He pointed with a pen which he was holding in the direction of a heavily carved chair which stood near the table.  Nicol Brinn sat down, regarding the speaker with lack-lustre eyes.

“A query has arisen respecting your fraternal rights,” continued the Hindu.  “Am I to understand that you claim to belong to the Seventh Kama?”

“Certainly,” replied Brinn in a toneless voice.

The Hindu drew his cuff back from a slender yellow wrist, revealing a curious mark which appeared to be branded upon the flesh.  It was in the form of a torch or flambeau surmounted by a tongue of flame.  He raised his black brows, smiling significantly.

Nicol Brinn stood up, removing his tight dinner jacket.  Then, rolling back his sleeve from a lean, sinuous forearm, he extended the powerful member, having his fist tightly clenched.

Upon the inside of his arm, just above the elbow, an identical mark had been branded!

The Hindu stood up and saluted Nicol Brinn in a peculiar manner.  That is to say, he touched the second finger of his right hand with the tip of his tongue, and then laid the finger upon his forehead, at the same time bowing deeply.

Nicol Brinn repeated the salutation, and quietly put his coat on.

“We greet you,” said the Hindu.  “I am Rama Dass of the Bengal Lodge.  Have you Hindustani?”

“No.”

“Where were you initiated?”

“At Moon Ali Lane.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the Hindu.  “I see it all.  In Bombay?”

“In Bombay.”

“When, and by whom, may I ask?”

“By Ruhmani, November 23, 1913.”

“Strange,” murmured Rama Dass.  “Brother Ruhmani died in that year; which accounts for our having lost touch with you.  What is your grade?”

“The fifth.”

“You have not proceeded far, brother.  How do you come to be unacquainted with our presence in England?”

“I cannot say.”

“What work has been allotted to you?”

“None.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“More and more strange,” murmured the Hindu, watching Nicol Brinn through the gold-rimmed spectacles which he wore.  “I have only known one other case.  Such cases are dangerous, brother.”

“No blame attaches to me,” replied Nicol Brinn.

“I have not said so,” returned Rama Dass.  “But in the Seventh Kama all brothers must work.  A thousand lives are as nothing so the Fire lives.  We had thought our information perfect, but only by accident did we learn of your existence.”

“Indeed,” murmured Nicol Brinn, coldly.

Not even this smiling Hindu gentleman, whose smile concealed so much, could read any meaning in those lack-lustre eyes, nor detect any emotion in that high, cool voice.

“A document was found, and in this it was recorded that you bore upon your arm the sign of the Seventh Kama.”

“’Tis Fire that moves the grains of dust,” murmured Nicol Brinn, tonelessly, “which one day make a mountain for the gods.”