"That panel, there, is a door. There is a room beyond—a room facing to the south, bright with sunshine, flowers, soft rugs, and draperies of the East. She is there—like a child asleep!"
Burke reeled, steadying himself against the wall; the Tracer stared at space, speaking very slowly:
"Such death I have never before heard of. From the moment she came under my protection I have dared to doubt—many things. And an hour ago you brought me a papyrus scroll confirming my doubts. I doubt still—Heaven knows what! Who can say how long the flame of life may flicker within suspended animation? A week? A month? A year? Longer than that? Yes; the Hindoos have proved it. How long? The span of a normal life? Or longer? Can the life flame burn indefinitely when the functions are absolutely suspended—generation after generation, century after century?"
Burke, ghastly white, straightened up, quivering in every limb; the Tracer, as pale as he, laid his hand on the secret panel.
"If—if you dare say it—the phrase is this: 'O Ket Samaris, Nehes!'—'O Little Samaris, awake!'"
"I—dare. In Heaven's name, open that door!"
Then, averting his head, the Tracer of Lost Persons swung open the panel.
A flood of sunshine flashed on Burke's face; he entered; and the paneled door closed behind him without a sound.
Minute after minute passed; the Tracer stood as though turned to stone, gray head bent.
Then he heard Burke's voice ring out unsteadily: