“What part of the States are you from?” I ventured.
“New York, last; lived ten years in Chicago; besides that have trotted about from Maine to Texas. As you Yankees say, I kinder guess I’ve seen about all your country has to show.”
“When did you reach Angkor?”
“Half an hour ago.”
“Surely you did not come up the river?”
“No, I came through from Siamrap with a little party of natives. Came to Siamrap from Bangkok, to Bangkok from Calcutta. I am travelling because I like to travel. If I see anything odd I jot it down. I’ve written one book and may write another. Can’t promise though, for I’m too lazy, and that’s the truth. Gentlemen, have either of you got anything to smoke? Unfortunately, I left my pipe with my traps below.”
I passed him my cheroot case and Maurice supplied the match. As soon as the light was taken he began rattling on in the same strain.
“Let me see, haven’t I heard of you before, Mr. De Veber? Strikes me I have. You are consul somewhere—let me see, Macao, ain’t it? No, Panompin?”
“Panompin is the spot,” said Maurice, quietly.
“Ah, yes! Knew I’d seen your name mentioned in some register or another. Dull hole that. I was there last year. Was introduced to that royal beggar, King Norodom. Spent a whole evening trying to drink him under the table. No go, though. I was only too glad to get out at last.”
“You have been in the East some time then?” I remarked
“Oh yes; a matter of a few years. They sent me out as a missionary, but bless you, I couldn’t stand it. I had a charge near Rangoon—bored the very life out of me. Luckily I fell heir to a few pounds just about that time, so I took to knocking round again. The fact is, gentlemen, I’ve knocked round so much in my time that I’m fit for nothing else.”
“Did you happen to knock against a man—a Hindoo—wearing a black cloth over the lower part of his face, on your way over from Siamrap?” demanded Maurice, turning suddenly upon him.
“No; I saw no such person. I was the only man in the party outside of the bearers and the guide.”
“And you arrived?”
“Half an hour ago, as I just told you.”
“How long were you at Siamrap?”
“Two days. But pardon me—what are you driving at?”
“One moment. Coming up here did you meet any one on the stairs going down?”
“No; the priests told me there were two English gentlemen at the ruins and your man informed me that you had gone up into the tower so I expected to meet you, but I met no one on the way up.”
“Might not some one have passed you while you stopped on the platform where we heard you singing? ”
“Scarcely. I was there only a moment. I should have heard him, and my very highly developed bump of curiosity would most certainly have prompted me to look round.”
Then, to my surprise, Maurice just blurted out the whole affair.
I was disgusted—half angry. I tried to stop him, but in vain.
“It’s no use, George,” he said. “I am determined to fathom this mystery. If your friend Mirrikh did not come to Angkor up the river then he must have come from Siamrap, for there is no other way of getting here unless through the forest. I want to know where he came from and by what means he left this tower. It is not fair to question Mr. Philpot so closely without letting him understand the whole matter.”
During Maurice’s animated and somewhat highly colored description of the scene in the alley and that upon the tower, the reverend gentleman maintained perfect silence.
He seemed impressed with my friend’s manner, half amused at his earnestness, but at each allusion to the remarkable disappearances of Mr. Mirrikh, that same sneering smile crept over his face. His glances at Maurice were half in pity it seemed to me.
“You may question me as much as you please, Mr. De Veber,” he said, after Maurice had at length ceased speaking. “You perceive that I am above the prejudices of my race, and am not afraid of the interrogation point. But, my dear fellow, I can’t help you. I can throw no light whatever upon this mystery, unless too great an indulgence in——”
“Stop, sir!” I exclaimed. “I protest. I never indulge too deeply, nor does my friend, De Veber. Look at us both. Not ten minutes have elapsed since that man stood beside us on this tower. Do we show any signs of over indulgence now?”
“No, no; certainly not,” he replied hastily. “But tales of mysterious levitations—I think that was the word you used, Mr. De Veber—remind one of sea-serpent stories and naturally suggest—but enough of this! Seriously, gentlemen, I can assure you that such a person as you describe could scarcely have passed me unnoticed. I saw nothing of him and am glad I did not. Hope I never may.”
“Why so?” asked Maurice.
“Because I am wholly skeptical on these points and have seen enough to make me so.”
“For instance?”
“Oh come, I don’t care to enter into a discussion on Spiritualism—that’s what you are driving at. Give me a light.”
“He has seen nothing,” I thought, as I passed him the match safe, “but he has read much and is afraid to expose his hand until he knows the cards against which he has to play.”
“And I,” said Maurice slowly, “am willing to enter into any investigation which will shed light upon the mighty problem of the hereafter. We are here in this world to-day, we are gone to-morrow. Where? That’s what I want to know.”
“And are you likely to find out?” demanded Mr. Philpot, turning upon Maurice with more earnestness than he had yet displayed. “For centuries the world has been combating with that problem, and how far have they advanced? Not one inch. Thousands of years ago, sorcerers and magicians gave us the same mysterious manifestations that your modern mediums do to-day. Anciently men respected these persons; later on they burned them; now they laugh at their often exposed humbugs. Bah! I have preached heaven and held up hell as a bugaboo, for money, and priests, by the hundreds of thousands, have done and ever will do the same; but what proof is there? Frankly, gentlemen, I, who have the right to know, say to you there is none. We know that we die, and that is all we do know, and a hundred centuries of preaching to the contrary has been unable to show us any more.”
“I cannot agree with you,” replied Maurice, coldly. “Thousands of witnesses have testified to the truth of spiritual manifestations, and yet you throw their testimony aside with one wave of the hand.”
“And you are a Spiritualist then?”
“On the contrary, I am nothing of the sort. I defined my position just now. I am an investigator—nothing more. I do not claim that the testimony of these witnesses is true.”
“And you, to talk as you do, must be a pretty thorough skeptic,” I interposed. “Until now, I could have freely endorsed every word you say.”
“You’ve hit it,” answered Mr. Philpot lightly. “To one likely to betray me I would never admit it, for I may find it convenient to assume a charge again at any time; but, to you, I say freely, I believe nothing, and investigation only goes to strengthen my unbelief. What is religion but a tissue of falsities, a hollow sham, a cloak for a selfish priesthood to aggrandize themselves at the expense of the multitude—it is nothing less, nothing more. Pope, cardinal, bishop and priest, it is all one in my experience. Bah!