He took up what looked like a very ungainly tobacco-pipe, made of some rich brown wood, and, handing it to me: “Examine this, Mr. Knox,” he said, the boyish smile of triumph returning again to his face. I did as he requested and made no discovery of note. The thing clearly was not intended for a pipe. The stem was soiled and, moreover, there was carving inside the bowl. So that presently I returned it to him, shaking my head. “Unless one should be informed of the properties of this little instrument,” he declared, “discovery by experiment is improbable. Now, note.” He struck the hollow of the bowl upon the palm of his hand, and it delivered a high, bell-like note which lingered curiously. Then: “Note again.” He made a short striking motion with the thing, similar to that which one would employ who had designed to jerk something out of the bowl. And at the very spot on the floor where any object contained in the bowl would have fallen, came a reprise of the bell note! Clearly, from almost at my feet, it sounded, a high, metallic ring. He struck upward, and the bell-note sounded on the ceiling; to the right, and it came from the window; in my direction, and the tiny bell seemed to ring beside my ear! I will honestly admit that I was startled, but: “Dyak magic,” said Colin Camber; “one of nature’s secrets not yet discovered by conventional Western science. It was known to the Egyptian priesthood, of course; hence the Vocal Memnon. It was known to Madame Blavatsky, who employed an ‘astral bell’; and it is known to me.” He returned the little instrument to its place upon the cabinet. “I wonder if the fact will strike you as significant,” said he, “that the note which you have just heard can only be produced between sunrise and sunset?” Without giving me time to reply: “The most notable survival of black magic--that is, the scientific employment of darkness against light--is to be met with in Haiti and other islands of the West Indies.” “You are referring to Voodooism?” I said, slowly. He nodded, replacing his pipe between his teeth. “A subject, Mr. Knox, which I investigated exhaustively some years ago.” I was watching him closely as he spoke, and a shadow, a strange shadow, crept over his face, a look almost of exaltation--of mingled sorrow and gladness which I find myself quite unable to describe. “In the West Indies, Mr. Knox,” he continued, in a strangely altered voice, “I lost all and found all. Have you ever realized, sir, that sorrow is the price we must pay for joy?” I did not understand his question, and was still wondering about it when I heard a gentle knock, the door opened, and a woman came in. CHAPTER XIV YSOLA CAMBER