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A long Roman couch rested before the wall facing the niche of Isis, and upon this lay the body of a man in evening dress. Lord Marcus, having admitted his visitors, stood before the purple curtain, and one saw, now, that his robe was bordered with a design of a similar color. He wore sandals. His large blue eyes were dreamy, preoccupied.

"I repeat, gentlemen, make as little noise as possible. My house is a small one; and to-night, when I had reached a higher plane than any I have reached before, comes interruption upon interruption."

He folded his arms and stood there; a tall, strangely impressive figure, that of a high priest who guards the holy of holies. Dr. Fawcett glanced at Chief Inspector Firth; found himself thinking about cats; put down his bag, and crossed the lobby. He bent over the man who lay on the couch—stooped lower, and uttered a significant exclamation.

"Good God!"

"What?" asked Firth, and was surprised to note that his somewhat strident voice had uttered no more than a whisper.