ixed upon him. Something about the man--his daring,
perhaps, his enthusiasm, his utterly mysterious purpose--appealed,
suddenly, all but irresistibly.

Sheard held out his hand. And withdrew it again.

"To-morrow----" he began.

"To-morrow you will have no choice!"

"How so? You have placed yourself in my hands. I can now, if I desire,
publish your description!--report all that you have told me--all that I
have seen!"

"You will not do so! You will be my friend, my defender in the Press. Of
what you have seen to-night you will say nothing!"

"Why?"

"No matter! It will be so!"

A silence fell between them that endured until the car pulled up before
Sheard's gate.

With ironic courtesy, he invited Severac Bablon to enter and partake of
some refreshment after the night's excitement. With a grace that made
the journalist slightly ashamed of his irony, that incomprehensible man
accepted.

Leaving him in the same arm-chair which he had occupied when first he
set eyes upon him, Sheard went to the dining-room and returned with a
siphon, a decanter, and glasses. He found Severac Bablon glancing
through an edition of Brugsch's "Egypt Under the Pharaohs." He replaced
the book on the shelf as Sheard entered.

"These Egyptologists," he said, "they amuse me! Dissolve them all in a
giant test-tube, and the keenest analysis must fail to detect one single
grain of imagination!"

His words aroused Sheard's curiosity, but the lateness of the hour
precluded the possibility of any discussion upon the subject.

When, shortly, Severac Bablon made his departure, he paused at the gate
and proffered his hand, which Sheard took without hesitation.

"Good-night--or, rather, good-morning!" he said smilingly. "We shall
meet again very soon!"

The other, too tired to wonder what his words might portend, returned to
the house, and, lingering only to scrawl a note that he was not to be
awakened at the usual time, hastened to bed. As he laid his weary head
upon the pillow the cold grey of dawn was stealing in at the windows and
brushing out the depths of night's blacker shadows.

It was noon when Sheard awoke--to find his wife gently shaking him.

He sat up with a start.

"What is it, dear?"

"A messenger boy. Will you sign for the letter?"

But half awake, he took the pencil and signed. Then, sleepily, he tore
open the envelope and read as follows.

"DEAR MR. SHEARD,--

"You were tired last night, so I did not f