ecame conscious that it was his own name that he went shouting
through the passages; and that was openly absurd, he reasoned, since
if he wanted to be found he must call some one else's name. But he
must hurry--hurry--hurry; no one could tell what might be happening
back there to that face that changed.

"Olivia!" he shouted, "Amory! Jarvo--oh, Jarvo! Rollo, you
scoundrel--"

Whereat the memory that Rollo was somewhere on a yacht assailed him,
and he pressed on, blindly and in silence, until glimmering before
him he saw a light shining from an open door. Then he rushed forward
and with a groan of relief threw himself into the room. Opposite the
door loomed the grim sarcophagus of King Abibaal, and beside it on
the floor lay the figure with the face that changed. He had gone a
circle in those tortuous passages, and this was the room of the
tombs of the kings.

He dragged himself across the chamber toward the still form. He must
look again; no one could tell what might have happened. He pulled
down the coat and looked. And there was surely nothing in the
delicate, handsome, English-looking face upturned to his to give
him new horror. It was only that he had come down here in the wake
of a tottering old creature, and that here in his place lay a man
who was not he. Which was manifestly impossible.

Mechanically St. George's hand went to the man's heart. It was
beating regularly and powerfully, and deep breaths were coming from
the full, healthily-coloured lips. For a moment St. George knelt
there, his blood tingling and pricking in his veins and pulsing in
his temples. Then he swayed and fell upon the stones.

* * * * *

When St. George opened his eyes it was ten o'clock of the following
morning, though he felt no interest in that. There was before him a
great rectangle of light. He lifted his head and saw that the light
appeared to flow from the interior of the tomb of King Abibaal. The
next moment Amory's cheery voice, pitched high in consternation and
relief, made havoc among the echoes with a background of Jarvo's
smooth thanksgiving for the return of adon.

St. George, coatless, stiff from the hours on the mouldy stones,
dragged himself up and turned his eyes in fear upon the figure
beside him. It flashed hopefully through his mind that perhaps it
had not changed, that perhaps he had dreamed it all, that perhaps
...

By his first glance that hope was dispelled. From beneath Am