CHAPTER VIII.
A MAN FROM ANOTHER WORLD.
“Great Heavens! What a crash!” cried Philpot, as he strode to the doorway to adjust the shawl, one end of which had been torn from its fastenings by the whirl of the wind. “Positively I thought this old rookery was coming down about our ears. There it goes again! By Jove! that was a blinder—look out boys, it’s coming again!”
It came. In an instant, we heard the echoing roll of that stupendous conflict in progress among the clouds.
I threw more wood on the fire, but did not speak—I could not. This last had struck me dumb.
Not the thunder of course; I do not refer to that! It was the letter. Could it by any possibility be that—but no. It was too absurd.
Meanwhile Maurice had seated himself again and Philpot returned to the fire.
“It is a good thing I found it,” he said. “It proves conclusively that the fellow is only a paltry trickster after all. No doubt the letter was written for your express benefit Wylde. He has some object in view in crossing your path as he does, you may rest assured.”
“Have you formed so low an estimate of my intelligence Doctor, that you think for an instant I could believe such a claim as that letter puts forth?”
“No—oh, no! I was only joking.”
“How dumb you are! Can’t you see that the letter is a cipher—that the allusions to Mars mean something altogether different—that”
“Do you believe that George?” interposed Maurice.
“I do indeed.”
“Then I don’t.”
“What!” cried the Doctor. “De Veber, for gracious sake don’t let your love of the occult carry you too far!”
“I did not say I believed what the letter hints at. I say it is not a cipher. I stick to it. No man would write a
