A buzz of interest arose. Lamont Cranston had a great reputation as a globe-trotter.
Questions came. All wanted to know his plans.
"My plans?" Cranston's staid face took on a cryptic smile. "I have none, gentlemen. I go where the mood seizes me. Africa — India — South America. All are alike to me. I do not follow the beaten trail.
"Alone and unattended, I may walk into the midst of a Senegambian tribe. The chief will recognize me. Unheralded, I may appear among the ancient Indians of Peru. There, too, my presence is welcome.
"I have been to Lassa, the Holy City of Tibet. I have trekked through the South African veldt. I have explored the far reaches of the Amazon. I go to places where my very name is unknown to those who recognize me.
"All of the primitive peoples whom I meet have given me their own name. Translated, I am known as 'Child of the Moon,' 'White Chief,' 'Smoke Man' — and a host of other curious titles.
I carry weapons, but I seldom use them, except when I am tracking game. I surprise my primitive friends with conjuring tricks, tobacco smoke, simple medical preparations, and other devices which I carry with me.
"I possess an aptitude for learning any dialect almost as I hear it. In this way, I get along well — even with cannibals, who have invariably considered me of more value as a wise man than as a kettle of stew. On my prospective journey, I shall encounter old friends and make new ones."
"You must run great risks," observed someone.
"Of course," said Cranston. "Sometime, I shall not return. No one will ever hear of me again. Well, that will be an interesting way to shake off this life. I prefer the unusual — in death as well as in life."