“Man, man! They’re pitiful! They read like the letters of a drug-addict, struggling to throw off the cursed stuff, and all the while crying for it. Lord save us, what a time Fred Terry must have had!”
“Increasingly rarely,” said Ommony. “He had almost cured her. The attacks were intermittent. Terry heard of a sacred place in the hills—a sort of Himalayan Lourdes, I take it—and they set off together, twenty years ago, to find the place. I never found a trace of them, but I heard rumors, and I’ve always believed they disappeared into the Ahbor country.”
“Where they probably were crucified!” McGregor added grimly.
“I don’t know,” said Ommony. “I’ve heard tales about a mysterious stone in the Ahbor country that’s supposed to have magic qualities. Terry probably heard about it too, and he was just the man to go in search of it. I’ve also heard it said that the ‘Masters’ live in the Ahbor Valley.”
McGregor shook his head and smiled. “Still harping on that string?”
“One hundred million people, at a very conservative estimate, of whom at least a million are thinkers, believe that the Masters exist,” Ommony retorted. “Who are you and I, to say they don’t? If they do, and if they’re in the Ahbor Valley, I propose to prove it.”
McGregor’s smile widened to a grin. “Men who are as wise as they are said to be, would know how to keep out of sight. The Mahatmas, or Masters, as you call them, are a mare’s nest, Ommony, old man. However, there may be something in the other rumor. By the way: who’s this adopted daughter of Miss Sanburn?”
“Never heard of her.”
“You’re trustee of the Marmaduke Mission, aren’t you? Know Miss Sanburn intimately? When did you last see her?”
“A year ago. She comes to Delhi once a year to meet me on the mission business. About once in three years I go to Tilgaun. I’m due there now.”