The steward pushed with his finger one of the many iron studs or bolt‐ heads which strengthened the door. It slid back a couple of inches and disclosed a small peep‐hole, through which he peered. Satisfied with his scrutiny he unlocked the door and they went in. The chamber was about twelve feet square, and furnished with a small tripod stand, a stool, and a pallet bed. From the ceiling hung a lamp which threw down a dismal light on the cheerless place. On the bed was stretched the form of Martialis in careless grace, with one sinewy arm hanging down at length over the pallet‐side, toward the floor. His appearance was corpse‐like. His closed eyes, his bold, handsome features, his dark hair curling crisply over his brow, seemed all fixed in the tranquil marble beauty of the early moments of death. Not a breath seemed to part his moulded lips, and the steel cuirass which encased his body hid effectually all sign of movement beneath. Tiberius started and turned a frowning, inquiring glance on his companion. Zeno pointed to some victuals and an empty pitcher which stood on the small stand. ‘He has eaten nothing and drunk every drop—he will give no trouble.’ ‘How—have you killed him?’ demanded the Emperor sternly. ‘Ah no, Caesar—the drug was harmless for that, but potent enough to make him no better than a clod for some hours; and a mercy for him, as you would say, had you seen his state of mind. We may do what we please with him.’ The steward spoke the truth, for, in the handling to which the inanimate Pretorian was subjected, he exhibited no symptom of consciousness. Underneath his cuirass they found a stout leather belt buckled round his waist. Attached to the belt was a pouch securely fastened, and from this the Emperor drew several scrolls of papyri—the paper of the ancients, made from the Egyptian plant of that name. Taking these to the lamp on the tripod, Tiberius turned his back on his trusty steward, and proceeded to unroll them with eager trembling fingers. He glanced through the written contents of each with a rapid practised eye, but found nothing therein, save dry official reports from the deputy in command of the Pretorian camp at Rome. His countenance fell gradually as he proceeded, and when he arrived at the end, he gave vent to a muttered ejaculation of disappointment. One other scroll remained, which was not of an official nature, but evidently a late production of a bookseller’s shop.