. What's it all about?"

"Necromancy--wizardry--fairy-lore--all the stuff and nonsense that goes
to the making of 'The Arabian nights'!" said Narkom, waxing excited as
his thoughts were thus shoved back to the amazing affair he had in hand.
"All your 'Red Crawls' and your 'Sacred Sons' and your 'Nine-fingered
Skeletons' are fools to it for wonder and mystery. Talk about
witchcraft! Talk about wizards and giants and enchanters and the things
that witches did in the days of Macbeth! God bless my soul, they're
nothing to it. Those were the days of magic, anyhow, so you can take it
or leave it, as you like; but this---- Look here, Cleek, you've heard of
a good many queer things and run foul of a good many mysteries, I'll
admit, but did you ever in this twentieth century, when witchcraft and
black magic are supposed to be as dead as Queen Anne, hear of such a
marvel as a man putting on a blue leather belt that was said to have the
power of rendering the wearer invisible, and then forthwith melting into
thin air and floating off like a cloud of pipe smoke?"

"Gammon!"

"Gammon nothing! Facts!"

"Facts? You're out of your head, man. The thing couldn't possibly
happen. Somebody's having you!"

"Well, somebody had _him_, at all events. Young Carboys, I mean--the
chap that's engaged, or, rather, was engaged, to Captain Morrison's
daughter; and the poor girl's half out of her mind over it. He put the
belt on in the presence of her and her father in their own house, mind
you walked into a bedroom, and vanished like smoke. Doors locked,
windows closed, room empty, belt on the floor and man gone. Not a trace
of him from that moment to this; and yesterday was to have been his
wedding day. There's a 'mystery' if you like. What do you make of that?"

Cleek looked at him for an instant. Then:

"My dear Mr. Narkom, for the moment I thought you were fooling," he said
in a tone of deep interest. "But I see now that you are quite in
earnest, although the thing sounds so preposterous, a child might be
expected to scoff at it. A man to get a magic belt; to put it on, and
then to melt away? Why, the 'Seven-league Boots' couldn't be a greater
tax on one's credulity. Sit down and tell me all about it."

"The dickens of it is there doesn't seem to be much to tell," said
Narkom, accepting the invitation. "Young Carboys, who appears to have
been a decent sort of chap, had neither money, position, nor enemies, so
that's an end to any idea of