Her words had, however, given me a clue. "He's been like this before, then?" "Yes, sir. But never more than four days without telling me he would. Th' first time was months ago--but it's been gettin' oftener and oftener, till now all his sleeps are like this. He told me not to be scared--an' to--to never bother about him--to--to just let him alone; but--I guess I was scared tonight, when it begun to storm an' him layin' there like that. It was like havin' a corpse in the house." I began to gain a fuller appreciation of the situation. I myself had seen people in a cataleptic condition, had even induced the state in subjects myself, and it appeared to me that Jason Croft was in a similar state, no matter how induced. "What does your employer do?" I asked. "He studies, sir--just studies things like that." Mrs. Goss gestured at the cases of books. "He don't have to work, you know. His uncle left him rich." I followed her arm as she swept it about the glass-fronted cases. I brought my glances back to the desk in the center of the room, between the woman and myself as we stood. Upon it I spied another volume lying open. It was unlike any book I had ever seen, yellowed with age; in fact not a book at all, but a series of parchment pages tied together with bits of silken cord. I took the thing up and found the open pages covered with marginal notes in English, although the original was plainly in Sanskrit, an ancient language I had seen before, but was wholly unable to read. The notations, however, threw some light into my mind, and as I read them I forgot the storm, the little old woman--everything save what I read and the bearing it held on the man behind me on the couch. I felt sure they had been written by his own hand, and they bore on the subject of astral projection--the ability of the soul to separate itself, or be separated, from the physical body and return to its fleshy husk again at will. I finished the open pages and turned to others. The notations were still present wherever I looked. At last I turned to the very front and found that the manuscript was by Ahmid, an occult adept of Hindustan, who lived somewhere in the second or third century of the Christian era. With a strange sensation I laid down the silk-bound pages. They were very, very old. Over a thousand years had come and passed since they were written by the dead Ahmid's hand. Yet I had held them tonight, and I felt sure Jason Croft had held them often--read them and understood them, and that the condition in which I found him this night was in some way subtly connected with their store of ancient lore. And suddenly I sensed the storm and the little old woman and the silent body of the man at my back again, with a feeling of something uncanny in the whole affair. * * * * * "You can do nothing for him?" the woman broke my introspection.