This man was well known in the city--a character in his way. In the reports of the Exploring Society he was often referred to as an invaluable assistant. But a year ago his portrait had been published in the annual statement of the fund, and the face of the Greek Ionides in his turban lay upon the study tables of many a quiet English vicarage. Spence entered the courtyard of the building. It was quiet and deserted; some pigeons were feeding there. He turned under a stone archway to the right, pushed open a door, and entered the museum. There was a babel of voices. A small group of people stood by a wooden pedestal in the centre of the room, which supported the famous cruciform font found at Bîâr Es-seb'a. They turned at Spence's entrance. He saw some familiar faces of people with whom he had been brought in contact during the time of the first discovery. Two English missionaries, one in orders, the English Consul, and Professor Theodore Adams, the American archæologist, who lived all the year round in the new western suburb, stood speaking in grave tones and with distressed faces--so it seemed to the intruder. An Egyptian servant, dressed in white linen, carrying a bunch of keys, was with them. In his hand the Consul held a roll of yellow native wax. An enormous surprise shone out on the faces of these people as Spence walked up to him. "Mr. Spence!" said the Consul, "we never expected you or heard of your coming. This is most fortunate, however. You were his great friend. I think you both shared chambers together in London?" Spence looked at him in wonder, mechanically shaking the proffered hand. "I don't think I quite understand," he said. "I came here quite by chance, just to see if there was any one that I knew about." "Then you have not heard--" said the clergyman. "I have heard nothing." "Your friend, our distinguished fellow-worker, Professor Hands, is no more. We have just received a cable. Poor, dear Hands died of heart disease while taking a seaside holiday." Spence was genuinely affected. Hands was an old and dear friend. His sweet, kindly nature, too dreamy and retiring perhaps for the rush and hurry of Occidental life, had always been wonderfully welcome for a month or two each year in Lincoln's Inn. His quaint, learned letters, his enthusiasm for his work had become part of the journalist's life. They were recurring pleasures. And now he was gone! Now it was all over. Never more would he hear the quiet voice, hear the water-pipe bubble in the quiet old inn as night gave way to dawn.... His brain whirled with the sudden shock. He grew very pale, waiting to hear more.