“Neither do I like the young man Percival,” he said placidly, and Mr. Early started.
“It is your next neighbor, Percival, is it not, who annoys?” the Swami inquired equably. “The youth who sneers when first I speak at your house? In India, now, one may do many things that are here impossible. Ah, but yes, you say, here you may do many things that are in India impossible. So goes it. Still more. The same forces exist everywhere; but we in India, we understand the forces that you, brilliant workers with the superficial, you do not understand. I shall be glad to help the benevolent Early, if at any time my services are of value. I know to do many things besides to meditate.”
Mr. Early stared in amazement at the unmoved face before him, a face almost as round and mystifying as the syllable “Om”, on which its thoughts were supposed to be centered.
“And, remember, I, too, dislike the young man Percival,” pursued the Swami blandly.
Mr. Early’s mind suddenly stiffened with horror.
“See here,” he exclaimed, sitting up, “you understand Mr. Percival is no enemy of mine. He is, in fact, a friend. You mustn’t think you’d be doing me a kindness by—ah—injuring him in any way.”
“My understanding,” said the Swami, still unmoved. “Fear no midnight assassination, noble friend. That is petty—and dangerous. I am not oblivious of the conventionalities. But the mind may be reached, as well as the body. Percival may do as I—you—we—wish. The higher animal at all times controls the lower. Perhaps, at some time, I may serve you. But you weary. The body makes demands. I bid you good night.”
He put out a great paw, and Mr. Early grasped it weakly, feeling that he was in the position of one who has started an oil “gusher” and can not control its flow. He might have to light it to get rid of it.
To his own room went Ram Juna, occasionally nodding his head in his serene manner. He carefully locked behind him the door which connected his wing with the rest of the house. A few moments he paused listening, then he crossed his bedroom and the narrow passage that opened on the garden and entered the little unused room beyond. Here all was dark, inky dark, for the heavy shutters on the street side of the room were closed and barred and the shades on the garden front were drawn, shutting out what dim rays the departed sun had left the night. The Swami apparently had no need of greater light, for, neglecting the electric button near the door, he groped quietly about, struck a match and lighted a single candle, with which he returned to the hallway and opened the garden door, standing for a moment with the taper flickering in the rush of cold air that poured in from outside. When he stepped back and closed the door, there stood beside him another man, clean-shaven, lean, sharp-nosed and ferret-eyed, whose footstep was almost as light as that of the Swami himself. Neither of them spoke until they reached the smaller room and the door was locked.
“You shiver, my friend,” said Ram Juna. “The night is cold.”