The blood rushed swiftly through Clinton's veins, and his heart beat violently; for these words were spoken in the well-known voice of Fred Archer! With great presence of mind he instantly crept beneath the ottoman on which he had been lying; and the next moment two persons entered the temple, and seated themselves directly above him. 'It was, as you say,' remarked Archer to his companion in a low tone--'a most extraordinary piece of good luck for me that Sydney was taken for that murder which I committed; suspicions are diverted from me, and he will swing for it, that's certain. I'm safe in regard to that business.' 'And yet, I almost regret, Fred,' said the other, speaking in an almost inaudible whisper--'that Sydney is in the grip of the Philistines; my vengeance upon him would have been more terrible than a thousand deaths by hanging. Well, since it is so, let him swing, and be d----d to him!' A long conversation here followed, but the two men spoke in such a low tone, that Clinton could only hear a word now and then. He was, however, certain as to the identity of Fred Archer; and he determined not to lose sight of that ruffian without endeavoring to have him taken into custody. At length the two men arose and quitted the temple, followed at a safe distance by the boy. At the bottom of the marble steps which led to the halls above, Fred Archer and his companion paused for a few moments, and conversed in whispers; then the two parted, the former ascending the steps, while the latter turned and advanced slowly towards Clinton. The boy instantly started in pursuit of Archer; but as he was about to pass the person who had just quitted the company of that villain, his progress was arrested by a strong arm, and a voice whispered in his ear--'Ah, _Kinchen_, well met!--come with me!' Clinton attempted to shake off the stranger's grasp--but he was no match for his adversary, who dragged him back into the little temple before mentioned, and regarded him with a terrible look. 'Who are you--and what means this treatment of me?' demanded the boy, trembling with affright. The mysterious unknown replied not by words--but slowly raised the mask from his face. Clinton's blood ran cold with horror; for, by the dim and uncertain light, he beheld the ghastly, awful features of THE DEAD MAN!