It was the first gleam to enliven a prosaic and
tiresome hearing.
"Were the Hindus obtrusive in any way?" asked the coroner.
"Oh, no; they minded their business; I've no complaint on that
score."
"Did you see any of their religious practices?"
"I wouldn't call them religious--quite the contrary. I've seen them
wavin' their arms and bowin' to the sun and settin' in the dark
starin' at a glass globe with a light in it; that's about all. I got
used to it, after a while, and just went on about my work without
takin' any notice."
There was little more to be got from her, and finally she was excused.
The reporters yawned. The jury twitched nervously. Worthington Vaughan
was dead; he had been strangled--so much was clear; but not a
scintilla of evidence had as yet been introduced as to who had
strangled him. Then a movement of interest ran through the crowd, for
a policeman came from the direction of the house accompanied by two
strange figures. One was the yogi, in robes of dazzling white; the
other his attendant, wearing something more than a diaper, indeed, but
with his thin brown legs bare.
The yogi bowed to Goldberger with grave courtesy, and, at a word from
the attendant policeman, sat down in the witness-chair.
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