"Please tell me where you were night before last," said the coroner,
finally.
"I was in this house."
"Did you see Mr. Vaughan?"
"I did not."
"How did you spend the night?"
"In contemplation. It was, as I have told you, the White Night of
Siva, sacred to him from sunset to sunrise."
"Do you mean that you spent the whole night sitting before that
crystal?" asked the coroner, incredulously.
"That is my meaning."
"You know nothing, then, of the death of Mr. Vaughan?"
"I saw his soul pass in the night. More than that I know not."
Again Goldberger twitched at his moustache. He was plainly at a loss
how to proceed.
"Was your attendant with you?" he asked, at last.
"He was in his closet."
"At his devotions too, perhaps?"
"The White Night of Siva is also the Black Night of Kali," said the
yogi, gravely, as one rebuking an unworthy levity.
"What do you mean by that?" Goldberger demanded.
"Mahbub is of the cult of Kali, who is the wife of Siva," said the
yogi, touching his forehead reverently as he spoke the words. "He
spent the night in adoration of her attributes."
Goldberger's stenographer was having his difficulties; the pencils of
the reporters were racing wildly in unison; everyone was listening
with strained attention; there was, somehow, a feeling in the air that
something was about to happen.
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