The worthy centurion was frantic with indignation. He had never believed in the conjuror’s fool-tricks; but here the whole thing was as clear as day: Agathon, the base sharper, had bought Olbasanus! He, Philippus, knew that Agathon’s money matters were very much involved. Of course, the extravagant roué thought he could find no better investment for the few hundred sesterces remaining out of many millions than to use them in obtaining the immense heritage Hero, as her mother’s only child, would bring as a marriage dowry. The matter was as clear as sunlight. But the insolent cheat had not reaped his harvest yet--and, judging by the expression on Hero’s pretty face, Philippus considered it doubtful whether he ever would win what he wished to sneak into so craftily. No matter: Agathon’s probable failure did not make amends for the harm the abominable conjuror had done poor Rutilius. He, Philippus, would do everything in his power, in company with Caius Bononius, to set the affair to rights. “Come and breakfast with me to-morrow!” he said at last, after mentioning all these points with excited volubility. “We’ll sketch the plan of a campaign that will not only restore our worthy Lucius Rutilius to happiness, but satisfy your ardent curiosity about the secret powers with which Olbasanus works.” “Very well,” replied Bononius. “I’ll be there.” So they parted. FOOTNOTES: [5] Marseilles. [6] Passage leading from the door to the atrium. CHAPTER V. Three days after the interview between Caius and the centurion the Chaldean sorcerer received a note, trebly sealed, containing the following lines: “Lydia to the glorious Olbasanus, the confidant of the gods. “I do not know whether you will still remember me. I crossed your threshold with the fair-haired girl from Syracuse, whom your divine prophecy saved from the most terrible misfortune. Her name is Hero, and she is a daughter of the estimable Heliodorus, who came last year to the strand of Tiber. Filled with admiration for your incomprehensible art, Lydia begs the counsel of the omniscient enchanter in an important and troublesome matter, whose details I cannot confide to you in this letter. But a fever which, though not dangerous, confines me to my bed prevents my seeking you at your own house. So, worthy Olbasanus, accept in return for your trouble the three hundred denarii the boy will give you with these lines, and come as soon as your leisure will permit to the dwelling of her who seeks knowledge. You know the mansion with the Corinthian _porticus_ on the northern slope of the Caelian hill. Tell me, by the slave, whether and when my impatient heart may expect you.”