der of mystics), and,
though I saw nothing to suggest this method, I know nothing to exclude
it--as a working hypothesis. But be that as it may, the arrangement was
made that on a certain Wednesday evening Snarley was to come down to the
Rectory and attend in the garden for the coming of Chandrapal. I had
already learnt to regard Mrs. Abel as a worker of miracles to whom few
things were impossible; but this conquest of Snarley's reluctance to be
interviewed, and in a manner so exceptional, has always impressed me as
one of her greatest achievements. If the reader had known the old
shepherd only in his untransfigured state--when, in his own phrase, he
was "stuck in his skin"--I venture to say he would as soon have thought
of asking a grisly bear to afternoon tea in his drawing-room as of
inviting Snarley Bob to meet an Indian sage in a rectory garden. But the
arrangement was made--whether by the aid of Beelzebub or the attractions
of British gold, no man will ever know.

Nothing in connection with Snarley had ever interested me so much as the
possible outcome of this strange interview; so that, when informed of
what was going to happen, I sent a telegram to Mrs. Abel asking
permission to be on the spot--not, of course, as a witness of the
interview but as a guest in the house. The reply was favourable, and on
Tuesday afternoon I was at Deadborough.

I had some talk with Chandrapal, and I could see that he was not pleased
at my coming. He asked me at once why I was there, and, on receiving a
not very ingenuous answer, he became reserved and distant. Indeed, his
whole manner reminded me forcibly of the bearing of Snarley Bob on the
occasion of our ludicrous attempt on Quarry Hill to introduce him to the
poetry of Keats. I had come prepared to ask him a question; but I had no
sooner reached the point than the whole fashion of the man was suddenly
changed. His face, which usually wore an expression of quiet dignity,
seemed to degenerate into a mass of coarse but powerful features, so
that, had I seen him thus at a first meeting, I should have thought at
once, "This man is a sensualist and a ruffian!" His answers were
distinctly rude; he said the question was foolish (probably it
was)--that people had been pestering him with that kind of thing ever
since he left India; in short, he gave me to understand that he regarded
me as a nuisance. I had never before seen in him any approach to this
manner; indeed, I had continually ma