Another seance was in progress. This was far more impressive than the one that Joe Cardona had observed in the home of Anita Marie. A master was at work, and those who surrounded him were more than mere believers. Their countenances wore the enthralled look of disciples. Not only was the group a remarkable one; the surroundings themselves were impressive. It seemed as though this little cluster of enraptured persons had been transported from the matter-of-fact atmosphere of New York to the glorious environment of India.
There were only half a dozen persons in the room, and their evening clothes betokened them as members of New York's upper strata of society.
The leader of the throng was attired in a splendid Oriental costume. He sat in a thronelike chair near one end of the impressive room, the walls of which were hung with shimmering tapestries woven in cloth of gold.
The smoke from two incense burners floated up in wreaths about the golden image of a solemn-faced Buddha.
Rajah Brahman was the medium. He was ending the first seance that had marked his return to New York. Only the most faithful had been permitted to attend this initial meeting. Now that they had heard the mystic's words of wisdom, and his promises of future marvels, they were awaiting his command to leave.
As was his custom, Rajah Brahman must spend the later hours of the evening in contemplation of the vaster things of life. He was about to commune privately with the spirits of the other world; to learn all hidden things which he would later reveal to his disciples, when he summoned them again. Clad in a golden robe that bore the symbol of a hooded cobra, his head adorned with the resplendent turban worn by the highest caste in India, the rajah's dark-hued face was that of a man of superior knowledge. His close-cropped beard gave him a masterful appearance; his dark, glittering eyes transfixed themselves upon each true believer as he stared upon each in turn. Rajah Brahman clapped his hands three times. The sharp sounds echoed through the gilded room. The tapestries seemed to waver as though controlled by the action. A slender, white-clad Hindu entered the room, and stood toward the enthroned master.
This servant, Rajah Brahman's faithful Imam Singh, bore himself with the same solemnity as his master. He reached the throne, and stood at the left side, arms folded, his youthful face stern and inflexible. This was his appointed place.
No one ever stood upon the right of Rajah Brahman's throne. That was the spot where the master received his spirit guide.
Again, Rajah Brahman clapped his hands thrice. Like sheep, the students of the master arose and bowed. One by one, they filed through a curtained door that led to an outer room. Imam Singh stalked after them, to usher them from the sacred premises. Rajah Brahman was alone. A strange man amid strange surroundings! Yet this luxurious abode, with all its fashionable glory of the East, was located in one of the highest stories of a New York skyscraper. The Callao Hotel, Manhattan's newest and tallest apartment building, had been chosen by Rajah Brahman as his residence. Money meant nothing to this man of wealth, who brought great and unfathomable messages from the Yogi of the Himalayas.
Within ten minutes after the servant had departed, Imam Singh returned to interrupt his master's soliloquy. He approached the throne and spoke a few words.