Presently came voices, footsteps and movement without.  The footsteps of some one person detached itself from the other sounds, and drew near, firm, evenly measured steps.  The curtain lifted slowly.  A tall, white-haired man, clad in garments of cream-coloured silk, appeared, regarding Graham from under his raised arm.

For a moment the white form remained holding the curtain, then dropped it and stood before it.  Graham’s first impression was of a very broad forehead, very pale blue eyes deep sunken under white brows, an aquiline nose, and a heavily-lined resolute mouth.  The folds of flesh over the eyes, the drooping of the corners of the mouth contradicted the upright bearing, and said the man was old.  Graham rose to his feet instinctively, and for a moment the two men stood in silence, regarding each other.

“You are Ostrog?” said Graham.

“I am Ostrog.”

“The Boss?”

“So I am called.”

Graham felt the inconvenience of the silence.  “I have to thank you chiefly, I understand, for my safety,” he said presently.

“We were afraid you were killed,” said Ostrog.  “Or sent to sleep again—­for ever.  We have been doing everything to keep our secret—­the secret of your disappearance.  Where have you been?  How did you get here?”

Graham told him briefly.

Ostrog listened in silence.

He smiled faintly.  “Do you know what I was doing when they came to tell me you had come?”

“How can I guess?”

“Preparing your double.”

“My double?”

“A man as like you as we could find.  We were going to hypnotise him, to save him the difficulty of acting.  It was imperative.  The whole of this revolt depends on the idea that you are awake, alive, and with us.  Even now a great multitude of people has gathered in the theatre clamouring to see you.  They do not trust....  You know, of course—­something of your position?”

“Very little,” said Graham.

“It is like this.”  Ostrog walked a pace or two into the room and turned.  “You are absolute owner,” he said, “of the world.  You are King of the Earth.  Your powers are limited in many intricate ways, but you are the figure-head, the popular symbol of government.  This White Council, the Council of Trustees as it is called—­”

“I have heard the vague outline of these things.”

“I wondered.”

“I came upon a garrulous old man.”

“I see....  Our masses—­the word comes from your days—­you know, of course, that we still have masses—­regard you as our actual ruler.  Just as a great number of people in your days regarded the Crown as the ruler.  They are discontented—­the masses all over the earth—­with the rule of your Trustees.  For the most part it is the old discontent, the old quarrel of the common man with his commonness—­the misery of work and discipline and unfitness.  But your Trustees have ruled ill.  In certain