"I speak of him whom you served secretly. It was with your aid that the 'new' tomb was found. But before it was found you and Sir Robert Llwellyn were at work there. I have come to obtain from you a detailed confession of how the thing was done, who cut the inscription?--I must know everything. If not, I tell you with perfect truth, your life is not safe. The Governor has sent men with me and you will be made to speak." He spoke with a deep menace in his tone, and at the same time drew his revolver from the hip pocket of his riding-breeches and held it on his knee. He had begun to realise the awful nature of this man's deed more and more poignantly in his presence. True, he was the tool of greater intelligences, and his guilt was not so heavy as theirs. Nevertheless, the Greek was no fool, he had something of an education, he had not done this thing blindly. The man crouched against the wall, desperate and hopeless. One of the soldiers outside the door moved, and his sabre clanked. The sound was decisive. With a broken, husky voice Ionides began his miserable confession. How simple it was! Wild astonishment at the ease with which the whole thing had been done filled the journalist's brain. The tomb, already known to the Greek, the slow carving of the inscription at dead of night by Llwellyn, the new coating of _hamra_ sealing up the inner chamber. And yet, so skilfully had the forgeries been committed, chance had so aided the forgers, and their secret had been so well preserved that the whole world of experts was deceived. In the overpowering relief of the confession Spence was but little interested in the details, but at length they were duly set down and signed by the Greek in the presence of the officer. By midnight the journalist was far away on the road to Jerusalem. CHAPTER VII THE LAST MEETING In Sir Robert Llwellyn's flat in Bond Street the electric bell suddenly rang, a shrill tinkle in the silence. Schuabe, who sat by the window, looked up with a strained, white face. Avoiding his glance, Llwellyn rose and went out into the passage. The latch of the door clicked, there was a murmur of voices, and Llwellyn returned, following a third person. Schuabe gave a scarcely perceptible shudder as this man entered. The man was a thick-set person of medium height, clean shaven. He was dressed in a frock-coat and carried a silk hat, neither new nor smart, yet not seedy nor showing any evidences of poverty. The man's face was one to inspire a sensitive or alert person with a sudden disgust and terror for which a name can hardly be found. It was an utterly abominable and black soul that looked out of the still rather bilious eyes. The eyes were much older than the rest of the face. They were full of a cold and deliberate cruelty and, worse even than this, such a hideous _knowledge_ of unmentionable crime was there! The lips made one thin, wicked curve which hardly varied in direction, for this man could not smile.