pouch and some Roman and Saxon coins. The rest were
catalogues of old books, and pamphlets, like one entitled "The Use
of Sarum," one glance at which was sufficient both for the colonel
and the schoolboy. They could not see the use of Sarum at all. The
contents of the boy's pockets naturally made a larger heap, and
included marbles, a ball of string, an electric torch, a magnet, a
small catapult, and, of course, a large pocketknife, almost to be
described as a small tool box, a complex apparatus on which he
seemed disposed to linger, pointing out that it included a pair of
nippers, a tool for punching holes in wood, and, above all, an
instrument for taking stones out of a horse's hoof. The comparative
absence of any horse he appeared to regard as irrelevant, as if it
were a mere appendage easily supplied. But when the turn came of the
gentleman in the black gown, he did not turn out his pockets, but
merely spread out his hands.

"I have no possessions," he said.

"I'm afraid I must ask you to empty your pockets and make sure,"
observed the colonel, gruffly.

"I have no pockets," said the stranger.

Mr. Twyford was looking at the long black gown with a learned eye.

"Are you a monk?" he asked, in a puzzled fashion.

"I am a magus," replied the stranger. "You have heard of the magi,
perhaps? I am a magician."

"Oh, I say!" exclaimed Summers Minor, with prominent eyes.

"But I was once a monk," went on the other. "I am what you would
call an escaped monk. Yes, I have escaped into eternity. But the
monks held one truth at least, that the highest life should be
without possessions. I have no pocket money and no pockets, and all
the stars are my trinkets."

"They are out of reach, anyhow," observed Colonel Morris, in a tone
which suggested that it was well for them. "I've known a good many
magicians myself in India--mango plant and all. But the Indian ones
are all frauds, I'll swear. In fact, I had a good deal of fun
showing them up. More fun than I have over this dreary job, anyhow.
But here comes Mr. Symon, who will show you over the old cellar
downstairs."

Mr. Symon, the official guardian and guide, was a young man,
prematurely gray, with a grave mouth which contrasted curiously with
a very small, dark mustache with waxed points, that seemed somehow,
separate from it, as if a black fly had settled on his face. He
spoke with the accent of Oxford and the permanent official, but in
as dead a fashion as the m