that the affair could not go
further until I had established myself. I agreed, of course; I agreed,
too, when he suggested that it would only be fair to her to leave her
free--not to see her or write to her, or try to influence her in any
way. I wanted to be fair to her. Since then, I have not seen her, nor
heard from her. But her father's feelings have changed toward me."

"In what way?"

"I thought he might be interested to know what I was doing, and two or
three months ago, I called and asked to see him. Instead of seeing me,
he sent word by a black-faced fellow in a white robe that neither he
nor his daughter wished to see me again."

His face was red with the remembered humiliation.

"I wrote to Miss Vaughan once, after that," he added, "but my letter
was not answered."

"Evidently she didn't get your letter."

"Why do you think so?"

"If she had got it, she would have known that you were no longer at
1010 Fifth Avenue. Her father, no doubt, kept it from her."

He flushed still more deeply, and started to say something, but I held
him silent.

"He was justified in keeping it," I said. "You had promised not to
write to her. And I don't see that you have given me any reason why I
should assist you against him."

"I haven't," Swain admitted more calmly, "and under ordinary
circumstances, my self-respect would compel me to keep away. I am not
a fortune-hunter. But I can't keep away; I can't stand on my dignity.
When she calls for aid, I _must_ go to her, not for my own sake but
for hers, because she needs to be protected from her father far more
than from me."

"What do you mean by that?" I demanded.

"Mr. Lester," he said, leaning forward in his chair and speaking in a
lowered voice and with great earnestness, "her father is mad--I am
sure of it. No one but a madman would live and dress as he does; no
one but a madman would devote his whole time to the study of the
supernatural; no one but a madman would believe in the supernatural as
he does."

But I shook my head.

"I'm afraid that won't do, Swain. A good many fairly sane people
believe in the supernatural and devote themselves to its study--there
is William James, for instance."

"But William James doesn't dress in flowing robes, and worship the
sun, and live with a Hindu mystic."

"No," I smiled, "he doesn't do that," and I thought again of the
mysterious light and of the two white-clad figures. "Does he live with
a Hindu mystic?"

"Yes,"