“What can be going to happen?” the girl asked herself. In a vague sort of way she wished herself somewhere else, but to her astonishment she found herself unable to move.
Then a discovery, that under normal circumstances must have fairly bowled her over, came to her as in a dream: The little man standing there in the center garbed in an orange gown was none other than the long-eared Chinaman who had snatched the three-bladed knife from her hand.
“You can get him. Get him now,” a low voice seemed to whisper.
“Ah, yes, but you won’t,” a stronger voice appeared to reach her. “You’re going to see this thing through.”
And so she was.
Of a sudden, without for an instant abandoning his mad whirl, the dark-faced conjurer from India, for such he was, produced a rope. Three times he lifted his hand high.
“Now watch! Watch closely. He will go up.” In his voice there was a strange hypnotic cadence.
Like a thing shot from a gun, the rope rose straight in the air and, in so far as Jeanne’s eyes told her the truth, remained there standing on air.
The next instant a figure all in orange began passing up that rope. Up, up a yard, two yards, three, four, five. Up, up until the darkness appeared to stretch out black-robed arms to receive him.
Then of a sudden the dark-faced one ceased whirling. The drum gave forth one more loud boom, the flute one more squeak, and all was still.