"I am a magus," replied the stranger. "You have heard of the magi,
perhaps? I am a magician."

"Oh, I say!" exclaimed Summers Minor, with prominent eyes.

"But I was once a monk," went on the other. "I am what you would
call an escaped monk. Yes, I have escaped into eternity. But the
monks held one truth at least, that the highest life should be
without possessions. I have no pocket money and no pockets, and all
the stars are my trinkets."

"They are out of reach, anyhow," observed Colonel Morris, in a tone
which suggested that it was well for them. "I've known a good many
magicians myself in India--mango plant and all. But the Indian ones
are all frauds, I'll swear. In fact, I had a good deal of fun
showing them up. More fun than I have over this dreary job, anyhow.
But here comes Mr. Symon, who will show you over the old cellar
downstairs."

Mr. Symon, the official guardian and guide, was a young man,
prematurely gray, with a grave mouth which contrasted curiously with
a very small, dark mustache with waxed points, that seemed somehow,
separate from it, as if a black fly had settled on his face. He
spoke with the accent of Oxford and the permanent official, but in
as dead a fashion as the most indifferent hired guide. They
descended a dark stone staircase, at the floor of which Symon
pressed a button and a door opened on a dark room, or, rather, a
room which had an instant before been dark. For almost as the heavy
iron door swung open an almost blinding blaze of electric lights
filled the whole interior. The fitful enthusiasm of Stinks at once