Something about the suddenness with which the light had ceased in the passage the moment the Mahatma's back was past the door, added to curiosity, made me stop and consider that plane where the light left off.

Having no other instrument available, I took off my turban and flapped it to and fro, to see whether I could produce any effect on that astonishing dividing line, and for about the ten thousandth time in a somewhat strenuous career it was intuition and curiosity that saved me.
The instant the end of the turban touched the plane between light and darkness it caught fire; or rather, I should say fire caught it, and the fire was so intense and swift that it burned off that part of the turban without damaging the rest.

In other words, there was a plane of unimaginably active heat between me and the rest of the party--of such extraordinary heat that it functioned only on that plane (for I could not feel it with my hand from an inch away); and I being in pitch darkness while they were in golden light, the others could not see me.
They could hear, however, and I called to King.

I told him what happened, and then showed him, by throwing what was left of the turban toward him.

It got exactly as far as the plane between light and darkness, and then vanished in a silent flash so swiftly and completely as to leave no visible charred fragment.
I could see all three men standing in line facing in my direction, hardly ten feet away, and it was difficult to remember that they could not see me at all--or at any rate that King could not; the others may have had some trained sixth sense that made it possible.
"Come forward!" said the Gray Mahatma.