CHAPTER III.
MORE MYSTERY.
“Maurice!” I cried, grasping my friend’s arm. “Maurice, did you see?”
“See—what? I saw a man leaning over the balustrade up there. Some visitor at the ruins like ourselves.”
“Maurice!” I exclaimed in a hurried whisper, “it was that man.”
“What man?”
“My ‘levitating’ friend, as you call him.”
“No, George! Never!”
But it was though. Didn’t you see his face? It was uncovered—half yellow, half black.”
“The sun must have been in my eyes or yours. I saw nothing of the sort; but to tell the truth I didn’t see his face plainly. Just as I caught a glimpse of it, presto, it was gone.”
Strange sensations seized me. I trembled, though I knew not why.
“If it is actually your Panompin friend, George, by all means let us go up and interview him,” said Maurice lightly. “His song, though a trifle high flown, was not so bad. Do you know I like that idea of sun worship. God is omnipotent, omnipresent, but invisible. He made the earth, but the sun was his master mechanic. By all means let us be sun worshipers, old fellow, but for heaven’s sake, don’t drag me into any discussion with your friend upstairs. Such thoughts as I unfolded to you a few moments ago belong to certain frames of mind in which I seldom indulge. If you transgress, don’t be surprised to find me roughly repudiating all I said. I’m in no mood to argue with a Buddhist adept to-day.”
“My lips are sealed,” I replied, “but first we have to ‘catch our hare,’ who knows that we may not find that my singular friend has levitated to parts unknown. Then the laugh will be on your side, and that’s a fact.”
“We’ll see! We’ll see!” exclaimed Maurice, pushing on ahead of me. “If he is still there I’m as eager to interview him as you can be, for—hark! He is there!”
It was true.
We had reached the level of the next platform now, and there, leaning against a sculptured column with arms folded across his breast, stood the object of our thoughts.
Involuntarily we paused and peered out through the doorway communicating with the platform.
As he stood gazing in deep meditation off upon the dense forest there was something grand and majestic in his very attitude.
To Maurice the sight of that face must have been a marvel; to me it now seemed so much a part of the man that I could no longer regard it as hideous, nor even strange.
“What’s his name?” breathed Maurice in my ear. “You want to introduce a fellow, you know.”
I made no answer, for that same cold shudder had come over me again. What could it mean? Could it be that I, the confirmed agnostic was wavering in my agnosticism? For I found myself wondering if I was about to address a being from another and unseen world.
Determined to divest myself of all such nonsense, I now strode forward with outstretched hand.
“Good morning!” I said boldly. “It strikes me we have had the pleasure of meeting before.”
He did not at first change his position—simply turned and surveyed me calmly. Then unfolding his arms he extended his hand and grasped mine just as I was about to withdraw it, pressing it in that hearty fashion that I have always made a point to adopt myself.
“Ah! my Panompin friend!” he exclaimed. “Positively this is a surprise and a pleasant one. How came you here?”
It struck me very forcibly that mine was the right to ask that question, but I concealed my thoughts, and explained briefly the object of my visit to Angkor.
“It is a wonderful place,” he replied. “Few are aware of its existence and fewer still appreciate its beauties. But your friend here—introduce me please. By the way, our last interview was interrupted so abruptly that I had no opportunity to learn your name.”
My eye was full upon him when he made that allusion to our adventure in the alley, but he showed by no outward sign that he did not consider his strange departure the most natural thing in the world.
“I am George Wylde,” I replied, “and this is Mr. Maurice De Veber, American Consul at Panompin, to whose residence we were on our way when—when”
“When I was forced to bid you farewell in a most summary manner,” he interrupted with perfect coolness. “Mr. Wylde, I am most happy to meet you again. Mr. De Veber, I trust that you are enjoying life in Cambodia. You are both Americans, I presume.”
“We are—and New Yorkers.”
“A fine city. Greatly improved of late I am told. It is some years since my last visit there. You Americans are an enterprising, practical people, but”
“But what?”
“I was about to add that like all children you possess a somewhat exaggerated idea of your own intelligence,” he answered, smilingly, “but I had no intention of giving offense—let it pass.”
“You are quite right there, according to my friend’s views,” I laughed; “but pardon me, so far our introduction has been somewhat one-sided. May I ask your name?”
“My name! Well, strictly speaking, I have four names. Two are unpronouncable for you Americans. In Calcutta I am known as Mr. Mirrikh, and that must answer here.”
As he spoke he thrust his hand into one of the inner pockets of his coat, and producing a strip of black silk proceeded to adjust it about the lower part of his face.
He made neither explanation nor the least allusion to this act, and when the silk was in position, stood before us as calmly as ever, evidently waiting for me to speak.
It was Maurice, however, who began.
“You speak of Calcutta; are you a Hindoo, Mr. Mirrikh?”
“No, sir.”
“Pardon me. You can scarcely be a Cambodian or Siamese. Persian, perhaps?”
“Neither one nor the other, sir. We will let that matter pass.”
Maurice turned slightly red. The dear fellow never could endure rebuff.
“Do you smoke?” he asked, producing his cigar case.
“Seldom, and I do not care to smoke now. Pardon me, Mr. De Veber, if I have given offense. I can assure you”
“In refusing my vile cheroots, sir? Indeed no.”
“No, no; not that. In declining to disclose my nationality. Believe me the best of reasons exist why I should keep my secret. To all intents and purposes I am a citizen of Benares. I have resided there ‘off and on,’ as you Americans say, for some years.”
“No explanation is necessary, sir,” replied Maurice, lightly. “My question was an impertinent one, but you know I must maintain my reputation for Yankee curiosity. But to change the subject; when did you arrive at Angkor? We have been here four days and, but for the priests, thought we had the ruins to ourselves.”
“I arrived this morning, Mr. De Veber,” he answered, the curious shadow which passed over his face telling me that Maurice was treading on dangerous ground again.
“This morning! Why there was no party in this morning before we left. You could hardly have come up the lake, for I am expecting some one on the next boat due. Possibly you came over from Siamrap?”
“Mr. De Veber, I came from a different direction entirely.”
“Indeed! May I ask from where?”
“Yankee curiosity again?” he laughed. “Really it is too bad, but I am forced to disappoint you. My movements cannot possibly concern you. I prefer not to tell from which direction I came.”
It was too much for Maurice.
Biting his lip he moved toward the balustrade and remained looking down upon the temple roof below.
Scarcely was his back turned when Mr. Mirrikh—I adopt the name he gave us—moved to my side and drew me back toward the door.
“I am sorry, very sorry,” he said in a low voice, “to have offended your friend a second time, but I assure you it was out of my power to answer his question.”
“Which should not have been asked,” I replied. “The fault is his. He is over sensitive. In a moment he will have forgotten—say no more.”
“Not upon that subject since you wish it; but I must speak with you upon another while opportunity offers. That little hand bag of mine—you recollect. Have you it with you here at Angkor?”
“Unfortunately no;” I took it in charge that night, but it was left behind us at Panompin. Of course I never dreamed—?”
“Of meeting me—certainly not. Why should you? I was engaged in a peculiar mission at Panompin and was particularly anxious not to—that is to say not to leave hurriedly. But tell me—and you must think me very rude for not inquiring sooner—how did you manage to escape?”
“Now it is you who are asking questions. If I answer, I must take the liberty of asserting my Yankee prerogative of asking you the same question in return.”
He smiled strangely—you can scarcely fancy what a singular sensation it is to see a man smile only with his eyes.
“I am dumb,” he said, “but one question I must ask—were you harmed?”
“Not in the least.”
“Good! I am thankful for it. I have many times thought of you—but to return to the bag.”
“It’s at your disposal,” I interposed. “If you are going to Panompin—”
“But I am not. It is doubtful if I ever visit the place again. When you return will you oblige me by addressing a label to Mr. Radma Gungeet, at Benares, and forwarding the bag by express?”
“Certainly. It shall be done if you wish it.”
“One question more. Do not be offended. Did you open the bag, thinking you would never see me again?”
“The bag has remained precisely as you left it, sir,” I replied with dignity.
He gave a slight sigh of relief and turned away just in time to meet Maurice coming toward us from the balustrade.
“Come, George, let’s go down,” he said abruptly. “Mr. Mirrikh, I bid you good day.”
“Stay—one moment. We part friends?”
He extended his hand which Maurice took.
“Certainly. There is no reason why we should not. I can’t help being a Yankee anymore than you a—well, whatever you are. Come and join us at dinner. We are in the last room of the north wing, and have as fine a Chinese cook as Cambodia can afford.”
“I should be most happy, but it will be quite impossible. Frankly, gentlemen, I am something of a Buddhist. My visit to the Nagkon Wat is for a religious purpose which renders it necessary for me to fast.”
“In which case we shall have to excuse you,” said Maurice lightly. “At all events promise to see us before you leave.”
“I promise that. You shall certainly see me.”
“When?”
“That is more than I can say. Hark! Do I hear someone singing? Gentlemen, I must leave you. As you may easily imagine, my peculiar deformity,” he pronounced the word with an emphasis almost sarcastic, “makes me shy of strangers. Good day.”
Yes, there was some one coming, we could hear the sound of footsteps ascending the stone stairs within the tower, and a rich baritone voice singing—not an ode to the sun god this time, though certainly something akin to it—the good old fisherman’s chorus from Auber’s pleasing, but well-nigh forgotten, opera, Masaniello.
“More visitors!” cried Mauii
“Evidently, and I am off. I cannot meet them,” said Mr. Mirrikh.
Waving his hand politely, he drew back through the doorway, disappearing in the dark shadow beyond.
“Why, the man will run right into this newcomer, whoever he is,” cried Maurice. He started to follow, but I caught his arm and drew him back.
“Don’t,” I whispered. “Whoever he is, or whatever he is, he is certainly a gentleman. Respect his wishes and let him go.”
“Bother!” said Maurice, pulling himself away. “He called me a Yankee, let me show him I’ve got my share of Yankee curiosity. Come on George, I intend to find out where he goes.”
And he stepped through the door, leaving me to follow or not, as I pleased.
I chose to follow, for I confess that my curiosity had gained the better of my politeness.
Was the strange episode at Panompin about to be repeated, and in broad daylight? Meanwhile, the singing continued, though the sound of footsteps had ceased, and we knew that the new comer must have paused on the platform below.
There were still two platforms above us. We listened, but could hear no footsteps on the stairs.
“He must have gone up,” whispered Maurice; “Yes, by gracious! there he goes now."
Even as he spoke, we caught sight of Mr. Mirrikh’s back vanishing around a turn in the winding stairs.
“Stop!” I whispered. “Maurice, at least let us be decent.”
“I won’t! If he don’t want to meet strangers, neither do we. Come on.”
He crept up the stairs, and I followed him. When we turned the corner there was nothing to be seen of Mirrikh; nor was he on the first platform when we gained it, nor yet on the second and last. Now nothing but a huge cylindrical stone remained above us—nothing save that and the sky.
“Holy smoke!” cried Maurice, dropping into American slang in his excitement. “George, the fellow ain’t here!”
“Evidently not. Now, my friend, perhaps you will be willing to believe me that I was neither drunk nor dreaming that night at Panompin. Too much samschow! Too many Manilla cheroots! All a hallucination—I believe that was the way you talked.”
“Shut up!” cried Maurice, half angrily. “This is a mighty serious matter.”
“Awake! Awake! the morn is freshly breaking!” roared the singer on the balcony below.
“Perdition seize the fellow!” snapped Maurice. “George, where in the mischief do you suppose that man Mirrikh has taken himself to? I will understand this business, I swear I will.”
“Levitated, of course,” I replied ironically. “These Buddhist adepts are wonderful fellows, you know. Why, they have the London Times at Benares every morning within ten seconds of the moment of issue. Railroads they never trouble. If they want to go to Calcutta, Paris or New York, they simply levitate—I’m growing fond of that word, it rolls so easily off the tongue. Levitated—that’s it, you may depend.”
“George,” said Maurice solemnly, “you are making light of a serious matter. From my remarks made awhile ago, you have a perfect right to consider me not only a super-religious sort of fellow, but a theosophist as well. Now, the fact is, I am neither one nor the other. I am simply a confirmed investigator. The truth is what I want, and what I am determined to have. Therefore I undertook to investigate Buddhism, and I was amazed at what I found in its much misrepresented doctrines. Nevertheless, I believe only what appeals to my reason and to my senses. Levitation does neither, and yet—well, to cut it short, where the deuce has that fellow gone to? That’s what I want to know.”
“Where did he go the night he left me at the end of the alley?” I demanded triumphantly.
“Through some secret door, I presume. There was chance enough.”
“Was there? You yourself searched and could find no such outlet, but it would not be at all out of the way to imagine both a secret door and a hidden staircase in this ruined pile.”
“That’s it! That’s it!” cried Maurice; “unless he is a second Elijah he can have left this tower in no other way.”
I was looking down as Maurice made this remark; gazing into the interior court yard behind the Nagkon Wat, a space surrounded by low, crumbling stone structures, any one of which, even if we had run down stairs at the top of our speed, it would have taken us a good ten minutes to reach.
Five had not elapsed since the disappearance of Mr. Mirrikh—I doubt greatly if it was more than three.
“Look! Look!” I cried, suddenly seizing Maurice by the arm. “Look! Now will you believe?”
“Great God! It is the man himself! ”
He was as pale as death as these words burst from his lips, and even I felt that strange cold thrill pass through my frame again.
I remember hearing the voice of the singer drawing nearer—of being conscious that he was coming up the last of the stairs and we must encounter him in a moment more. Yet I thought nothing of this now. How could it be expected, when looking down into the courtyard of the Nagkon Wat I saw the mysterious Mr. Mirrikh standing at the head of a short flight of steps between the columns of a massive portico.
As we gazed, he lifted his eyes toward the tower and saw us.
Raising his hand he waved it lightly in our direction, bowed, and passing into the shadows of the door-way disappeared.