In the light of what came after great stress has been laid by a certain class upon this incident.  We may say that we lean neither way.  We have merely given it in some detail because of that importance.  We have yet no proof of the mystic and until it is proved, we must lean, like Jerome, upon the cold material.  We have the mystery, but, even at that, we have not the certainty of murder.

Understand, it was intuition that led Jerome into that memorable trip to Berkeley; he happened to be going off duty and was drawn to the man by a chance incident and the fact of his personality.  At this minute, however, he thought no more of him than as an eccentric, as some refined, strange wonderful gentleman with a whim for his own brand of humour.  Only that could explain it.  The man had an evident curiosity for everything about him, the buildings, the street, the cars, and the people.  Frequently he would mutter:  “Wonderful, wonderful, and all the time we have never known it.  Wonderful!”

As they drew into Lorin the officer ventured a question.

“You have friends in Berkeley?  I see you are a stranger.  If I may presume, perhaps I may be of assistance?”

“Well, yes, if—­if—­do you know of a Dr. Holcomb?”

“You mean the professor.  He lives on Dwight Way.  At this time of the day you would be more apt to find him at the university.  Is he expecting you?”

It was a blunt question and of course none of his business.  Yet, just what another does not want him to know is ever the pursuit of a detective.  At the same time the subconscious flashing and wondering at the name Rhamda Avec—­surely neither Teutonic nor Sanskrit nor anything between.

“Expecting me?  Ah, yes.  Pardon me if I speak slowly.  I am not quite used to speech—­yet.  I see you are interested.  After I see Dr. Holcomb I may tell you.  However, it is very urgent that I see the doctor.  He—­well, I may say that we have known each other a long time.”

“Then you know him?”

“Yes, in a way; though we have never met.  He must be a great man.  We have much in common, your doctor and I; and we have a great deal to give to your world.  However, I would not recognise him should I see him.  Would you by any chance—­”

“You mean would I be your guide?  With pleasure.  It just happens that I am on friendly terms with your friend Dr. Holcomb.”

II

THE PROFESSOR OF PHILOSOPHY

And now to start in on another angle.  There is hardly any necessity for introducing Dr. Holcomb.  All of us, at least, those who read, and, most of all, those of us who are interested in any manner of speculation, knew him quite well.  He was the professor of philosophy at the University of California:  a great man and a good one, one of those fine academic souls who, not only by their wisdom, but by their character, have a way of stamping themselves upon generations; a speaker of the upstanding class, walking on his own feet and utterly fearless when it came to dashing out on some startling philosophy that had not been borne up by his forebears.