and he marvelled at the physical strength of his companion.

A keen zest for this extravagant adventure seized him. He thought that
it must be good to be a burglar. Then, as he heard the motor re-started
and the car move off, a sudden qualm of disquiet came; for it was
tantamount to burning one's boats.

"Take my hand!" he heard; and was led to the head of a flight of steps.
Cautiously he felt his way down, in the wake of his guide.

A key was turned in a well-oiled lock, and he was guided inside a
building. There was a faint, crypt-like smell--vaguely familiar.

"Quick!" said the soft voice--"remove your boots and leave them here!"

Sheard obeyed, and holding the guiding hand tightly in his own,
traversed a stone-paved corridor. Doors were unlocked and re-locked. A
flight of steps was negotiated in phantom silence; for his companion's
footsteps, like his own, were noiseless. Another door was unlocked.

"Now!" came the whispered words: "Remove the handkerchief!"

Rapidly enough, Sheard obeyed, and, burning with curiosity, looked about
him.

"Good heavens!" he muttered.

A supernatural fear of his mysterious cicerone momentarily possessed
him. For he thought that he stood in a lofty pagan temple!

High above his head a watery moonbeam filtered through a window, and
spilled its light about the base of a gigantic stone pillar. Towering
shapes, as of statues of gods, loomed, awesomely, in the gloom. Behind
the pillar dimly he could discern a painted procession of deities upon
the wall. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the tall figure of
Severac Bablon was at his elbow.

"Where do you stand?" questioned his low voice.

And, like an inspiration, the truth burst in upon Sheard's mind.

"The British Museum!" he whispered hoarsely.

"Correct!" was the answer; "the treasure-house of your modern Babylon!
Wait, now, until I return; and, if you have no relish for arrest as a
burglar, do not move--do not breathe!"

With that, he was gone, into the dense shadows about; and Henry Thomas
Sheard, of the _Gleaner_, found himself, at, approximately, a
quarter-past two in the morning, standing in an apartment of the British
Museum, with no better explanation to offer, in the event of detection,
than that he had come there in the company of Severac Bablon.

He thought of the many printing-presses busy, even then, with the
deductions of Fleet Street theorists, regarding this man of mystery. All
of their conclusions m