like from behind.
It's getting dark."

"Well," decided Phormio, "we can easily tell. He has left his stick below
by the door. Steal across, Polus, and fetch it. It must be carved with the
owner's name."

The juror readily obeyed; but to read the few characters on the crooked
handle was beyond the learning of any save Clearchus, whose art demanded
the mystery of writing.

"I was wrong," he confessed, after long scrutiny, " 'Glaucon, son of
Conon.' It is very plain. Put the cane back, Polus."

The cane was returned, but the juror pulled a very long face.

"Dear friends, here is a man I've already suspected of undemocratic
sentiments conferring with a Barbarian. Good patriots cannot be too
vigilant. A plot, I assert. Treason to Athens and Hellas! Freedom's in
danger. Henceforth I shall look on Glaucon the Alcmaeonid as an enemy of
liberty."

"_Phui!_" almost shouted Phormio, whose sense of humour was keen, "a noble
conspiracy! Glaucon the Fortunate calls on a Babylonish merchant by night.
You say to plot against Athens. I say to buy his pretty wife a carpet."

"The gods will some day explain," said Clearchus, winding up the
argument,--and so for a little while the four forgot all about Glaucon.

* * * * * * *

Despite the cane, Clearchus was right. The visitor was Democrates. The
orator mounted the dark stair above the shield-factory and knocked against
a door, calling, "_Pai! Pai!_" "Boy! boy!" a summons answered by none
other than the ever smiling Hiram. The Athenian, however, was little
prepared for the luxury, nay splendour, which greeted him, once the
Phoenician had opened the door. The bare chamber had been transformed. The
foot sank into the glowing carpets of Kerman and Bactria. The
gold-embroidered wall tapestries were of Sidonian purple. The divans were
covered with wondrous stuff which Democrates could not name,--another age
would call it silk. A tripod smoked with fragrant Arabian frankincense.
Silver lamps, swinging from silver chains, gave brilliant light. The
Athenian stood wonderbound, until a voice, not Hiram's, greeted him.

"Welcome, Athenian," spoke the Cyprian, in his quaint, eastern accent. It
was the strange guest in the tavern by Corinth. The Prince--prince surely,
whatever his other title--was in the same rich dress as at the Isthmus,
only his flowing beard had been dyed raven black. Yet Democrates's eyes
were diverted instantly to the peculiarly handsome sl