The object referred to was a broken pot or vase, upon which he pointed out a number of hieroglyphics and a figure with the head of a jackal. “A potsherd inscribed with the figure of Anubis,” he explained. “Very valuable.” “Why?” Lesty inquired, in his lazy way. “Well,” Halesowen replied, “the characters of the inscription are of a kind entirely unfamiliar to me. I believe them to be a sort of secret writing, possibly peculiar to some brotherhood. I am risking expert opinion, although, in every sense, I stole the thing!” “How’s that?” I asked. “Well, Professor Sheraton--you’ll see his name on a row of cases in the B.M.--excavated it. But it’s a moral certainty he didn’t intend to advise the authorities of his find. He was going to smuggle it out of Egypt into his private collection. I had marked the spot where he found it for inquiries of my own. This dishonest old fossil----” Lesty laughed. “Oh! my own motives weren’t above suspicion! But, anyway, the Professor anticipated me. Accordingly, I employed one Ali, a distinguished member of a family of thieves, to visit the learned gentleman’s tent! Cutting the story--there’s the pot!” “Here! I say!” drawled Lesty. “You’ll come to a bad end, young fellow!” “The position is a peculiar one,” replied Halesowen, smiling. “Neither of us had any legal claim to the sherd--whilst we were upon Egyptian territory. Therefore, even if the Professor learnt that I had the thing--and he may suspect--he couldn’t prosecute me!” “Devilish high-handed!” commented Lesty. “Yes. But remember we were well off the map--miles away from Cook’s route. The possession of this potsherd ought to make a man’s reputation--any man who knows a bit about the subject. Curiously enough, a third party had had his eye upon the place where this much-sought sherd was found. And in some mysterious fashion he tumbled to the fact that it had fallen into _my_ hands. He made a sort of veiled offer of a hundred pounds for it. I refused, but ran across him again, a week or so later, in Cairo, and he raised his price to two hundred.” “That’s strange,” I said. “Who was he?” “Called himself Zeda--Dr. Louis Zeda. He quite lost his temper when I declined to sell, and I’ve not set eyes on him since.” He relocked the fragment in his cabinet, and we lapsed into silence, to sit gazing meditatively across the Common, picturesque in the dim autumn twilight. “By the way, Halesowen,” I said, “I see that the flat next door, same floor as this, is to let.” “That’s so,” he replied. “Why don’t you men take it?” “We’ll think about it,” yawned Lesty, stretching his long limbs. “Might look over it in the morning.”