The Jarados was a mystic.

He studied life after a manner of his own.  He was a stickler for getting down to the very heart of things, for prodding around among causes until he found the cause itself.  And thus he learned the secret of the occult.

For so he taught.  And presently the Jarados was recognized as an authority on what the Thomahlia called “the next world.”  Only he showed that death, instead of being an ushering into a void, was merely a translation onto another plane of life, a higher plane and a more glorious one.  In short, a thing to be desired and attained, not to be avoided.

This put the Spot of Life on an entirely different basis.  No longer was it a fearsome thing.  The Jarados elevated death to the plane of motherhood—­something to glory in.  And Chick gathered that his famous prophecy—­which he had yet to read, where it hung on the wall of the temple—­gave every detail of the Jarados’ profound convictions and teachings regarding the mystery of the next life.

And now comes a curious thing.  As Chick read these details, he became more and more conscious of—­what shall it be called?—­the presence of someone or something beside him, above and all about him, watching his every movement.  He could not get away from the feeling, although it was broad daylight, and he was seemingly quite alone in the room.  Chick was not frightened; but he could have sworn that a very real personality was enveloping his own as he read.

Every word, somehow, reminded him of the miraculous sequence of facts as he knew them; the unerring accuracy with which he, quite unthinkingly and almost without volition, had solved problem after problem, although the chances were totally against him.  He became more and more convinced that he himself had practically no control over his affairs; that he was in the hands of an irresistible Fate; and that—­he could not help it—­his good angel was none other than the prophet who, almost ninety centuries ago, had lived and taught upon the Thomahlia, and in the end had returned to the unknown.

But how could such a thing be?  Watson did not even know where he was!  Small wonder that, again and again, he felt the need of assurance.  He asked for the Jan Lucar.

“In the first place,” began Chick without preamble, “you accept me, Jan Lucar; do you not?”

“Absolutely, my lord.”

“You conceive me to be out of the spiritual world, and yet flesh and blood like yourself?”

“Of course,” with flat conviction.

That settled it.  Watson decided to find out something he had not had time to locate in the library.

“The Rhamda may have told you, Jan Lucar, that I am here to seek the Jarados.  Now, I suspect the Senestro.  Can you imagine what he has done to the prophet?”

“My lord,” remonstrated the other, “daring as the Bar might be, he could do nothing to the Jarados.  He would not dare.”