So they were asking for another commission! Well, they might try that as a forlorn hope, but _he knew_ that his discovery was real. Could _he_ be mistaken possibly? Could that congress of the learned be all mistaken and imposed upon? It was not possible. It could not be. Would that it _were_ possible. There was no hope, despite the newspapers. For centuries the world had been living in a fool's paradise. He had destroyed it. It would be a hundred years before the echoes of his deed had died away. But the terrible weight of the world's burden was too heavy for him to bear. He knew that. Not for much longer could he endure it. The life seemed oozing out of him, pressed out by a weight--the sensation was physical. He wished it was all over. He had no hope for the future, and no fear. The weight was too heavy. The outside dark came through the walls, and began to close in on him. His heart beat loudly. It seemed to rise up in his throat and choke him. The pressure grew each moment; mountains were being piled upon him, heavier, more heavy. The wind was but a distant murmur now, but the weight was crushing him. Only a few more moments and his heart would burst. _At last!_ The dark thing huddled on the hearth-rug, which the girl found when she came down in the morning, was the scholar's body. The newspaper he had been reading lay upon his chest. CHAPTER IV A LUNCHEON PARTY Constantine Schuabe's great room at the Hotel Cecil had been entirely refurnished and arranged for the winter months. The fur of great Arctic beasts lay upon the heavy Teheran carpets, which had replaced the summer matting--furs of enormous value. The dark red curtains which hung by windows and over doors were worked with threads of dull gold. All the chairs were more massive in material and upholstered warmly in soft leather; the logs in the fireplace crackled with white flame, amethyst in the glowing cavern beneath. However the winter winds might sweep over the Thames below or the rain splash and welter on the Embankment, no sound or sign of the turmoil could reach or trouble the people who moved in the fragrant warmth and comfort of this room. For his own part Schuabe never gave any attention to the _mise-en-scène_ by which he was surrounded, here or elsewhere. The head of a famous Oxford Street firm was told to call with his artists and undermen; he was given to understand that the best that could be done was to be done, and the matter was left entirely to him.