urther weary you with a
discourse upon Egyptology; moreover, I had a matter of urgency to
attend to; but you may remember I hinted that the initiated look
beyond Brugsch.

"I should be indebted if you could possibly arrange to call upon
Sir Leopold Jesson in Hamilton Place at half-past four. You will
find him at home. It is important that you take a friend with you.
In your Press capacity, desire him to show you his celebrated
collection of pottery. Seize the opportunity to ask him for a
subscription (not less than L10,000) towards the re-opening of the
closed ward of Sladen Hospital. He will decline. Offer to accept,
instead, the mahogany case which he has in his smaller Etruscan
urn. When you have secured this, decide to accept a cheque also.
Arrange to be alone in your study at 12.40 to-night.

"By the way, although Brugsch's book is elementary, there is
something more behind it. Look into the matter.--S.B."

This singular communication served fully to arouse Sheard, and,
refreshed by his bath, he sat down to a late breakfast. Propping the
letter against the coffee-pot, he read and re-read every line of the
small, neat, and oddly square writing.

The more he reflected upon it the more puzzled he grew. It was a link
with the fantastic happenings of the night, and, as such, not wholly
welcome.

Why Severac Bablon desired him to inspect the famous Jesson collection
he could not imagine; and that part of his instructions: "Decide to
accept a cheque," seemed to presume somewhat generously upon Sheard's
persuasive eloquence. The re-opening of the closed ward was a good and
worthy object, and the sum of ten, or even twenty thousand pounds, one
which Sir Leopold Jesson well could afford. But he did not remember to
have heard that the salving of derelict hospitals was one of Sir
Leopold's hobbies.

Moreover, he considered the whole thing a piece of presumption upon the
part of his extraordinary acquaintance. Why should he run about London
at the behest of Severac Bablon?

"Eleven-thirty results!" came the sing-song of a newsboy. And Sheard
slipped his hand in his pocket for a coin. As he did so, the boy paused
directly outside the house.

"Robbery at the British Museum! Eleven-thirty!"

His heart gave a sudden leap, and he cast a covert glance towards his
wife. She was deep in a new novel.

Without a word, Sheard went to the door, and walk