His next impression was of a cell-like room, the floor composed of blocks of red granite, the walls smoothly plastered. An unglazed window made a black patch in one wall; and upon a big table covered with books and papers stood a queer-looking lamp. It was apparently silver, and in the form of a clutching hand. Within the hand rested a globe of light, above which was attached a coloured shade. The table was black with great age, and a carven chair, equally antique, stood by it upon a coarse fibre mat. The place was the abode of an anchorite, save for a rich Damascene curtain draped before a recess at one end. The Baron found himself to be in a heavily cushioned chair, gazing across at this table--whereat was seated a very dark and singularly handsome man who wore a garment like an Arab's robe. This stranger had his large, luminous eyes set fixedly upon the Baron's face. "I am dreaming!" Baron Hague stood up, unsteadily, raising his hand to his head. There was a faint perfume in the air of the room; and now Hague saw that the man who sat so attentively watching him was smoking a yellow-wrapped cigarette. His brain grew clearer. Memory began to return; and he knew that he was not dreaming. Frantically he thrust his hand into the inside breast pocket. "Do not trouble yourself, Baron," the speaker's voice was low and musical; "the packet of diamonds lies here!" And as he spoke the man at the table held up the missing packet. Hague started forward, fists clenched. "You have robbed me! Gott! you shall be sorry for this! Who the devil are you, eh?" "Sit down, Baron," was the reply. "I am Severac Bablon!" Baron Hague paused, in the centre of the room, staring, with a sort of madness, at this notorious free-booter--this suave, devilishly handsome enemy of Capital. Then he turned and leapt to the door. It was locked. He faced about. Severac Bablon smoked. "Sit down, Baron," he reiterated. The head of the great Berlin banking house looked about for a weapon. None offered. The big, carven, chair was too heavy to wield. With his fingers twitching, he approached again, closer to the table. Severac Bablon stood up, keeping his magnetic gaze upon the Baron--seeming to pierce to his brain. "For the last time--sit down, Baron!" The words were spoken quietly enough, and yet they seemed to clamour upon the hearer's brain--to strike upon his consciousness as though it were a gong. Again Hague paused, pulled up short by the force of those strange eyes. He weighed his chances. From all that he had heard and read of Severac Bablon, his accomplices were innumerable. Where this cell might be situate he could form no idea, nor by whom or what surrounded. Severac Bablon apparently was unarmed (save that his glance was a sword to stay almost any man); therefore he had others near to guard him. Baron Hague decided that to resort to personal violence at that juncture would be the height of unwisdom. He sat down.