But, as they quitted the club and got into John Cumberland’s big car which waited outside, Jim Sakers, his face buried in an evening paper, hat brim pulled down over scowling features, stood beside the steps watching intently. Danbazzar’s apartment, Barry had always been given to understand, contained a number of literally priceless objects, every one unique and irreplaceable, and any one of which he could have sold over and over again for incredible sums. Used to the orderly neatness of his father’s collection, he came prepared to find something similar, although probably on a smaller scale. The address proved to be situated amid some of the loudest noises of New York. He had thought vaguely, before, that it was an odd spot to live in. But he had not allowed for the fact that Danbazzar lived on the roof. Here, like a priest of Bel, high above all the buildings surrounding him, Danbazzar from a cloudy silence looked down upon teeming streets, thousands of lighted windows, dwarfed sky signs. His apartment was virtually a bungalow from the porch of which one stepped into a sort of Japanese garden, with flowering vines and tortuous, spiny cacti. A large pond was approached through a loggia and peopled by golden carp. From little arbours around the wall one might look down upon a muted New York. An Arab servant, who apparently knew not one word of English, attended upon the guests; and presently they entered a large, low room, in which the famed collection was housed. Here, Barry had a shock. The value of the statuettes, vases, mummies, caskets, items of jewellery, and other nameless relics of Egypt he could not dispute. But instead of being formally lined up in wall cases and cabinets, they were littered about the place in the utmost confusion. A magnificently painted sarcophagus had been converted into a cupboard to contain bottles of Scotch whisky, old brandy, champagne, and other material comforts. Cigar butts disfigured the polished floor. There were books and papers lying about anywhere and everywhere. The effect was that of a second-hand dealer’s establishment in which somebody had been trying to rope a steer. He was unable to conceal his amazement, and: “Did you ever see anything like it, Barry?” his father said, speaking in a low voice. “Never!” he confessed. “Are these things really valuable?” “Valuable!” exclaimed Dr. Rittenburg, who stood near. “There is a fortune in this room.” Danbazzar cleared a space upon a large table and set out the papyrus. “Now, gentlemen,” he said in his courtly manner, “let us get to the business of the evening. I have given you, Dr. Rittenburg, and you, Mr. Pain, an opportunity of examining and testing this piece of writing. I await your opinion.” “I have anticipated it,” said John Cumberland, in a voice that betrayed suppressed excitement. Horace Pain removed the cigar from between his teeth, cleared his throat, and: