His eyes gleamed with pent-up enthusiasm. We four listeners, again stricken silent, watched him; and again it was the doctor who broke the silence. “Is the ceremony spoken?” “In the first half there is a long prayer, which is chanted.” “But Egyptian, as a _spoken_ language, is lost, surely?” “The exact pronunciation, or accent, is lost, of course; but there are many who can speak it. I can, for instance.” “And I,” rumbled Moris Klaw, gloomily. “But these special surroundings? Eh, my friend?” “I have spent a year in searching for the necessary things, as specified in the writing. At last my collection is complete. Some of the things I have had made, in the proper materials mentioned. These materials, in some cases, have been exceedingly difficult to procure. But now I have a complete shrine of Isis fitted up! Khamus’s initiation took place in a small chamber of which he gives a concise and detailed account. It is because my duplicate of this chamber is ready that I have asked you to meet me here to-night.” “How long have you been at work upon this inquiry?” said Fairbank. He put the question as he might have put one relating to a patient’s symptoms; and this Brearley detected in his tone, with sudden resentment. “Fairbank,” he said, huskily, “I believe you think me insane!” With his pale, drawn face and long, fair hair, he certainly looked anything but normal, as he sat with bright, staring eyes fixed upon the other across the table. “My dear chap,” replied the doctor, soothingly, “what a strange idea! My question was prompted by a professional spirit, I will admit, for I thought you had been sticking to this business too closely. You are the last man in the world I should expect to go mad, Brearley, but I should not care to answer for your nerves if you don’t give this Isis affair a rest.” Brearley smiled, and waved his hand characteristically. “Excuse me, Fairbank,” he said, “but to the average person my ideas do seem fantastic, I know. That is what makes me so touchy on the point, I suppose.” “You are hoping for too much from what is at most only a wild conjecture, Brearley. Your translation of the manuscript, alone, is a sufficiently notable achievement. If I were in your place, I should leave the occult business to the psychical societies. ‘Let the cobbler,’ you know.” “It has gone too far for that,” returned Brearley, “and I must see it through, now.” “You are putting too much into it,” said the doctor, severely. “I want you to promise me that if nothing results from your final experiment, you will drop the whole inquiry.” Brearley frowned thoughtfully. “Do you really think I am overdoing it?” he asked. “Sure,” was the answer. “Drop the whole thing for a month or two.” “That is impossible.” “Why?” “Because the ceremony must take place upon the first night of _Panoi_, the tenth month of the Sacred Sothic year. This we take to correspond to the April of the Julian year.” “Yes,” rumbled Moris Klaw, “it is to-night!”