"Here comes Colonel Morris," went on Twyford, still speaking to Symon. "One of us will have to tell him how the light went out. Will you?" But Symon still said nothing. He was standing as still as a statue, and looking steadily at the black velvet behind the glass screen. He was looking at the black velvet because there was nothing else to look at. St. Paul's Penny was gone. Colonel Morris entered the room with two new visitors; presumably two new sightseers delayed by the accident. The foremost was a tall, fair, rather languid-looking man with a bald brow and a high-bridged nose; his companion was a younger man with light, curly hair and frank, and even innocent, eyes. Symon scarcely seemed to hear the newcomers; it seemed almost as if he had not realized that the return of the light revealed his brooding attitude. Then he started in a guilty fashion, and when he saw the elder of the two strangers, his pale face seemed to turn a shade paler. "Why it's Horne Fisher!" and then after a pause he said in a low voice, "I'm in the devil of a hole, Fisher." "There does seem a bit of a mystery to be cleared up," observed the gentleman so addressed. "It will never be cleared up," said the pale Symon. "If anybody could clear it up, you could. But nobody could." "I rather think I could," said another voice from outside the group, and they turned in surprise to realize that the man in the black robe had spoken again. "You!" said the colonel, sharply. "And how do you propose to play the detective?" "I do not propose to play the detective," answered the other, in a clear voice like a bell. "I propose to play the magician. One of the magicians you show up in India, Colonel." No one spoke for a moment, and then Horne Fisher surprised everybody by saying, "Well, let's go upstairs, and this gentleman can have a try." He stopped Symon, who had an automatic finger on the button, saying: "No, leave all the lights on. It's a sort of safeguard." "The thing can't be taken away now," said Symon, bitterly. "It can be put back," replied Fisher. Twyford had already run upstairs for news of his vanishing nephew, and he received news of him in a way that at once puzzled and reassured him. On the floor above lay one of those large paper darts which boys throw at each other when the schoolmaster is out of the room. It had evidently been thrown in at the window, and on being unfolded displayed a scrawl of bad handwriting which ran: "Dear Uncle; I am all right. Meet you at the hotel later on," and then the signature.