He wanted to argue this thing out with himself once and for all. He wanted to know if he had been purposely mystified by the occupants of the hillside house, or whether he was succumbing to a delusion. This he must determine, for his highly sensitive nature demanded it. The family physician had warned him that the blow to his skull had been a severe one, and that he must on no account overtax his brain for at least a year to come. Somewhat belatedly he began to take this warning to heart. Had it been a covert intimation that he was threatened with insanity? The detective on duty at the corner saluted him again as he discharged the taxi. Jim Sakers’s words returned to his mind while he fumbled for a key. He remembered too that his father had advocated a long vacation abroad. What did this mean? Should he regard it as confirming his worst theories? Or did his father suspect that there was some deep plot afoot? Reared from childhood in an atmosphere of luxury, he had never hitherto appreciated, in all its significance, the fact that he was the son of a millionaire. As he was passing the library he heard voices; one of them unmistakable, the other deep, resonant--equally unfamiliar. John Cumberland as a rule retired early, and Barry paused, wondering whom this late visitor might be. Curious, he rapped and opened the door. He looked down the long rectangular room. The Cumberland library was one of the acknowledged “sights” of New York, but to Barry it was a commonplace. It was lined with relics of that wonderful civilization which flourished under the Pharaohs. Its very atmosphere was reminiscent of the Nile land, of the indescribable smell of Egypt. His father was seated in the big armchair, looking up at a wall painting from Medinet Habu. Facing him, and seated on a corner of the library table--a favourite perch of Barry’s--was a man of arresting appearance. He was in dinner kit, but in lieu of the more regular black bow displayed a stock. His hair, brushed back from a fine brow, was silver-gray; his head leonine; the pale chiselled features were of Moorish severity. He wore a short moustache and a small tuft beneath his lower lip, of that kind once known as an imperial. He was built massively, imposingly. His eyes, which at Barry’s entrance had turned in the direction of the door, were light brown and, in their piercing regard, resembled the eyes of an animal. He stood up, revealing his height, which Barry estimated to be more than six feet. “Hello, Barry!” said John Cumberland. “Glad you looked in. I should like you to meet Mr. Danbazzar.” Danbazzar raised his hand in a slow, majestic movement, and: “I am delighted to meet Mr. Barry Cumberland,” he replied, and his voice possessed a deep organ note. “But you forget, Mr. Cumberland”--turning to the elder man--“that I lay no claim to the title of Mister. I am Danbazzar; neither Danbazzar Esquire, Sir Danbazzar, nor Lord Danbazzar; merely Danbazzar.”