“Let us think slowly and dearly. This has been a very singular tale, and there are things in it which I, as a mystic not altogether ignorant, recognize as far from impossible. Furthermore — since 1930 1 have received letters from the Swami which tally with his account.”
As he paused, old Mr. Phillips ventured a word.
“Swami Chandraputra spoke of proofs. I, too, recognize much that is significant in this story, and I have myself had many oddly corroborative letters from the Swami during die last two years; but some of these statements are very extreme. Is there not something tangible which can be shown?”
At last the impassive-faced Swami replied, slowly and hoarsely, and drawing an object from the pocket of his loose coat as he spoke.
“While none of you here has ever seen the silver key itself, Messrs. de Marigny and Phillips have seen photographs of it. Does this look familiar to you?”
He fumblingly laid on the table, with his large, white-mittened hand, a heavy key of tarnished silver — nearly five inches long, of unknown and utterly exotic workmanship, and covered from end to end with hieroglyphs of the most bizarre description. De Marigny and Phillips gasped.
“That’s it!” cried de Marigny. “The camera doesn’t lie I couldn’t be mistaken!”
But Aspinwall had already launched a reply.
“Fools! What does it prove? If that’s really the key that belonged to my cousin, it’s up to this foreigner — this damned nigger — to explain how he got it! Randolph Carter vanished with the key four years ago. How do we know he wasn’t robbed and murdered? He was half crazy himself, and in touch with still crazier people.”
“Look here, you nigger — where did you get that key? Did you kill Randolph Carter?”
The Swami’s features, abnormally placid, did not change; but the remote, irisless black eyes behind them blazed dangerously. He spoke with great difficulty.
“Please control yourself, Mr. Aspinwall. There is another form of poof that I could give, but its effect upon everybody would not be pleasant. Let us be reasonable. Here are some papers obviously written since 1930, and in the unmistakable style of Randolph Carter.”
He clumsily drew a long envelope from inside his loose coat and handed it to the sputtering attorney as de Marigny and Phillips watched with chaotic thoughts and a dawning feeling of supernal wonder.
“Of course the handwriting is almost illegible — but remember that Randolph Carter now has no hands well adapted to forming human script.”
Aspinwall looked threw the papers hurriedly, and was visibly perplexed, but he did not change his demeanor. The room was tense with excitement and nameless dread and the alien rhythm of the coffin-shaped clock had an utterly diabolic sound to de Marigny and Phillips, though the lawyer seemed affected not at all.
Aspinwall spoke again. “These look like clever forgeries. If they aren’t, they may mean that Randolph Carter has been brought under the control of people with no good purpose. There’s only one thing to do — have this faker arrested. De Marigny, will you telephone for the police?”
“Let us wait,” answered their host. “I do not think this case calls for the police. I have a certain idea. Mr. Aspinwall, this gentleman is a mystic of real attainments. He says he is in the confidence of Randolph Carter. Will it satisfy you if he can answer certain questions which could be answered only by one in such confidence? I know Carter, and can ask such questions. Let me get a book which I think will make a good test.”
He turned toward the door to the library, Phillips dazedly following in a kind of automatic way. Aspinwall remained where he was, studying closely the Hindoo who confronted him with abnormally impassive face. Suddenly, as Chandraputra clumsily restored the silver key to his pocket the lawyer emitted a guttural shout.
“Hey, by Heaven I’ve got it! This rascal is disguise. I don’t believe he’s an East Indian at all. That face-it isn’t a face, but a mask! I guess his story put that into my head, but it’s true. It never moves, and that turban and beard hide the edges. This fellow’s a common crook! He isn’t even a foreigner — I’ve been watching his language. He’s a Yankee of some sort. And look at those mittens — he knows his fingerprints could be spotted. Damn you, I’ll pull that thing off –“