And now comes a curious thing. As Chick read these details, he
became more and more conscious of--what shall it be called?--the
presence of someone or something beside him, above and all about
him, watching his every movement. He could not get away from the
feeling, although it was broad daylight, and he was seemingly
quite alone in the room. Chick was not frightened; but he could
have sworn that a very real personality was enveloping his own as
he read.
Every word, somehow, reminded him of the miraculous sequence of
facts as he knew them; the unerring accuracy with which he, quite
unthinkingly and almost without volition, had solved problem after
problem, although the chances were totally against him. He became
more and more convinced that he himself had practically no control
over his affairs; that he was in the hands of an irresistible
Fate; and that--he could not help it--his good angel was none
other than the prophet who, almost ninety centuries ago, had lived
and taught upon the Thomahlia, and in the end had returned to the
unknown.
But how could such a thing be? Watson did not even know where he
was! Small wonder that, again and again, he felt the need of
assurance. He asked for the Jan Lucar.
"In the first place," began Chick without preamble, "you accept
me, Jan Lucar; do you not?"
"Absolutely, my lord."
"You conceive me to be out of the spiritual world, and yet flesh
and blood like yourself?"
"Of course," with flat conviction.
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