“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.”
“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 Nagkon Wat. I reiterate this in order that the situation may be more fully understood. We, let it be remembered, were standing on the middle one, and I now raised my hand and pointed in triumph toward the summit of the lower tower, on our right.
He was there!
Standing upon the topmost platform, leaning against the balustrade we all saw him. His eyes were directed toward the rising sun.
“Amazing!” cried Philpot.
But Maurice was to be satisfied by no simple expression of astonishment.
“Hello! Hello, there!” he shouted.
Then I saw him look toward us, but at so great a distance the expression of the visible portion of his face could not be discerned.
As if in answer to Maurice’s shout he waved his hand, turned, entered the low doorway behind him and disappeared.
CHAPTER V. JUNGLE ADVENTURES.
It seems to me that I have now rendered tolerably clear the perplexed frame of mind in which Maurice De Veber and I found ourselves at the beginning of our fourth day at Angkor.
Day succeeded day and our perplexity was in no way diminished—rather increased.
Not that the mysterious Mr. Mirrikh manifested himself again.
Quite the contrary. We saw nothing of him, and just there the mystery lay.
Immediately upon our descent from the central tower of the ruined temple, the Reverend Miles Philpot set himself the task of finding “that man.”
Briefly, he did not succeed; and that with every opportunity for success; for Philpot among his other accomplishments—and they were certainly many—numbered a very tolerable acquaintance with the Siamese language, and he at once proceeded to question the old priests who guard the Nagkon Wat.
It was a useless effort. From the priests—intelligent men of their class—we received the most positive assurances that no stranger was present at the ruins but ourselves, nor had been for months past. Of a man with a partially concealed face they had never heard.
But had no one seen Mr. Mirrikh but ourselves?
Yes; Maurice’s Chinese cook, Ah Schow, had seen him crossing the courtyard while on the way to fetch water for our breakfast from a spring behind the temple. Seen him for a moment only, for then his attention was attracted by something else. When Ah Schow looked back, wondering at the concealed face, the man was gone.
And this was all.
Be very certain that we all three made haste to ascend the winding staircase of the right hand tower, having our labor for our pains.
As the days glided by, the Rev. Miles Philpot remained our guest, and it struck me that it was a very fortunate thing for His Reverence that he had fallen in with us as he did.