The curator went out to the switchboard and the Greek Room became brightly illuminated. The ramshackle figure of Moris Klaw seemed to be invested with triumphant majesty. Behind the pebbles his eyes gleamed. “Observe,” he said, “I raise the harp from the floor.” He did so. “And I live. For why? Because I do not take hold upon it in a natural manner--_by the top!_ I take it by the side! Conway and Macalister took hold upon it at the top; and where are they--Conway and Macalister?” “Mr. Klaw,” said Coram, “I cannot doubt that this black business is all clear to your very unusual intelligence; but to me it is a profound mystery. I have, myself, in the past, taken up the harp in the way you describe as fatal, and without injury----” “But not immediately after it had been played upon!” interrupted Moris Klaw. “Played upon! I have never attempted to play upon it!” “Even had you done so you might yet have escaped, provided you _set it down_ before touching the top part! Note, please!” He ran his long white fingers over the golden strings. Instantly there stole upon my ears that weird, wailing music which had heralded the strange happenings of the night! “And now,” continued our mentor, “whilst I who am cunning hold it where the ladies’ gold feet join, observe the top--where the hand would in ordinary rest in holding it.” We gathered around him. “A _needle-point_,” he rumbled, impressively, “protruding! The player touches it not! But who takes it from the hand of the player _dies!_ By placing the harp again upon its base the point again retires! Shall I say what is upon that point, to drive a man mad like a dog with rabies, to stay potent for generations? I cannot. It is a secret buried with the ugly body of Cæsar Borgia!” “Cæsar Borgia!” we cried in chorus. “Ah!” rumbled Moris Klaw, “your Athenean Harp was indeed made by Paduano Zelloni, the Florentine! It is a clever forge! I have been in Rome until yesterday. You are surprised? I am sorry, for the poor Macalister died. Having perfected, with the aid of Isis, my mind photograph of the lady who plays the harp, I go to Rome to perfect the story of the harp. For why? At my house I have records, but incomplete, useless. In Rome I have a friend, of so old a family, and once so wicked, I shall not name it! “He has recourse to the great Vatican Library--to the annals of his race. There he finds me an account of such a harp. In those priceless parchments it is called ‘a Greek lyre of gold.’ It is described. I am convinced. I am sure! “Once the beautiful Lucrece Borgia play upon this harp. To one who is distasteful to her she says: ‘Replace for me my harp.’ He does so. He is a dead man! God! what cleverness!