“Now listen to this:  ’The Thugs are a religious fraternity, committing murders in honor of Kali, the wife of Siva, who, they believe, assists them and protects them.  Legend asserts that she presented her worshippers with three things, the hem of her lower garment to use as a noose, a rib to use as a knife, and a tooth to use as a pick-axe in burying the victims.’” He glanced at me, and then went on:  “’But the knife was little used, for the religious character of an assassination came to depend more and more upon its bloodless character, and for this a noose was used, with which the victim was strangled.  The aversion to bloodshed became in time so great that many sects of Thuggee consider it defiling to touch human blood!’” He closed the book and threw it on the table.  “Don’t you think that proves the case?”

“Yes,” I said, thoughtfully.  “And the yogi—­is he also a Thug?”

“Oh, no; a White Priest of Siva could never be a Thug.  The worship of Siva and of Kali are the very opposites of each other.  The Saivas are ascetics.  That is,” he added, in another tone, “if the fellow is really a Saiva and not just a plain fraud.”

“All these fellows are frauds, more or less, aren’t they?” I questioned.

“No,” was Godfrey’s unexpected answer; “the real yogin are no doubt sincere; but a real yogi wouldn’t waste his time on a soft-brained old man, and fire sky-rockets off at midnight to impress him.  My own opinion is that this fellow is a fakir—­a juggler, a sleight-of-hand man—­and, of course, a crook.”

“Well?” I asked, as Godfrey stopped and failed to continue.

“Well, that’s as far as I’ve got.  Oh, yes—­there’s Toto.  A cobra is one of a fakir’s stock properties.”

“But, Godfrey,” I protested, “he is no ignorant roadside juggler.  He’s a cultivated man—­an unusual man.”

“Certainly he is—­most unusual.  But that doesn’t disprove my guess; it only makes the problem harder.  Even a roadside juggler doesn’t do his tricks for nothing—­what reward is it this fellow’s working for?  It must be a big one, or it wouldn’t tempt him.”

“I suppose Vaughan paid him well,” I ventured.

“Yes; but did you look at him, Lester?  You’ve called him unusual, but that word doesn’t begin to express him.  He’s extraordinary.  No doubt Vaughan did pay him well, but it would take something more than that to persuade such a man to spend six months in a place like that.  And I think I can guess at the stake he’s playing for.”

“You mean Miss Vaughan?”

“Just that,” and Godfrey leaned back in his chair.

I contemplated this theory for some moments in silence.  It was, at least, a theory and an interesting one—­but it rested on air.  There was no sort of foundation for it that I could see, and at last I said so.

“I know it’s pretty thin,” Godfrey admitted, “but it’s the best I’ve been able to do—­there’s so little to build a theory out of.  But I’m going to see if I can’t prove one part of it true to-night.”