axe in burying the victims.'" He glanced at me, and then went on: "'But the knife was little used, for the religious character of an assassination came to depend more and more upon its bloodless character, and for this a noose was used, with which the victim was strangled. The aversion to bloodshed became in time so great that many sects of Thuggee consider it defiling to touch human blood!'" He closed the book and threw it on the table. "Don't you think that proves the case?"

"Yes," I said, thoughtfully. "And the yogi—is he also a Thug?"

"Oh, no; a White Priest of Siva could never be a Thug. The worship of Siva and of Kali are the very opposites of each other. The Saivas are ascetics. That is," he added, in another tone, "if the fellow is really a Saiva and not just a plain fraud."

"All these fellows are frauds, more or less, aren't they?" I questioned.

"No," was Godfrey's unexpected answer; "the real yogin are no doubt sincere; but a real yogi wouldn't waste his time on a soft-brained old man, and fire sky-rockets off at midnight to impress him. My own opinion is that this fellow is a fakir—a juggler, a sleight-of-hand man—and, of course, a crook."

"Well?" I asked, as Godfrey stopped and failed to continue.

"Well, that's as far as I've got. Oh, yes—there's Toto. A cobra is one of a fakir's stock properties."

"But, Godfrey," I protested, "he is no ignorant roadside juggler. He's a cultivated man—an unusual man."

"Certainly he is—most unusual. But that doesn't disprove my guess; it only makes the problem harder. Even a roadside juggler doesn't do his tricks for nothing—what reward is it this fellow's working for? It must be a big one, or it wouldn't tempt him."

"I suppose Vaughan paid him well," I ventured.

"Yes; but did you look at him, Lester? You've called him unusual, but that word doesn't begin to express him. He's extraordinary. No doubt Vaughan did pay him well, but it would take something more than that to persuade such a man to spend six months in a place like that. And I think I can guess at the stake he's playing for."

"You mean Miss Vaughan?"

"Just that," and Godfrey leaned back in his chair.

I contemplated this theory for some moments in silence. It was, at least, a theory and an interesting one—but it rested on air. There was no sort of foundation for it that I could see, and at last I said so.

"I know it's pretty thin," Godfrey admitted, "but it's the best I've been able to do—there's so little to build a theory out of. But I'm going to see if I can't prove one part of it true to-night."

"Which part?"

"About his being a fakir. Here's my theory: that hocus-pocus on the roof at midnight was for the purpose of impressing Vaughan. No doubt he believed it a real spiritual manifestation, whereas it was only a clever bit of jugglery. Now that Vaughan is dead, that particular bit of jugglery will cease until there is some new victim to impress. In fact, it has ceased already. There was no star last night."

"But you know why," I pointed out. "The yogi spent the night in contemplation. We can bear witness to that."

"We can't bear witness to when he started in," said Godfrey, drily. "We didn't see him till after half-past twelve. However, accepting his explanation, there would be no reason for omitting the phenomenon to-night, if it's a genuine one."

"No," I agreed.

"And if it is omitted," Godfrey went on, "it will be pretty conclusive evidence that it isn't genuine. Although," he went on hurriedly, "I don't need any proof of that—anything else would be unbelievable." He glanced at his watch. "It's ten minutes to twelve," he said. "Come along."

I followed him out of the house and through the grove with very mixed sensations. If the star didn't fall, it would tend to prove that it was, as Godfrey had said, merely a fake arranged to impress a credulous old man; but suppose it did fall! That was a part of the test concerning which Godfrey had said nothing. Suppose it did fall! What then?

So it was in silence that I followed Godfrey up the ladder and took my place on the limb. But Godfrey seemed to have no uneasiness.

"We won't have long to wait," he said. "We'll wait till five minutes after twelve, just to make sure. It must be twelve now. I wish I could persuade that fellow to show me how the fake was worked, for it was certainly a good one—one of the best...."

He stopped abruptly, staring out into the darkness. I was staring, too, for there, against the sky, a light began to glow and brighten. It hung for a moment motionless, and then began slowly to descend, steadily, deliberately, as of set purpose. Lower and lower it sank, in a straight line, hovered for an instant, and burst into a million sparks.

In the flare of light, a white-robed figure stood, gazing upwards, its arms strained toward the sky.

As we went silently down the ladder, a moment later, it seemed to me that I could hear Godfrey's theory crashing about his ears.



CHAPTER XIII

FRANCISCO SILVA

It was not quite ten o'clock when Godfrey and I turned in at the gates of Elmhurst, next morning, and made our way up the drive to the house, but in the library we found a considerable company already assembled. Goldberger was there, with Freylinghuisen his physician, his clerk, his stenographer, and the men who were to constitute the jury; Simmonds was there, and with him was an alert little man in glasses, who, Godfrey told me in an aside, was Sylvester, the head of the Identification Bureau, and the greatest expert on finger-prints in America. The district attorney had sent up an assistant, also with a stenographer, and altogether the room was decidedly crowded.

It became impossible a moment later, when a string of automobiles puffed up the drive and disgorged a mob of reporters and photographers. As many as the room would hold pushed into it, and the others stood outside in the drive and complained loudly. The complaints of the photographers were especially varied and forceful. Goldberger looked around him in despair, mopping his face angrily, for the crowded room was very hot.

"You fellows will have to get out of here," he said to the reporters. "There's no room. I'll give you a transcript of the proceedings after they're over."

The protests redoubled. How were they to get any human interest out of a transcript? Besides, there were the photographers. What did he expect them to do—photograph the transcript? And finally, the law required that the hearing be public, so they had a right to be present. It was a tense moment, the more so since Goldberger was by no means insensible of the value of newspaper popularity to a man in public life.

"Why not go out on the lawn?" Godfrey suggested. "It's only a question of moving some chairs and tables, and the boys will all lend a hand."

The boys applauded, almost forgiving Godfrey his scoop, protested their entire willingness to lend two hands if necessary, and, when Goldberger nodded his approval, fell to work with a will. The lower floor of the house was denuded, the garden seats pressed into service, and at the end of five minutes, the court was established amid the circle of trees, the reporters had their coats off and their pipes lighted, the photographers ditto and their cameras placed. Good humour was restored; peace reigned; and Goldberger smiled again, for he knew that the adjectives with which the reporters would qualify his name would be complimentary ones!

He took his place, rapped for order, and instructed his clerk to swear the jury. Nobody paid much attention to the jury, for it was a recognised device for paying small political debts, and its verdict was usually in strict accord with the wishes of the presiding officer. Then Goldberger looked at the vacant chair which I had kept beside me.

"By the way, Mr. Lester," he said, "I don't see Mr. Swain."

"He had to go back to the city last night," I explained, "to get some fresh clothes. He had an errand or two to do this morning, and may have been detained. I left word at the house for him to come over here at once."

"You seem to have a good deal of confidence in him," Goldberger remarked.

"I have," I answered quietly. "A great deal."

Goldberger frowned a little, but proceeded to open the case without further delay. Godfrey was the first witness, and told his story much as he had told it the night before. I followed him, but contributed no new details. Both of us were excused without cross-examination.

To my great satisfaction, Swain arrived while I was testifying, and I could not deny myself a triumphant glance at Goldberger, but he was studying some memoranda and affected not to notice it. As soon as I left the stand, Swain came and sat down beside me and gave me a letter. It was addressed to Miss Vaughan.

"It's from Mrs. Royce," he said. "She's a trump! She's determined that Marjorie shall come to her. She says if you don't bring her, she'll come after her herself. Do you know how she is this morning?"

"No," I said; "I haven't seen Hinman. But how are you?"

"Oh, I'm all right again—head a little sore yet where I bumped it—but otherwise as fit as a fiddle."

"You look it!" I said; and I was glad, because I wanted him to make a good impression on the stand. I knew what weight appearances often had; and no jury, I told myself, would believe that this bright-eyed, fresh-coloured boy could have had any hand in a brutal murder.

Just then Hinman's name was called, and an officer hurried away to the house after him. They returned together almost at once, and Hinman was placed on the stand. He told of being summoned by Godfrey, and of the events which followed. He said that the murder had been committed about midnight, that death had been due to strangulation; and identified the cord and the blood-stained handkerchief which the coroner submitted to him. I fancied that Swain lost a little of his colour when he saw the handkerchief and learned where it had been found, but he made no remark.

"Will Miss Vaughan be able to testify?" Goldberger inquired, just before the doctor stepped down.

"Unless it is absolutely necessary, I think she would better be excused," Hinman answered. "She is still very nervous. The ordeal might cause a serious collapse."

"We will try to get along without her," assented Goldberger. "If necessary, I can take her deposition. Is she in bed?"

"Yes; I am keeping her as quiet as possible."

"Very well; we won't disturb her," said Goldberger, and Hinman was excused, and Freylinghuisen called. He merely testified to the cause of death and that the autopsy had shown that the deceased was in fair health and without organic disease.

Then the servants were called, but their evidence was unimportant. They had gone to bed about ten o'clock, and had not awakened until the coroner himself had pounded at the door. They had heard no unusual sound. Yes, they had slept with their doors locked and windows shuttered because that was the rule of the house. Yes, even in the hottest weather; that made no difference, since each of their rooms was fitted with a ventilator.

Questioned as to the manner of life of the other inmates of the house, the German and his wife were non-committal. They had been with the family a long time; had taken care of the place when their master was abroad; only after his return had it been necessary to get another servant. He had been at home for a year, and the Hindus had arrived about six months later. Yes, they knew their master was studying some strange religion, but that was no affair of theirs, and they had never seen anything wrong. He had always treated them well; was a little strange and absent-minded at times; but neither of them really saw much of him. He never interfered in the household affairs, Miss Vaughan giving such instructions as were necessary. The man spent most of his time in the grounds, and the woman in the kitchen. She was a little petulant over the fact that one of the Hindus—the "ugly one"—refused to eat her cooking, but insisted on preparing his own food. Also, the housemaid had told her that there was a snake, but she had never seen it.

From the Irish housemaid a little more information was obtained. Neither Mr. Vaughan nor the yogi ate any breakfast; indeed, they rarely left their rooms before noon. The other Hindu mixed himself up some sort of mess over the kitchen stove. Miss Vaughan breakfasted alone at nine o'clock. At such times, she was accustomed to talk over household affairs with the maid, and after breakfast would visit the kitchen and make a tour of the grounds and garden. The remainder of her day would be spent in reading, in playing the piano, in doing little household tasks, or in walking about the grounds with her father. Yes, sometimes the yogi would join them, and there would be long discussions. After dinner, in the library, there would also be long discussions, but the girl had no idea what they were about. She heard a fragment of them occasionally, but had never been able to make anything of them. In fact, from the way they dressed and all, she had come to the conclusion that Mr. Vaughan and the yogi were both a little crazy, but quite inoffensive and harmless.

"And how about Miss Vaughan?" asked the coroner.

"Miss Vaughan, bless her heart, wasn't crazy," said the girl quickly; "not a bit of it. She was just sad and lonely,—as who wouldn't be! She never went out—in the five months I've been here, she's never been off the place; and them front gates was never opened to let anybody in. The only people who come in were the grocer and milk-man and such-like, through the little door at the side."

"You say you have been here five months?"

"Yes, sir."

"How did you come to apply for the place?"

"I didn't apply for it. I was sent here by an employment bureau. Miss Marjorie engaged me. I didn't see the Hindus till afterwards, or I don't think I'd have took it. After that, I stayed for Miss Marjorie's sake."

"You thought she needed you?"

"Yes, I did. With her father moonin' round in a kind of trance, and the yogi lookin' at her with eyes like live coals, and a snake that stood on its tail, and the other naygur going around with nothin' on but a diaper, I thought she needed somebody to look after her; and says I, 'Annie Crogan, you're the girl to do it!'"

There was a ripple of laughter and the pencils of the reporters flew across their paper. It was the first gleam to enliven a prosaic and tiresome hearing.

"Were the Hindus obtrusive in any way?" asked the coroner.

"Oh, no; they minded their business; I've no complaint on that score."

"Did you see any of their religious practices?"

"I wouldn't call them religious—quite the contrary. I've seen them wavin' their arms and bowin' to the sun and settin' in the dark starin' at a glass globe with a light in it; that's about all. I got used to it, after a while, and just went on about my work without takin' any notice."

There was little more to be got from her, and finally she was excused. The reporters yawned. The jury twitched nervously. Worthington Vaughan was dead; he had been strangled—so much was clear; but not a scintilla of evidence had as yet been introduced as to who had strangled him. Then a movement of interest ran through the crowd, for a policeman came from the direction of the house accompanied by two strange figures. One was the yogi, in robes of dazzling white; the other his attendant, wearing something more than a diaper, indeed, but with his thin brown legs bare.

The yogi bowed to Goldberger with grave courtesy, and, at a word from the attendant policeman, sat down in the witness-chair. Everybody was leaning forward looking at him, and the cameras were clicking in chorus, but he seemed scarcely aware of the circle of eager faces.

"Hold up your right hand, please," began Goldberger, after contemplating him for a moment.

"For what purpose?" asked the yogi.

"I'm going to swear you."

"I do not understand."

"I'm going to put you on oath to tell nothing but the truth," explained the coroner.

"An oath is unnecessary," said the yogi with a smile. "To speak the truth is required by my religion."

There was something impressive in the words, and Goldberger slowly lowered his arm.

"What is your name?" he asked.

"Francisco Silva."

"You are not a Hindu?"

"I am of their faith."

"But by birth?"

"I am a Portuguese."

"Born in India?"

"Born at Goa."

The coroner paused. He had never heard of Goa. Neither had I. Neither, I judged, had any one else present. In this, however, I was wrong. Godfrey had heard of it, and afterwards referred me to Marryat's "Phantom Ship" as his source of information.

"Goa," Silva explained, seeing our perplexity, "is a colony owned by Portugal on the Malabar coast, some distance below Bombay."

"How does it come that you speak English so well?"

"I was educated at Bombay, and afterwards at Oxford and at Paris."

"But you are by religion a Hindu?"

"I am a Saiva—a follower of Siva, the Lord of life and death."

As he spoke, he touched his forehead with the fingers of his left hand. There was a moment's silence. Goldberger's moustache, I noted with a smile, was beginning to suffer again.

"You are what is called an adept?" he asked, at last.

"Some may call me that," said Silva, "but incorrectly. Among my fellow Saivas, I am known as a White Priest, a yogi, a teacher of the law."

"Mr. Vaughan was your pupil?"

"Yes; for six months he was my pupil."

"In what way did you come to accept this position?"

"Two years ago, Mr. Vaughan visited the monastery of our order in Crete. He was at that time merely a student of Orientalism, and came to us from curiosity. But his interest grew; and after a year spent in studying the holy books, he asked that a teacher be sent to him. There was none at that time who could be spared; but six months ago, having completed a task which had occupied me in Paris, I was assigned to this."

"Do you always go to so much trouble to secure converts?" questioned Goldberger, a little cynically.

"Usually we require that the period of study be passed at one of our monasteries. But this case was exceptional."

"In what way?"

"It was our hope," explained the yogi, calmly, "that Mr. Vaughan would assist us in spreading the Great Truth by endowing a monastery for us in this country."

"Ah!" and Goldberger looked at him. "Did he agree to do so?"

"He did," answered the yogi, still more calmly. "This estate was to have been given to us for that purpose, together with an endowment sufficient to maintain it. Mr. Vaughan himself hoped to gain the White Robe and become a teacher."

"What was to become of his daughter?"

"It was his hope that she would become a priestess of our order."

"You hoped so, too, no doubt?" inquired Goldberger sweetly.

"I did. It is an office of high honour and great influence. She would walk all her days in the shadow of the Holy One. So sweet a cup is offered to few women. The number of priestesses is limited to nine."

Goldberger pulled at his moustache helplessly. Evidently the witness's calm self-control was not to be broken down, or even ruffled.

"Please tell me where you were night before last," said the coroner, finally.

"I was in this house."

"Did you see Mr. Vaughan?"

"I did not."

"How did you spend the night?"

"In contemplation. It was, as I have told you, the White Night of Siva, sacred to him from sunset to sunrise."

"Do you mean that you spent the whole night sitting before that crystal?" asked the coroner, incredulously.

"That is my meaning."

"You know nothing, then, of the death of Mr. Vaughan?"

"I saw his soul pass in the night. More than that I know not."

Again Goldberger twitched at his moustache. He was plainly at a loss how to proceed.

"Was your attendant with you?" he asked, at last.

"He was in his closet."

"At his devotions too, perhaps?"

"The White Night of Siva is also the Black Night of Kali," said the yogi, gravely, as one rebuking an unworthy levity.

"What do you mean by that?" Goldberger demanded.

"Mahbub is of the cult of Kali, who is the wife of Siva," said the yogi, touching his forehead reverently as he spoke the words. "He spent the night in adoration of her attributes."

Goldberger's stenographer was having his difficulties; the pencils of the reporters were racing wildly in unison; everyone was listening with strained attention; there was, somehow, a feeling in the air that something was about to happen. I saw Godfrey write a line upon a sheet of paper, fold it, and toss it on the table in front of Goldberger. The coroner opened it, read the line, and stared at the impassive Mahbub, who stood beside his master with folded arms, staring over the heads of the crowd.

"In other words," said Goldberger, slowly, "your attendant is a Thug."

The yogi bowed.

"Yes," he said, calmly; "Mahbub is Thuggee."



CHAPTER XIV

THE FINGER-PRINTS

A shiver ran through the crowd, like a gust of wind across a field of wheat. The words, "Mahbub is Thuggee," seemed to rend the veil which obscured the tragedy. Surely it was clear enough, now: here was a man killed by Thuggee's peculiar method, and here was the Thug. It was as simple as two and two!

Every eye was on the bare-legged Hindu, impassive as ever, staring straight before him. The camera-men hastily pushed in fresh plates and trained their machines upon him. Two policemen edged close to his side.

But Francisco Silva looked about him with scornful eyes, and presently he opened his lips as though to speak, and then he closed them.

Goldberger seemed perplexed. He looked as though, while rolling smoothly along the road toward a well-understood goal, he had suddenly struck an unforeseen obstacle. The possibility of Mahbub's guilt seemed to interfere with some theory of his own. He called Simmonds and the district attorney to him, and they exchanged a few low words. Then he turned back to the witness.

"I should like to question your attendant," he said. "Will you translate for me? I have not been able to find a Hindu interpreter."

Silva bowed his consent.

"Ask him, please, where he spent Thursday night."

There was a brief interchange between Silva and Mahbub, then the former turned to Goldberger.

"It was as I thought," he said. "He spent the night in the worship of the attributes of Kali."

The coroner opened an envelope which lay on the table at his elbow and took out a piece of knotted cord.

"Ask him if he ever saw this before," he said, and passed it to the witness.

"I notice that it is stained," said Silva, looking at it. "Is it with blood?"

"Yes."

"Then Mahbub will not touch it. For him to do so, would be to defile himself."

"He doesn't need to touch it. Show it to him."

Silva spoke to his servant, holding up the cord. The latter glanced at it and shook his head. Without a word, Silva handed the cord back to the coroner.

"Are there any further questions?" he asked.

Goldberger pulled at his moustache impatiently.

"There are a lot of questions I'd like to ask," he said, "but I feel a good deal as though I were questioning the Sphinx. Isn't it a little queer that a Thug should be so particular about a few blood-stains?"

"I fear that you are doing Mahbub an injustice in your thoughts," Silva said, gravely. "You have heard certain tales of the Thugs, perhaps—tales distorted and magnified and untrue. In the old days, as worshippers of Kali, they did, sometimes, offer her a human sacrifice; but that was long ago. To say a man is a Thug is not to say he is also a murderer."

"It will take more than that to convict him, anyway," assented Goldberger, quickly. "That is all for the present, professor." I bit back a smile at the title which came so unconsciously from Goldberger's lips.

Silva bowed and walked slowly away toward the house, Mahbub following close behind. At a look from Simmonds, two of his men strolled after the strange couple.

Goldberger stared musingly after them for a moment, then shook his head impatiently, and turned back to the business in hand.

"Will Mr. Swain please take the stand?" he said; and Swain took the chair. "Now, Mr. Swain," Goldberger began, after swearing him, "please tell us, in your own way, of what part you had in the incidents of Thursday night."

Swain told his story much as he had told it to Godfrey and me, and I noticed how closely both Goldberger and the district attorney followed it. When he had finished, Goldberger asked the same question that Godfrey had asked.

"While you were having the altercation with Mr. Vaughan, did you grasp hold of him?"

"No, sir; I did not touch him."

"You are quite sure?"

"Yes, sir."

"You didn't touch him at any time, then or afterwards?"

"No, sir. I didn't see him afterwards."

"What were your feelings when he took his daughter away?"

"I was profoundly grieved."

"And angry?"

"Yes, I suppose I was angry. He was most unjust to me."

"He had used very violent language to you, had he not?"

"Yes."

"He had threatened your life if you tried to see his daughter again?"

"Yes."

"Now, Mr. Swain, as you stood there, angry and humiliated, didn't you make up your mind to follow him to the house and have it out with him?"

Swain smiled.

"I'm lawyer enough to know," he said, "that a question like that isn't permissible. But I'll answer it. I may have had such an impulse—I don't know; but the sight of the cobra there in the arbour put it effectually out of my head."

"You still think there was a cobra?"

"I am sure of it."

"And you ran out of the arbour so fast you bumped your head?"

"I suppose that's what happened. It's mighty sore, anyway," and Swain put his hand to it ruefully.

"Mr. Swain," went on the coroner, slowly, "are you prepared to swear that, after you hurt your head, you might not, in a confused and half-dazed condition, have followed your previous impulse to go to the house and see Mr. Vaughan?"

"Yes," answered Swain, emphatically, "I am. Although I was somewhat dazed, I have a distinct recollection of going straight to the wall and climbing back over it."

"You cut your wrist as you were crossing the wall the first time?"



"Yes," and Swain held up his hand and showed the strip of plaster across the wound.

"Your right wrist?"

"Yes."

"It bled freely, did it not?"

"Very freely."

"What became of the clothes you took off when you changed into those brought by Mr. Godfrey?"

"I don't know. Mr. Lester told me they were left here. I intended to inquire for them."

At a sign from Goldberger, Simmonds opened a suit-case and placed a bundle on the table. Goldberger unrolled it and handed it to Swain.

"Are these the clothes?" he asked.

"Yes," said Swain, after a moment's examination.

"Will you hold the shirt up so the jury can see it?"

Swain held the garment up, and everybody's eyes were fixed upon the blood-soaked sleeve.

"There seems to have been a good deal of blood," remarked Goldberger. "It must have run down over your hand."

"It did. It was all over my fingers."

"So that it would probably stain anything you touched?"

"Yes, very probably."

"Did you think of that when you were in the arbour with Miss Vaughan?"

Swain's face suddenly crimsoned and he hung his head.

"I'm afraid not," he said.

"How was she dressed?"

"In a white robe of some silk-like material."

"A robe that would show a blood-stain?"

"Undoubtedly."

Goldberger paused for an instant, and then produced a pad, such as one uses for inking rubber stamps, opened it and placed it on the table before him.

"Have you any objection to giving me a set of your finger-prints?" he asked.

"None whatever," and Swain stepped toward the table and placed the tips of his fingers on the pad. Then he pressed each one carefully upon the pad of paper which the coroner placed before him. Goldberger watched him curiously, until all ten impressions had been made.

"You did that as though you had done it before," he remarked.

"I made a set once for Mr. Vaughan," said Swain, sitting down again. "He had a most interesting collection."

Goldberger passed the prints over to the head of the Bureau of Identification, then he turned back to the witness.

"Mr. Swain," he said, "have you ever seen this cord before?" and he handed him the knotted cord.

Swain took it and examined it curiously, without hesitation or repugnance.

"No," he answered, finally, "I never saw it before."

"Do you know what it is?" and Goldberger watched him closely.

"I infer that it is the cord with which Mr. Vaughan was strangled."

"That is so. You did not see it around his neck?"

"I have no recollection of having done so."

"Please look at the cord again, Mr. Swain," said Goldberger, still watching him. "You will see that it is knotted. Can you describe those knots for me?"

Swain looked at the knots, and I was glad to see that his hands were absolutely steady and his face free from fear. No murderer could handle so unconcernedly the instrument of his crime! Surely the jury would see that!

"The knots," said Swain, at last, "seem to be an ordinary square knot with which the cord was made into a noose, and then a double bowline to secure it."

"A double bowline? Can you tie such a knot?"

"Certainly. Anyone who has ever owned a boat can do so. It is the best knot for this purpose."

The coroner reached out for the cord and replaced it in the envelope. Then he produced the handkerchief.

"Can you identify this?" he asked, and handed it to the witness.

Swain changed colour a little as he took it.

"I cannot identify it," he said, in a low voice; "but I will say this: when Miss Vaughan found that my wrist was bleeding, she insisted upon tying her handkerchief around it. This may be the handkerchief."

Again a little shiver ran through the crowd, and Goldberger's eyes were gleaming.

"You notice that two corners of the handkerchief are free from stain," he said, "and are crumpled as though they had been tied in a knot. The handkerchief Miss Vaughan used would probably be in that condition, would it not?"

"Yes," Swain answered, his voice still low.

"You heard Dr. Hinman testify that he found the handkerchief beside the chair in which Mr. Vaughan was murdered?"