ntly the appearance of the latter reassured him--or he
may have formed a better opinion of Cairn, from the fact that
half-a-crown had quickly changed hands.

"All right, sir," he said, "it is no affair of mine; he did not charge
you with anything--he only asked me to prevent you from following
him."

"Quite so," snapped Cairn irritably, and dashed off along the gallery
in the hope of overtaking Ferrara.

But, as he had feared, Ferrara had made good use of his ruse to
escape. He was nowhere to be seen; and Cairn was left to wonder with
what object he had risked the encounter in the Egyptian Room--for that
it had been deliberate, and not accidental, he quite clearly
perceived.

He walked down the steps of the Museum, deep in reflection. The
thought that he and his father for months had been seeking the fiend
Ferrara, that they were sworn to kill him as they would kill a mad
dog; and that he, Robert Cairn, had stood face to face with Ferrara,
had spoken with him; and had let him go free, unscathed, was
maddening. Yet, in the circumstances, how could he have acted
otherwise?

With no recollection of having traversed the intervening streets, he
found himself walking under the archway leading to the court in which
his chambers were situated; in the far corner, shadowed by the tall
plane tree, where the worn iron railings of the steps and the small
panes of glass in the solicitor's window on the ground floor called up
memories of Charles Dickens, he paused, filled with a sort of
wonderment. It seemed strange to him that such an air of peace could
prevail, anywhere, whilst Antony Ferrara lived and remained at large.

He ran up the stairs to the second landing, opened the door, and
entered his chambers. He was oppressed to-day with a memory, the
memory of certain gruesome happenings whereof these rooms had been the
scene. Knowing the powers of Antony Ferrara he often doubted the
wisdom of living there alone, but he was persuaded that to allow
these fears to make headway, would be to yield a point to the enemy.
Yet there were nights when he found himself sleepless, listening for
sounds which had seemed to arouse him; imagining sinister whispers in
his room--and imagining that he could detect the dreadful odour of the
secret incense.

Seating himself by the open window, he took out from his pocket the
silken cord which Ferrara had dropped in the Museum, and examined it
curiously. His examination of the thing did not serv