The little heap of the parson’s possessions which he left on the table consisted chiefly of papers, over and above a pipe and a tobacco pouch and some Roman and Saxon coins.  The rest were catalogues of old books, and pamphlets, like one entitled “The Use of Sarum,” one glance at which was sufficient both for the colonel and the schoolboy.  They could not see the use of Sarum at all.  The contents of the boy’s pockets naturally made a larger heap, and included marbles, a ball of string, an electric torch, a magnet, a small catapult, and, of course, a large pocketknife, almost to be described as a small tool box, a complex apparatus on which he seemed disposed to linger, pointing out that it included a pair of nippers, a tool for punching holes in wood, and, above all, an instrument for taking stones out of a horse’s hoof.  The comparative absence of any horse he appeared to regard as irrelevant, as if it were a mere appendage easily supplied.  But when the turn came of the gentleman in the black gown, he did not turn out his pockets, but merely spread out his hands.

“I have no possessions,” he said.

“I’m afraid I must ask you to empty your pockets and make sure,” observed the colonel, gruffly.

“I have no pockets,” said the stranger.

Mr. Twyford was looking at the long black gown with a learned eye.

“Are you a monk?” he asked, in a puzzled fashion.

“I am a magus,” replied the stranger.  “You have heard of the magi, perhaps?  I am a magician.”

“Oh, I say!” exclaimed Summers Minor, with prominent eyes.

“But I was once a monk,” went on the other.  “I am what you would call an escaped monk.  Yes, I have escaped into eternity.  But the monks held one truth at least, that the highest life should be without possessions.  I have no pocket money and no pockets, and all the stars are my trinkets.”

“They are out of reach, anyhow,” observed Colonel Morris, in a tone which suggested that it was well for them.  “I’ve known a good many magicians myself in India—­mango plant and all.  But the Indian ones are all frauds, I’ll swear.  In fact, I had a good deal of fun showing them up.  More fun than I have over this dreary job, anyhow.  But here comes Mr. Symon, who will show you over the old cellar downstairs.”

Mr. Symon, the official guardian and guide, was a young man, prematurely gray, with a grave mouth which contrasted curiously with a very small, dark mustache with waxed points, that seemed somehow, separate from it, as if a black fly had settled on his face.  He spoke with the accent of Oxford and the permanent official, but in as dead a fashion as the most indifferent hired guide.  They descended a dark stone staircase, at the floor of which Symon pressed a button and a door opened on a dark room, or, rather, a room which had an instant before been dark.  For almost as the heavy iron door swung open an almost blinding blaze of electric lights filled the whole interior.  The fitful enthusiasm of Stinks at once caught fire, and he eagerly asked if the lights and the door worked together.