"A skeleton--the first one of our vanished race we've ever found!" exclaimed the man. "All the remains in New York, you remember, down in the subway or in any of the buildings, were invariably little piles of impalpable dust mixed with coins and bits of rusted metal. But this--it's absolutely intact!" "The dry air and all--" suggested Beatrice. Stern nodded. "Yes," he answered. "Intact, so far. But--" He stirred the skull with his foot. Instantly it vanished into powder. "Just as I thought," said he. "No chance to give a decent burial to this or any other human remains we may come across here. The slightest disturbance totally disintegrates them. But with _this_ it's different!" He picked up a revolver, hardly rusted at all, that lay near at hand. "Cartridges; look!" cried Beatrice, pointing. "That's so, too--a score or more!" Lying in an irregular oval that plainly told of a vanished cartridge-belt, a string of cartridges trailed on the concrete floor. "H-m-m-m! Just for an experiment, let's see!" murmured the engineer. Already he had slipped in a charge. "Steady, Beatrice!" he cautioned, and, pointing down the passage, pulled trigger. Flame stabbed the half-dark and the crashing detonation rang in their ears. "What do you think of _that?_" cried Stern exultantly. "Talk about your miracles! A thousand years and--" Beatrice grasped him by the arm and pointed downward. Astonished, he stared. The rest of the skeleton had vanished. In its place now only a few handfuls of dust lay on the floor. "Well, I'll be--" the man exclaimed. "Even _that_ does the trick, eh? H-m! It would be a joke, now, wouldn't it, if the records should act the same way? Come on, Beta; this is all very interesting, but it isn't getting us anywhere. We've got to be at work!" He pocketed the new-found gun and cartridges and once more, torch on high, started down the passage, with the girl at his side. "See here, Allan!" "Eh?" "On the wall here--a painted stripe?" He held the torch close and scrutinized the mark. "Looks like it. Pretty well gone by now--just a flake here and a daub there, but I guess it once was a broad band of white. A guide?" They moved forward again. The strip ended in a blur that might once have been an inscription. Here, there, a letter faintly showed, but not one word could now be made out. "Too bad," he mused. "It must have been mighty important or they wouldn't have--" "Here's a door, Allan!" "So? That's right. Now this looks like business at last!" He examined the door by the unsteady flicker of the torch. It was of iron, still intact, and fastened by a long iron bar dropped into massive metal staples. "Beat it in with the ax?" she queried. "No. The concussion might reduce everything inside to dust. Ah! Here's a padlock and a chain!" Carefully he studied the chain beneath bent brows. "Here, Beta, you hold the torch, so. That's right. Now then--"