“Well, well, well,—that’s quite an idea, isn’t it!”—responded Bill. “No,”—as Lonnie felt in his vest pocket—tentatively,—“it’s my treat. The plan you mention isn’t more’n half bad—kind o’ lets us all out without any hard feelings. I know it will suit Imogene to a T. Come back from India any time—in the astral. You’ll find the latch-string out.”
“You forget,” returned the Mystic mildly, even sadly, “that ONE—WHO—KNOWS requires neither latch-string nor pass key.
“Such an one, as I AM—TO—BECOME, neither asks admission nor visits by invitation. These are they who function in the Universal and whose atomic particles respond to the WILL. These are they whose levitations are uncircumscribed, who moveth by Desire and where they listeth. If I go shall I return again? And if so, from whence and for why? And who shall let me in? Aha! Ah-ha!”
Saying which the wise man of Kankakee turned, went softly out the door and gliding down Asylum Avenue sought the abode of the fascinating Typewriter.
A Maiden so fair and a Guru so slight
Conversed as they sat on the green:
Alonzo the Seer was the name of the wight,
And the maid was the Fair Imogene.