“We understand that,” said Fairbank; “all of us. Do as he desires. When he has made the attempt, and failed--as, of course, he must do--the folly of the whole thing will become apparent to him. Do not let it worry you, Miss Brearley. Your brother is not the first man to succumb, temporarily, to the glamour of the Unknown.” She shook her head sadly. “It is an unpleasant farce,” she said. “But there is something more in it than that.” Her blue eyes were full of trouble. “What do you mean, Miss Brearley?” asked Moris Klaw. “I hardly know, myself!” was the reply; “but for the past two months an indefinable horror of some kind has been growing upon me.” With a deep sigh, she turned to a tall case and took from it a kind of slender harp. The instrument, of which the frame, at any rate, was evidently ancient Egyptian work, rested upon a claw-shaped pedestal. “Do you play this? Yes? No?” inquired Moris Klaw, with interest. “Yes,” she said, wearily. “It comes from the tomb of a priestess of Isis and was played by her in the temple. It is scaled differently from the modern harp, but any one with a slight knowledge of the ordinary harp, or even of the piano, can perform upon it with ease. It is sweet toned, but--creepy!” She smiled slightly at her own expression, and I was glad to see it. Brearley returned. He wore a single loose garment of white linen, and thin sandals were upon his feet. Save for his long, fair hair, he looked a true pagan priest, his eyes bright with the fire of research that consumed him, his features gaunt, ascetic. Some ghost of his old humorous expression played, momentarily, about his lips as he observed the astonishment depicted upon our faces. But it was gone almost in the moment of its coming. “You wonder at me, no doubt,” he said; “and at times I have wondered at myself! Do not think me fanatic. I scarcely hope for any result. But remembering that the writing is authentic and that there prevails, to this day, a widespread belief in the occult wisdom of the Egyptians, _why_ should not this problem in psychics receive the same attention from me that one in physics would receive from you, Fairbank?” There was reason in his argument and in his manner of advancing it. Fairbank glanced from Brearley to the girl sitting with her white hands listlessly caressing the harp strings. The silence of the great empty house grew oppressive. Suppose the ancients indeed possessed the strange lore attributed to them? Suppose in those Dark Continents, the Past and the Future, somewhere in the vast unknown, there existed a power, a being, a spirit, named by the Egyptians, Isis? Those were my thoughts, when Moris Klaw said suddenly: “Mr. Brearley, it is not yet too late to turn back! This sensitive plate”--he tapped his forehead--“warns me that some evil thought thing hovers about us! You are about to give form to that thought being. Be wise, Mr. Brearley--abandon your experiment!”