“Some may call me that,” said Silva, “but incorrectly.  Among my fellow Saivas, I am known as a White Priest, a yogi, a teacher of the law.”

“Mr. Vaughan was your pupil?”

“Yes; for six months he was my pupil.”

“In what way did you come to accept this position?”

“Two years ago, Mr. Vaughan visited the monastery of our order in Crete.  He was at that time merely a student of Orientalism, and came to us from curiosity.  But his interest grew; and after a year spent in studying the holy books, he asked that a teacher be sent to him.  There was none at that time who could be spared; but six months ago, having completed a task which had occupied me in Paris, I was assigned to this.”

“Do you always go to so much trouble to secure converts?” questioned Goldberger, a little cynically.

“Usually we require that the period of study be passed at one of our monasteries.  But this case was exceptional.”

“In what way?”

“It was our hope,” explained the yogi, calmly, “that Mr. Vaughan would assist us in spreading the Great Truth by endowing a monastery for us in this country.”

“Ah!” and Goldberger looked at him.  “Did he agree to do so?”

“He did,” answered the yogi, still more calmly.  “This estate was to have been given to us for that purpose, together with an endowment sufficient to maintain it.  Mr. Vaughan himself hoped to gain the White Robe and become a teacher.”

“What was to become of his daughter?”

“It was his hope that she would become a priestess of our order.”

“You hoped so, too, no doubt?” inquired Goldberger sweetly.

“I did.  It is an office of high honour and great influence.  She would walk all her days in the shadow of the Holy One.  So sweet a cup is offered to few women.  The number of priestesses is limited to nine.”

Goldberger pulled at his moustache helplessly.  Evidently the witness’s calm self-control was not to be broken down, or even ruffled.

“Please tell me where you were night before last,” said the coroner, finally.

“I was in this house.”

“Did you see Mr. Vaughan?”

“I did not.”

“How did you spend the night?”

“In contemplation.  It was, as I have told you, the White Night of Siva, sacred to him from sunset to sunrise.”

“Do you mean that you spent the whole night sitting before that crystal?” asked the coroner, incredulously.

“That is my meaning.”

“You know nothing, then, of the death of Mr. Vaughan?”

“I saw his soul pass in the night.  More than that I know not.”

Again Goldberger twitched at his moustache.  He was plainly at a loss how to proceed.

“Was your attendant with you?” he asked, at last.

“He was in his closet.”

“At his devotions too, perhaps?”

“The White Night of Siva is also the Black Night of Kali,” said the yogi, gravely, as one rebuking an unworthy levity.