“Pleased to meet your acquaintance,” said Mr. Gubb. “What can I aim to do for you?”
Mr. Alibaba Singh brought a chair close to Mr. Gubb’s desk and seated himself. He leaned close to Mr. Gubb—so close that Mr. Gubb scented the rank odor of cheap hair-oil—and whispered.
“Everything is to be strictly confidential—most strictly confidential. That’s understood?”
“Most absolutely sure.”
“Of course! Now, you must have heard of me—I’ve made quite a stir here in Riverbank since I came. Theosophical lectures—first lessons in Nirvana—Buddhistic philosophy—mysteries of Vedaism—et cetery.”
“I read your advertisement notices into the newspapers,” admitted Mr. Gubb.
“Just so. I have done well here. Many sought the mysteries. I have been unusually successful in Riverbank.” He stopped short and looked at Philo Gubb suspiciously. “You don’t believe in transmigration, do you?” he asked.
“Not without I do without knowing it,” said Mr. Gubb. “What is it?”
“Transmigration,” repeated Alibaba Singh. “It—Hindoos believe in it. At death the souls of the good enter higher forms of life; the souls of the bad enter lower forms of life. If you were a bad man and died you would become a—a dog, or a horse, or—or something. You don’t believe that, do you?”