Rama Dass stood up at once and repeated his strange gesture of salutation, which Nicol Brinn returned ceremoniously; and resumed his seat at the table.

“You are advanced beyond your grade, brother,” he said.  “You are worthy the next step.  Do you wish to take it?”

“Every little drop swells the ocean,” returned Nicol Brinn.

“You speak well,” the Hindu said.  “We have here your complete record.  It shall not be consulted.  To do so were unnecessary.  We are satisfied.  We regret only that one so happily circumstanced to promote the coming of the Fire should have been lost sight of.  Last night there were three promotions and several rejections.  You were expected.”

“But I was not summoned.”

“No,” murmured Rama Dass.  “We had learned of you as I have said.  However, great honour results.  You will be received alone.  Do you desire to advance?”

“No.  Give me time.”

Rama Dass again performed the strange salutation, and again Nicol Brinn returned it.

“Wisdom is a potent wine,” said the latter, gravely.

“We respect your decision.”

The Hindu rang a little silver bell upon his table, and the double doors which occupied one end of the small room opened silently, revealing a large shadowy apartment beyond.

Rama Dass stood up, crossed the room, and standing just outside the open doors, beckoned to Nicol Brinn to advance.

“There is no fear,” he said, in a queer, chanting tone.

“There is no fear,” repeated Nicol Brinn.

“There is no love.”

“There is no love.”

“There is no death.”

“There is no death.”

“Fire alone is eternal.”

“Fire alone is eternal.”

As he pronounced those words Nicol Brinn crossed the threshold of the dark room, and the double doors closed silently behind him.

CHAPTER XXII.  FIRE-TONGUE SPEAKS

Absolute darkness surrounded Nicol Brinn.  Darkness, unpleasant heat, and a stifling odour of hyacinths.  He had been well coached, and thus far his memory had served him admirably.  But now he knew not what to expect.  Therefore inwardly on fire but outwardly composed, muscles taut and nerves strung highly, he waited for the next development.

It took the form, first, of the tinkling of a silver bell, and then of the coming of a dim light at the end of what was evidently a long apartment.  The light grew brighter, assuming the form of a bluish flame burning in a little flambeau.  Nicol Brinn watched it fascinatedly.

Absolutely no sound was discernible, until a voice began to speak, a musical voice of curiously arresting quality.

“You are welcome,” said the voice.  “You are of the Bombay Lodge, although a citizen of the United States.  Because of some strange error, no work has been allotted to you hitherto.  This shall be remedied.”