“Perhaps—­she is here still.”

Their voices were lowered, as in the presence of sacred things.  Never, till now, had Roy so keenly felt his individual link with this wonderful old man, whose blood ran in his veins.

“Grandfather,” he asked after a pause, “I suppose it doesn’t often happen—­that sort of thing?  I suppose most common-sense people would dismiss it all as—­sheer delusion?”

The young simplicity of the question lit a smile in Sir Lakshman’s eyes.

“Quite possible.  All that is most beautiful in life, most real to saints and lovers, must seem delusion to those whose hearts and spirits are merely vassals to the body and the brain.  But those who say of the soul, ‘It is not,’ have still to prove it is not to those who have felt and known.  Also I grant—­the other way about.  But they speak in different languages.  Kabir says, ‘I disclose my soul in what is hidden.’  And again, ‘The bird is beyond seeking, yet it is most clearly visible.’  For us, that is living truth.  For those others, a mere tangle of words.”

“I see.”  Roy’s gaze was riveted on the picture above the writing-table.  “You can’t explain colours to the colour-blind.  And I suppose experiences like mine only come to those for whom words like that are—­living truth?”

“Yes—­like yours.  But there are other kinds; not always true.  Because, in this so sacred matter, clever people, without scruple, have made capital out of the heart’s natural longing; and the dividing line is dim where falsehood ends and truth begins.  So it has all come into suspicion and contempt.  Accept what is freely given, Roy.  Do not be tempted to try and snatch more.”

“No—­no.  I wouldn’t if I could.”  A pause. “You believe it is time ... what I feel?  That she is often—­very near me?”

Sir Lakshman gravely inclined his head.  “As I believe in Brahma, Lord of all.”

And for both the silence that fell seemed pulsating with her unseen presence....

When they spoke again it was of mundane things.  Roy vividly described his sensations, riding through the City; the culminating incident, and his recognition of the offender.

“The queerest thing, running into the beggar again like that!  He looks as sulky and shifty as ever.  That’s how I knew.”

“Sulky and shifty—­and wearing English clothes?” Sir Lakshman’s brows contracted sharply.  “What name did you say?”

“Chandranath, we called him.”

“And you don’t know his whereabouts?”

“No, I’m sorry.  I didn’t suppose his whereabouts mattered a damn to any one.”