“By Ruhmani, November 23, 1913.”
“Strange,” murmured Rama Dass. “Brother Ruhmani died in that year; which accounts for our having lost touch with you. What is your grade?”
“The fifth.”
“You have not proceeded far, brother. How do you come to be unacquainted with our presence in England?”
“I cannot say.”
“What work has been allotted to you?”
“None.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
“More and more strange,” murmured the Hindu, watching Nicol Brinn through the gold-rimmed spectacles which he wore. “I have only known one other case. Such cases are dangerous, brother.”