A few months after my séance at the adept’s house, the Washington papers announced the fact that the Count de Sarak, the famous magician, was projecting a personally conducted tour to the Orient for the members of his cult and all those who were {270} interested in occultism. The pilgrims were to visit the inaccessible shrines, pagodas, crypts, and lamaseries of the East, under the ciceronage of the Count, who doubtless was to break down for them by sheer force of will the fluidic barriers that surround Lhassa, Thibet, where dwell the Mahatmas, in order that the tourists might penetrate into the sacred city. I never heard of anybody leaving Washington to go on this expedition, except the Count—and he, I understand, got no farther than New York City, where the French _table d’hôte_ abounds, and magic and mystery are chiefly to be studied in the recipes of French _chefs de cuisine_. {271} MAGICIANS I HAVE MET. “To succeed as a conjurer, three things are essential—first, dexterity; second, dexterity; and third, dexterity.”—ROBERT-HOUDIN. I. Imro Fox, “the comic conjurer,” was born May 21, 1852, in Bromberg, Germany. He came to the United States in 1874, and after serving as a _chef de cuisine_ in several New York hotels, finally came to Washington, where he presided over the kitchen of the old Hotel Lawrence, a famous resort for vaudeville people. When not engaged in his culinary duties, he practised sleight of hand tricks. In the year 1880, a strolling company came to the city, having as its bright, particular star a magician. The man of mystery, alas, was addicted to the flowing bowl, and went on a spree after the first night’s performance. The manager of the troupe, who was staying at the Lawrence, was in despair. He told his woes to the proprietor of the hotel, who informed him that the _chef_ of the establishment was a conjurer. Descending to the “lower regions” (a capital place, by the way, in which to seek a disciple of the black art), the theatrical man discovered the genial Imro studying a big volume. Near by a black cat sat blinking at him. Upon the stove was a huge caldron. The _mise en scène_ of the place was decidedly that of a wizard’s studio. But things are seldom what they seem. The book which Fox was so industriously conning proved to be a dictionary of the French language, not a black-letter tome on sorcery. The _chef_ was engaged in making up a ménu card, in other words, giving French names to good old Anglo-Saxon dishes. The caldron contained soup. The cat was the regular feline habitué of the kitchen, not an imp or familiar demon. {272} “The _chef_, I believe,” said the manager, politely. “I am,” said Fox. “You are an amateur conjurer?” “I amuse myself with legerdemain occasionally.” “You’re the man I’m looking for. I am the proprietor of a vaudeville company playing at . . . . . . The gentleman who does the magic turn for me has disappeared; gone on a prolonged debauch. . . .”