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,
