“We’re both spooks.

“Pat MACPHERSON”

Said Watson:  “Who gave you this?  Did you see the man?”

“It was sent up my lord.  The man was a high Bar in the Senestro’s guard.”

Watson could not understand this.  Was it possible that there were others in this mysterious region besides himself?  At any rate, he wasn’t wholly alone.  He felt that he could count upon the Irishman—­or was this fellow Scotch?  Anyhow, such a man would find the quick means of wit at a crucial moment.

Suddenly Watson noted a queer feeling of emptiness.  He looked out of the window.  The music had ceased, and the incessant hum of the throngs had deadened to silence.  It was suspended, awesome, threatening.  At the same time, the Jan Lucar came to attention, at the opposite door stood the Rhamda Geos, black clad, surrounded by a group of his fellows.

“Come, my lord,” he said.

The crimson guard fell in behind Watson, the black-gowned took their places ahead, and the Jan Lucar and the Geos walked on either side.  They stepped out into the corridor.  By the indicator of a vertical clock, Chick noted that it was nine.  He did not know the day of the year other than from the Thomahlian calendar; but he knew that it was close to sunset.  He did not ask where they were going; there was no need.  The very solemnity of his companions told him more than their answers would have.  In a moment they were in the streets.

Watson had thought that they would be taken by aircraft, or that they would pass through the building.  He did not know that it was a concession to the Bar Senestro; that the Senestro was but playing a bit of psychology that is often practised by lesser champions.  If Watson’s nerve was not broken it was simply because of the iron indifference of confident health.  Chick had never been defeated.  He had no fear.  He was far more curious as to the scenes and events about him than he was of the outcome.  He was hoping for some incident that would link itself up into explanation.

At the door a curious car of graceful lines was waiting, an odd affair that might be classed as a cross between a bird and a gondola, streaming with colours and of magnificent workmanship and design.  On the deck of this the three men took their places; on the one side the Rhamda Geos, tall, sombre, immaculate; on the other, the magnificent Jan Lucar in the gorgeous crimson uniform, gold-braided and studded with jewels; on his head he wore the shako of purple down, and by his side a peculiar black weapon which he wore much in the manner of a sword.

In the centre, Watson—­bareheaded, his torso bare and his arms naked.  He had been given a pair of soft sandals, and a short suit, whose one redeeming feature in his eyes was a pocket into which he had thrust the automatic that he valued so much.  It was more like a picture of Rome than anything else.  Whatever the civilisation of the Thomahlians, their ritual in Watson’s eyes smacked still of barbarism.