“Where has it lain for generations before your Sir Menzies find it? No man knows. But it has still its virtues! How did the poor Menzies die? Throw himself from his room window, I recently learn. This harp certainly was in his room. Conway, after dashing, mad, about the place, springs head downward from the attendant’s chair. Macalister dies in exhaustion and convulsions!” A silence; when-- “What caused the harp to play?” asked Coram. Moris Klaw looked hard at him. Then a thrill of new horror ran through my veins. A low moan came from somewhere hard by! Coram turned in a flash! “Why, my private door is open!” he whispered. “Where do you keep your private keys?” rumbled Klaw. “In my study.” Coram was staring at the open door, but seemed afraid to approach it. “We have been using the attendant’s keys at night. My own are on my study mantelpiece now.” “I think not,” continued the thick voice. “Your daughter has them!” “My daughter!” cried Coram, and sprang to the open door. “Heavens! Hilda! Hilda!” “She is somnambulistic!” whispered Moris Klaw in my ear. “When certain unusual sounds--such as heavy vehicles at night--reach her in her sleep (ah! how little we know of the phenomenon of sleep!), she arises, and, in common with many sleepwalkers, always acts the same. Something, in the case of Miss Hilda, attracts her to the golden harp----” “She is studying music!” “She must rest from it. Her brain is overwrought! She unlocks the case and strikes the cords of the harp, relocking the door, replacing the keys--I before have known such cases--then retires as she came. Who takes the harp from her hands, or raises it, if she has laid it down upon its side, dies! These dead attendants were brave fellows both, for, hearing the music, they came running, saw how the matter was, and did not waken the sleeping player. Conway was poisoned as he returned the harp to its case; Macalister, as he took it up from where it lay. Something to-night awoke her ere she could relock the door. The fright of so awaking made her to swoon.” Coram’s kindly voice and the sound of a girl sobbing affrightedly reached us. “It was my yell of fear, Mr. Klaw!” said Grimsby, shamefacedly. “She looked like a ghost!” “I understand,” rumbled Moris Klaw, soothingly. “As I see her in my sleep she is very awesome! I will show you the picture Isis has made from my etheric photograph. I saw it, finished, earlier to-night. It confirmed me that the Miss Hilda with the harp in her hand was poor Conway’s last thought in life!” “Mr. Klaw,” said Grimsby, earnestly, “you are a very remarkable man!” “Yes?” he rumbled, and gingerly placed in its case the “Greek lyre of gold” which Paduano Zelloni had wrought for Cæsar Borgia. From the brown hat he took out his scent spray and squirted verbena upon his heated forehead. “That harp,” he explained, “it smells of dead men!” SECOND EPISODE. CASE OF THE POTSHERD OF ANUBIS