So we did. The Prior himself fetched a lantern, which he lit, and with many a merry smile and jest we three monk-like figures, our black habits making us appear in that dim radiance like ghostly visitants from another sphere, took our way down the flight of stone steps that led from the main corridor of the building to the cellars, where a strong room had been built to hold the archives of the Order. In a whisper, my companion showed me where the keys of the inner door (I had the outer on my armlet), were always hung ready for any member who chose to go and take them down to inspect the contents of the treasure-room. Also they explained that the word to which the lock was always set was "Clytie," the name of the lady of the statue, as the Council of Three felt certain that only the initiated would remember the circumstances of that lady's career and her rather occult association with the destinies of the Order. The door swung open quite easily, and as the Prior deposited the forgeries in a rather accessible position I caught a glimpse of the interior, with its row upon row of huge brass-bound ledgers, its bundle upon bundle of deeds and share certificates and documents in parchment, with many heavily-sealed bags of leather, which, I was told, contained gold or precious stones. Of the increasing value of the latter, I was told, Bruno Delganni had a quite childish faith, hence his investments in them. Cases, too, were piled on the floor. These contained bullion direct from the Bank of England, to be used only when it was necessary for any political or other purposes to send remittances to the branch houses in Delhi, Sydney, or any other far-off corner of the earth, where transactions through a local bank might attract an unnecessary amount of attention and speculation. Later, we returned upstairs, and there I expounded what was, after all, the crucial point in my plan--the reconciliation of the principal different interests that were now fighting us with so much deadly bitterness and precision. "What I suggest," I said, gazing very determinedly at the two men in front of me, "is nothing more and nothing less than a round-table conference between the lot of us--Lord Cyril Cuthbertson, Earl Fotheringay, the Napiers, the hunchback, ourselves!" "Why, that's preposterous!" snapped the Prior, and his eyes flashed, but I would not be gainsaid. "I am sure it is not," I retorted with great firmness. "After all, what is it, really, that makes them all so bitter against us? It is no mere dream of making themselves rich--no stupid desire to rob anyone. It is simply pride, when the whole facts are reduced to their proper level, mistaken pride, and, being that, I am convinced it can, in a full and free discussion, be eliminated from this contest between us." "I will never meet Cuthbertson," interposed the Member of Parliament, "never! You forget: our cause of difference is too deep for words to remove!"