“To Ilfracombe?” questioned Féraz—“So long a journey, and all to see that poor mad soul?”
El-Râmi looked at him steadfastly.
“No more ‘mad,’ Féraz, than you are with your notions about your native star! Why should a scientist who amuses himself with the reflections on a disc of magnetic crystal be deemed ‘mad’? Fifty years ago the electric inventions of Edison would have been called ‘impossible,’—and he, the inventor, considered hopelessly insane. But now we know these seeming ‘miracles’ are facts, we cease to wonder at them. And my poor friend with his disc is a harmless creature;—his ‘craze,’ if it be a craze, is as innocent as yours.”
“But I have no craze,”—said Féraz composedly,—“All that I know and see lives in my brain like music,—and, though I remember it perfectly, I trouble no one with the story of my past.”
“And he troubles no one with what he deems may be the story of the future”—said El-Râmi—“Call no one ‘mad’ because he happens to have a new idea—for time may prove such ‘madness’ a merely perfected method of reason. I must hasten, or I shall lose my train.”
“If it is the 2.40 from Waterloo, you have time,” said Féraz—“It is not yet two o’clock. Do you leave any message for Zaroba?”
“None. She has my orders.”
Féraz looked full at his brother, and a warm flush coloured his handsome face.
“Shall I never be worthy of your confidence?” he asked in a low voice—“Can you never trust me with your great secret, as well as Zaroba?”
El-Râmi frowned darkly.