He was examining the little box, nodding his head, and muttering, “H'm! H'm!” Tom felt the ground slipping away from under the feet of his suspicions even while his perplexity waxed monumental. And with it came the satisfaction of a man convincing himself that he is neither wasting his time nor making himself ridiculous. The clerk returned with a little drawer in which Tom saw about a hundred and fifty keys. “Replicas! Originals in museums of world!” explained Lentz. “H'm!” He turned the keys over with, a selective forefinger. “It's that one or this one.” And he picked out two. “Probably this! Damascus! Eighth century. Byzantine influence still strong. See that? And that? And that? H'm!” He inserted the little key and opened the casket. He saw the gold box within. “Ha! H'm! Thracian! How did you get this? H'm!” He raised his head, looked at Tom fiercely, and then said, coldly, “Mr. Merriwether, this has been stolen from the British Museum!” It beautifully complicated matters. Tom's heart beat faster with interest. “Are you sure?” he asked, being a Merriwether. “Wait! H'm!” He lifted it out and examined the back. “No! No! Thracian! Of the Bisaltæ! Time of Lysimachus! But--Well! Aryan symbolism! Possibly taken to India by one of Alexander's captains--perhaps Lysimachus himself! And--Oh! Oh, early Christians! Oh, early damned fools! See that? Smoothed away to put that--Oh, beasts! Heritics in art! Curious! Do you know the incantation to use before opening?” “It was in Greek, and--” “Of course!” “Yes. He said this had belonged to Apollonius of Tyana.” “How much does he ask?” “It is not for sale.” “Inside is a pentagram?” “No; a cross, with seven emeralds as big as that, all flawless.”' “There are only two such emeralds in the world without flaws and we have one of them. The other is owned by the Archbishop of Bogota, Colombia.” “He said these were flawless and that he has proofs. He says Eligius studied this--” “Mr. Merriwether, you have on your hands either a very dangerous impostor or else--H'm! He must be an impostor! How much does he want?” “It is not for sale!” “H'm! Worse and worse! If I can be of use let me know! They'll fool us all! All! Good day!” And Dr. Lentz walked away, leaving Tom more puzzled than ever, but now determined to go to 7 East Seventy-seventh Street at eight o'clock that night. He went home and wrote an account of what had happened, placed it in an envelope, sealed the envelope, and gave it to his valet. “If you don't hear from me by ten o'clock tonight give this to my father; but don't give it to him one minute before ten. And you stay in until you hear from me.” “Very good, sir.” He then went to the club, ordered an early dinner for two, and invited his friend Huntington Andrews to go with him. He did not go into details. Shortly before eight he stationed Andrews across the way from 7 East Seventy-seventh Street and told him: