Kennedy continued looking at the remainder of the jequirity beans and a liquid he had developed from some of them.  Finally, with a glance at his watch, he placed a tube of the liquid in a leather case in his pocket.

“This may not be the only murder,” he remarked, sententiously.  “It is best to be prepared.  Come; we must get up to that meeting.”

We journeyed up-town and arrived at the little private hall which the Cult of the Occult had hired somewhat ahead of the time set for the meeting, as Kennedy had aimed to do.  Mrs. Rogers was already there and met us at the door.

“So glad to see you,” she welcomed, leading us in.

As we entered we could breathe the characteristic pervading odor of sandalwood.  Rich Oriental hangings were on the walls, interspersed with cabalistic signs, while at one end was a raised dais.

Mrs. Rogers introduced us to a rather stout, middle-aged, sallow-faced individual in a turban and flowing robes of rustling purple silk.  His eyes were piercing, small, and black.  The plump, unhealthy, milk-white fingers of his hands were heavy with ornate rings.  He looked like what I should have imagined a swami to be, and such, I found, was indeed his title.

“The Swami Rajmanandra,” introduced Mrs. Rogers.

He extended his flabby hand in welcome, while Kennedy eyed him keenly.  We were not permitted many words with the swami, however, for Mrs. Rogers next presented us to a younger but no less interesting-looking Oriental who was in Occidental dress.

“This is Mr. Singh Bandematarain,” said Mrs. Rogers.  “You know, he has been sent here by the nizam of his province to be educated at the university.”

Mrs. Rogers then hastened to conduct us to seats as, one by one, the worshipers entered.  They were mostly women of the aristocratic type who evidently found in this cult a new fad to occupy their jaded craving for the sensational.  In the dim light, there was something almost sepulchral about the gathering, and their complexions seemed as white as wax.

Again the door opened and another woman entered.  I felt the pressure of Kennedy’s hand on my arm and turned my eyes unobtrusively.  It was Mrs. Anthony.

Quietly she seemed to glide over the floor toward the swami and, for a moment, stood talking to him.  I saw Singh eye her with a curious look.  Was it fear or suspicion?

I had come expecting to see something weird and wild, perhaps the exhibition of an Indian fakir—­I know not what.  In that, at least, I was disappointed.  The Swami Rajmanandra, picturesque though he was, talked most fascinatingly about his religion, but either the theatricals were reserved for an inner circle or else we were subtly suspected, for I soon found myself longing for the meeting to close so that we could observe those whom we had come to watch.

I had almost come to the conclusion that our mission had been a failure when the swami concluded and the visitors swarmed forward to talk with the holy man from the East.  Kennedy managed to make his way about the circle to Mrs. Rogers and soon was in an animated conversation.