“Oh, no; they minded their business; I’ve no complaint on that score.”

“Did you see any of their religious practices?”

“I wouldn’t call them religious—­quite the contrary.  I’ve seen them wavin’ their arms and bowin’ to the sun and settin’ in the dark starin’ at a glass globe with a light in it; that’s about all.  I got used to it, after a while, and just went on about my work without takin’ any notice.”

There was little more to be got from her, and finally she was excused.  The reporters yawned.  The jury twitched nervously.  Worthington Vaughan was dead; he had been strangled—­so much was clear; but not a scintilla of evidence had as yet been introduced as to who had strangled him.  Then a movement of interest ran through the crowd, for a policeman came from the direction of the house accompanied by two strange figures.  One was the yogi, in robes of dazzling white; the other his attendant, wearing something more than a diaper, indeed, but with his thin brown legs bare.

The yogi bowed to Goldberger with grave courtesy, and, at a word from the attendant policeman, sat down in the witness-chair.  Everybody was leaning forward looking at him, and the cameras were clicking in chorus, but he seemed scarcely aware of the circle of eager faces.

“Hold up your right hand, please,” began Goldberger, after contemplating him for a moment.

“For what purpose?” asked the yogi.

“I’m going to swear you.”

“I do not understand.”

“I’m going to put you on oath to tell nothing but the truth,” explained the coroner.

“An oath is unnecessary,” said the yogi with a smile.  “To speak the truth is required by my religion.”

There was something impressive in the words, and Goldberger slowly lowered his arm.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Francisco Silva.”

“You are not a Hindu?”

“I am of their faith.”

“But by birth?”

“I am a Portuguese.”

“Born in India?”

“Born at Goa.”

The coroner paused.  He had never heard of Goa.  Neither had I. Neither,
I judged, had any one else present.  In this, however, I was wrong. 
Godfrey had heard of it, and afterwards referred me to Marryat’s
“Phantom Ship” as his source of information.

“Goa,” Silva explained, seeing our perplexity, “is a colony owned by
Portugal on the Malabar coast, some distance below Bombay.”

“How does it come that you speak English so well?”

“I was educated at Bombay, and afterwards at Oxford and at Paris.”

“But you are by religion a Hindu?”

“I am a Saiva—­a follower of Siva, the Lord of life and death.”

As he spoke, he touched his forehead with the fingers of his left hand.  There was a moment’s silence.  Goldberger’s moustache, I noted with a smile, was beginning to suffer again.

“You are what is called an adept?” he asked, at last.