“How did you learn that?” Goldberger demanded.

“I saw it in the sphere,” replied the adept calmly.

“Where were you at the time?”

“I was gazing at the sphere.”

“Do you mean,” asked Goldberger incredulously, “that you sat for five hours and more staring at that thing?”

“My vigil began at sundown,” said the adept, with a slight smile.  “Last night was the White Night of Siva.  It must be spent in meditation by all who follow him.”

Goldberger worried his moustache with nervous fingers, as he stared at the adept, plainly at a loss how to proceed.

“Perhaps,” ventured Godfrey, softly, “your crystal could give us some further information which we very much desire.”

The adept turned his dark eyes on the speaker, and it seemed to me that they glittered more coldly, as though they recognised an adversary.

“What information, sir?” he asked.

“Information as to the manner of Mr. Vaughan’s passing—­can you tell us anything of that?”

The adept shook his head.

“I only saw the soul as it passed over.  I knew, however, that it had been torn from the body by violence.”

“How did you know that?” broke in Goldberger.

“Because of its colour,” answered the adept; and then, when he saw our benumbed expressions, he explained.  “Souls which pass in peace are white; souls which the body has driven forth by its own hands are black; souls which are torn from the body by an alien hand are red.  My pupil’s soul was red.”

I could see that Goldberger did not know whether to snort with derision or to be impressed.  He ended by smiling feebly.  As for me, I admit I was impressed.

“When an alien hand, as you put it, is used,” said the coroner, “we call it murder in this country, and the law tries to get hold of the alien and to send his soul after his victim’s.  That’s what we are trying to do now.  We are officers of the law.”

The adept bowed.

“Any assistance I can give you,” he said, softly, “I shall be glad to give; though to do murder, as you call it, is not always to do wrong.”

“Our law doesn’t make such nice distinctions,” said Goldberger, drily.  “May I ask your profession?”

“I am a White Priest of Siva,” said the adept, touching his forehead lightly with the fingers of his left hand, as in reverence.

“Who is Siva?”

“The Holy One, the Over-soul, from whom we come and to whom we all return.”

Again Goldberger worried his moustache.

“Well,” he said, at last, “until the mystery is cleared up, I must ask you not to leave this house.”

“I have no wish to leave it, sir.”

“And the other fellow—­the fellow who took away the snake—­where was he last night?”

“He slept in a small room opening into this one.”

“May I look into it?”

“Certainly,” and the adept swept aside the curtains.