"Oh! I mean a spiritualist. He has a medium chap, he keeps in London--a rascally beggar who bleeds thousands a year out of him. They have séances. The medium scamp pretends to go into a trance and tells him all sorts of rubbish about the Nile kings and prophets and wizards and magicians and the elixir of life. It is dashed unpleasant for me, I can tell you. There's always some wild yarn going round the clubs. And as I'm known to be Ottley's prospective son-in-law, I have the life chaffed out of me in consequence. The latest was that the medium chap--Oscar Neitenstein is his name--put Ottley in the way of finding an old Theban prophet's tomb--this very Ptahmes, don't you know. And though he has been underground 4000 years, Neitenstein has fooled Ottley into expecting to find the prophet still alive. It's too idiotic to speak seriously about, of course; but on my honour the yarn drove me out of England. It got into the comic papers. Ugh! you know what that means. But I'm not sorry in one way. So I've come here to have it out with Ottley. And I'm going to--by Gad." "You haven't spoken to him yet?" "I have, but he treated me like a kid. Told me to run away and play and allow serious people to work. I stormed a bit, but it was no use. It made him so angry that he nearly took a fit--and I had to leave. Since then he has been shut up with his infernal mummy, in that cave temple over there--and he won't even let his daughter go within yards of the door. That's curious, isn't it?" "Very." "And there's that business about the mysterious Arab," went on the Captain. "The ugly horror that tried to throttle you and has been frightening Miss Ottley. She thinks it's a ghost. But I reckon not." "Ah!" "I reckon Sir Robert knows all about that Arab, though he pretends he does not know. In my opinion it's another of those spook mediums of his, and he is keeping the ugly beast hidden away somewhere. Probably the fellow is some awful criminal who has got to hide. Sir Robert would shelter Hill or even that Australian wife-murderer Deeming if he said he was a medium." "You extend my mental horizon," I remarked. "The Arab mystery is clearing up." The Captain simply beamed. "So glad you catch on," he said. "Do you know, I am depending heaps upon you in this business." "How?" The monosyllable disconcerted the Captain. He stuttered and hawed for a while. But, finally, he blurted out, "Well, you see, she won't leave her father under existing circumstances on any account, that's the trouble. But I'm hoping if we can convince the old man he is being fooled by a pack of scoundrels he will return to his sober senses and live Sensibly, and then----" he paused. "And then--wedding bells," I suggested. "Exactly," replied the Captain. "And see here, I have a plan." "Ah!" "It's to lay for that Arab, as a first step--and catch the brute." "And what then?"