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  Then an arm was slipped about him and he was directed, in a whisper, to step forward. He found his foot upon what he thought to be a flat railing. His ankle was grasped from below and the voice of Séverac Bablon came, “On to my shoulders — so!”

  Still with the supporting arm about him, he stepped gingerly forward — and stood upon the shoulders of the man below.

  “Stand quite rigidly!” said Séverac Bablon.

  He obeyed; and was lifted, lightly as a feather, and deposited upon the ground! It was such a feat as he had seen professional athletes perform, 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 Séverac 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 Séverac 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 must necessarily be wrong, since their premises were certainly so. For which of them who had assured his readers that Séverac Bablon was a common cracksman (on a large scale) would not have reconsidered his opinion had he learned that the common cracksman held private keys of the national treasure-house?

  His eyes growing more accustomed to the darkness, Sheard began to see more clearly the objects about him. A seated figure of the Pharaoh Seti I. surveyed him with a scorn but thinly veiled; beyond, two towering Assyrian bulls showed gigantic in the semi-light. He could discern, now, the whole length of the lofty hall — a carven avenue; and, as his gaze wandered along that dim vista, he detected a black shape emerging from the blacker shadows beyond the bulls.

  It was Séverac Bablon. In an instant he stood beside him, and Sheard saw that he carried a bag.

  “Follow me — quickly!” he said. “Not a second to spare!”

  But too fully alive to their peril, Sheard slipped away in the wake of this greatly daring man. The horror of his position was strong upon him now.

  “This way!”

  Blindly he stumbled forward, upstairs, around a sharp corner, and then a door was unlocked and re-locked behind them. “Egyptian Room!” came a quick whisper. “In here!”

  A white beam cut the blackness, temporarily dazzling him, and Sheard saw that his companion was directing the light of an electric torch into a wall-cabinet — which he held open. It contained mummy cases, and, without quite knowing how he got there, Sheard found himself crouching behind one. Séverac Bablon vanished.

  Darkness followed, and to his ears stole the sound of distant voices.

  The voices grew louder.

  Behind him, upon the back of the cabinet, danced a sudden disc of light, and, within it, a moving shadow! Someone was searching the room!

  Muffled and indistinct the voices sounded through the glass and the mummy-case; but that the searchers were standing within a foot of his hiding-place Sheard was painfully certain. He shrank behind the sarcophagus lid like a tortoise within its shell, fearful lest a hand, an arm, a patch of clothing should protrude.

  CHAPTER IV

  THE HEAD OF CÆSAR

  The voices died away. A door banged somewhere.

  Then Sheard all but cried out; for a hand was laid upon his arm.

  “Ssh!” came Séverac Bablon’s voice from the next mummy-case; and a creak told of the cabinet door swinging open. “This way!”

  Sheard followed immediately, and was guided along the whole length of the room. A door was unlocked and re-locked behind them. Downstairs they passed, and along a narrow corridor lined with cases, as he could dimly see. Through another door they went, and came upon stone steps.

  “Your boots!” said his companion, and put them into his hands.

  Rapidly enough he fastened them. A faint creak was followed by a draught of cool air; and, being gently pushed forward, Sheard found himself outside the Museum and somewhere in the rear of the building. The place lay in deep shadow.

  “Sss! Sss!” came in his ear. “Quiet!”

  Whilst he all but held his breath, a policeman tramped past slowly outside the railings. As the sound of his solid tread died away, Séverac Bablon raised something to his lips and blew a long-sustained, minor note — shrill, eerie.

  A motor-car appeared, as if by magic, stopped before them, and was backed right on to the pavement. The chauffeur, mounting on the roof, threw a short rope ladder across the railings.

  “Up!” Sheard was directed, and, nothing loath, climbed over.

  He was joined immediately by his companion in this night’s bizarre adventures; and, almost before he realised that they were safe, he found himself seated once more in the swiftly moving car.

  “What’s the meaning of it?” he demanded rapidly.

  “Fear nothing!” was the reply. “You have my word!”

  “But to what are you committing me?”

  “To nothing that shall lie very heavily upon your conscience! You have seen, to-night, something of my opportunities. With the treasures of the nation thus at my mercy, am I a common cracksman? If I were, should I not ere this have removed the portable gems of the collection? I say to you again, that no door is closed to me; yet never have I sought to enrich myself. But why should these things lie idle, when they are such all-powerful instruments?”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “To-morrow all will be clear!”

  “Why did you blindfold me?”

  “Should you have followed had you seen where I led? I wish to number you among my friends. You are not of my people, and I can claim no fealty of you; but I desire your friendship. Can I count upon it?”

  The light of a street-lamp flashed momentarily into the car, striking a dull, venomous green spark from a curious ring which Séverac Bablon wore. In some strange fashion it startled Sheard, but, in the ensuing darkness, he sought out the handsome face of his companion and found the big, luminous eyes
fixed 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 Séverac 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 Séverac 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, Séverac 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 further 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 £10,000) 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 Séverac 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 Séverac 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 walking down to the gate, bought a paper. The late news was very brief.

  BRITISH MUSEUM MYSTERY

  “An incredibly mysterious burglary was carried out last night at the British Museum. By some means at present unexplained the Head of Cæsar has been removed from its pedestal and stolen, and the world-famous Hamilton Vase (valued at £30,000) is also missing. The burglar has left no trace behind him, but as we go to press the police report an important clue.”

  Sheard returned to the house.

  Seated in his study with the newspaper and Séverac Bablon’s letter before him, he strove to arrange his ideas in order, to settle upon a plan of action — to understand.

  That the “important clue” would lead to the apprehension of the real culprit he did not believe for a moment. Séverac Bablon, unless Sheard were greatly mistaken, stood beyond the reach of the police measures. But what was the meaning of this crass misuse of his mysterious power? How could it be reconciled with his assurances of the previous night? Finally, what was the meaning of his letter?

  He wished him to interview Sir Leopold Jesson, for some obscure reason. So much was evident. But by what right did he impose that task upon him? Sheard was nonplussed, and had all but decided not to go, when the closing lines of the letter again caught his eye. “Although Brugsch’s book is elementary, there is something more behind it — —”

  A sudden idea came into his head, an unpleasant idea, and with it, a memory.

  His visitor of the night before had brought a mysterious bag (which Sheard first had observed in his hand as they fled from the Museum) into the house with him. It was evidently heavy; but to questions regarding it he had shaken his head, smilingly replying that he would know in good time why it called for such special attention. He remembered, too, that the midnight caller carried it when he departed, for he had rested it upon the gravel path whilst bidding him good-night.

  Frowning uneasily, he stepped to the bookcase.

  It was a very deep one, occupying a recess. With nervous haste he removed “Egypt Under the Pharaohs,” and his painful suspicion became a certainty.

  Why, he had asked himself, should he run about London at the behest of Séverac Bablon? And here was the answer.

  Placed between the books and the wall at the back, and seeming to frown upon him through the gap, was the stolen Head of Cæsar!

  Sheard hastily replaced the volume, and with fingers that were none too steady filled and lighted his pipe.

  His reflections brought him little solace. He was in the toils. The intervening hours with their divers happenings passed all but unnoticed. That day had space for but one event, and its coming overshadowed all others. The hour came, then, all too soon, and punctually at four-thirty Sheard presented himself in Hamilton Place.

  Sir Leopold Jesson’s collection of china and pottery is one of the three finest in Europe, and Sheard, under happier auspices, would have enjoyed examining it. Ralph Crofter, the popular black-and-white artist who accompanied him, was lost in admiration of the pure lines and exquisite colouring of the old Chinese ware in particular.

  “This piece
would be hard to replace, Sir Leopold?” he said, resting his hand upon a magnificent jar of delicate rose tint, that seemed to blush in the soft light.

  The owner nodded complacently. He was a small man, sparely built, and had contracted, during forty years’ labour in the money market, a pronounced stoop. His neat moustache was wonderfully black, blacker than Nature had designed it, and the entire absence of hair upon his high, gleaming crown enabled the craniologist to detect, without difficulty, Sir Leopold’s abnormal aptitude for finance.

  “Two thousand would not buy it, sir!” he answered.

  Crofton whistled softly and then passed along the room.

  “This is very beautiful!” he said suddenly, and bent over a small vase with figures in relief. “The design and sculpture are amazingly fine!”

  “That piece,” replied Sir Leopold, clearing his throat, “is almost unique. There is only one other example known — the Hamilton Vase!”

  “The stolen one?”

  “Yes. They are of the same period, and both from the Barberini Palace.”

  “Of course you have read the latest particulars of that extraordinary affair? What do you make of it?”

  Jesson shrugged his shoulders.

  “The vase is known to every connoisseur in Europe,” he said. “No one dare buy it — though,” he added smiling, “many would like to!”

  Sheard coughed uneasily. He had a task to perform.

  “Your collection represents a huge fortune, Sir Leopold,” he said.

  “Say four hundred thousand pounds!” answered the collector comfortably.

  “A large sum. Think of the thousands whom that amount would make happy!”

  Having broken the ice, Sheard found his enforced task not altogether distasteful. It seemed wrong to him, unjust, and in strict disaccordance with the views of the Gleaner, that these thousands should be locked up for one man’s pleasure, while starvation levied its toll upon the many. Moreover, he nurtured a temperamental distaste for the whole Semitic race — a Western resentment of that insidious Eastern power.