in in his hand. His
professional instincts had told him that unless something could be
done--something which the highest medical skill in London had thus far
been unable to devise--Myra Duquesne had but four hours to live.
Somewhere in his mind a memory lurked, evasive, taunting him. This
wild suggestion of his son's, that the girl's illness might be due in
some way to her contact with the orchids, was in part responsible for
this confused memory, but it seemed to be associated, too, with the
story of Crombie the gardener--and with Antony Ferrara. He felt that
somewhere in the darkness surrounding him there was a speck of light,
if he could but turn in the right direction to see it. So, whilst
Robert Cairn walked restlessly about the big room, the doctor sat with
his chin resting in the palm of his hand, seeking to concentrate his
mind upon that vague memory, which defied him, whilst the hand of the
library clock crept from twelve towards one; whilst he knew that the
faint life in Myra Duquesne was slowly ebbing away in response to some
mysterious condition, utterly outside his experience.

Distant clocks chimed _One_! Three hours only!

Robert Cairn began to beat his fist into the palm of his left hand
convulsively. Yet his father did not stir, but sat there, a
black-shadowed wrinkle between his brows....

"By God!"

The doctor sprang to his feet, and with feverish haste began to fumble
amongst a bunch of keys.

"What is it, sir! What is it?"

The doctor unlocked the drawer of the big table, and drew out a thick
manuscript written in small and exquisitely neat characters. He placed
it under the lamp, and rapidly began to turn the pages.

"It is hope, Rob!" he said with quiet self-possession.

Robert Cairn came round the table, and leant over his father's
shoulder.

"Sir Michael Ferrara's writing!"

"His unpublished book, Rob. We were to have completed it, together,
but death claimed him, and in view of the contents, I--perhaps
superstitiously--decided to suppress it.... Ah!"

He placed the point of his finger upon a carefully drawn sketch,
designed to illustrate the text. It was evidently a careful copy from
the Ancient Egyptian. It represented a row of priestesses, each having
her hair plaited in a thick queue, standing before a priest armed with
a pair of scissors. In the centre of the drawing was an altar, upon
which stood vases of flowers; and upon the right ranked a row of
mummies, corresponding in