The entrance was about four feet in width by eight in height. Above it, there was some striking sculpturing, evidently work of a mystical character. Its meaning was an utter mystery to Rhodes and me, but not, I thought, to our Dromans. Very little dust had accumulated, though, as I have good reason to believe, many, many centuries had passed since that spot was abandoned to unbroken blackness and silence. Many were the pictures that came and went as we stood there and looked and wondered. Who had cut this passage into the living rock? In what lost age of a people now perhaps lost as well? And for what purpose had they hewn it? "Well," I said to myself, "possibly the answer to that question awaits us there within." Rhodes and I moved over to the entrance, and he sent the strong rays of his electric light into the passage. "About fifty feet long," he observed, "and evidently it enters another chamber." We started in. We had taken but a few steps, however, when we stopped and turned our look back to the Dromans. "Not coming," said Rhodes. Why did they stand hesitant, with that strange look in their eyes and upon their faces? Even the angel was affected. Affected by what? By the mere mystery of the place? "I wonder what is the matter with them," I said. "Why are they staying out there? I tell you, Milton, I don't like this at all. What's the matter with them?" "Superstitious dread or something, I suppose," returned Rhodes. "Well, it ill becomes a scientist to let superstition stay his steps, to turn back even if a black cat crosses his path; and so on we go." And on we went into the passage. When we were nearly through it, I glanced back. The Dromans had not moved. "Look here!" I said, coming to an abrupt stop. "What is it now, Bill?" "Maybe this is a trap." "A trap? How can it be a trap?" "How in the world do I know that? But to me the whole business has a queer and suspicious look, I tell you." "How so?" "How so? Why, maybe they _brought_ us to this hole. We don't know what's in there." "Neither do they," Milton said. "Maybe they _do_," I told him. "Maybe they aren't lost at all. Maybe it's all make-believe. Why don't they come in, too? What are they standing out there for, standing and waiting--waiting? What are they waiting for? Probably for their chance to steal away and leave us to our fate!" "My gosh, Bill," said Milton Rhodes, "your imagination goes like a jumping-jack!" "Heaven help us if that's what you think when a man would be cautious and watchful!" "Cautious and watchful. Yes, certainly we want to be cautious and watchful. After all, there may be something in what you say. "But," he added the next moment, "not much, I think. No, Bill. This is not a trap. There is no faking about it: the Dromans _are_ lost." "I don't like it," I told him. "Why don't they come on in?"