madman--perhaps a dangerous lunatic. So he answered rather testily,
"No, certainly not; how absurd! you must see that's ridiculous.
You're in a civilised country, not among Australian savages. All
you'll have to do is to take the rooms and pay for them. I'm sorry
I can't be of any further use to you, but I'm pressed for time
to-day. So now, good-morning."

As for the stranger, he turned up the path through the lodging-
house garden with curious misgivings. His heart failed him. It was
half-past three by mean solar time for that particular longitude.
Then why had this young man said so briskly, "Good morning," at
3.30 P.M., as if on purpose to deceive him? Was he laying a trap?
Was this some wile and guile of the English medicine-men?






II





Next day was (not unnaturally) Sunday. At half-past ten in the
morning, according to his wont, Philip Christy was seated in the
drawing-room at his sister's house, smooth silk hat in gloved hand,
waiting for Frida and her husband, Robert Monteith, to go to church
with him. As he sat there, twiddling his thumbs, or beating the