when i came to myself again it was already morning. in a small square behind the studio the sparrows were discussing the prospects of breakfast, though as yet that earliest of all birds, the milkman, had not begun to make his presence known in the streets. of all the hours of the day there is not one, to my thinking, so lonely and so full of dreariness as that which immediately precedes and ushers in the dawn; while, of all the experiences of our human life, there is, perhaps, not one more unpleasant than to awake from sleep at such an hour to find that one has passed the entire night in one’s clothes and seated in a most comfortable armchair. that was my lot on this occasion. on opening my eyes i looked around me with a puzzled air. for the life of me i could not understand why i was not in my bed. it was the first time i had ever gone to sleep in my chair, and the knowledge that i had done so disquieted me strangely. i studied the room, but, to all intents and purposes, everything there was just as when i had closed my eyes. i only was changed. my brain was as heavy as lead, and, though i did my best to recall the events of the previous evening, i found that, while i could recollect the “at home” at medenham house, and my return to my studio afterward, i could remember nothing that followed later. i was still pursuing this train of thought when i became aware of a loud knocking at the street door. i immediately hastened to it and drew the bolts. my feeling of bewilderment was increased rather than diminished on discovering an inspector of police upon the threshold, with a constable behind him.

“mr. forrester, i believe?” he began; and as soon as i had answered in the affirmative, continued: “you must excuse my disturbing you, sir, at this early hour, but the reason is imperative. i should be glad if you would permit me the honour of five minutes’ conversation with you, alone.”

“with pleasure,” i answered, and immediately invited him to enter.

having shut the door behind him, i led the way to the studio, where i signed him to a chair, taking up a position myself on the hearthrug before him. the constable remained in the passage outside.

“it is, as you say, rather an early hour for a call,” i remarked, making a mental note as i spoke of the man’s character as i read it in his large, honest eyes, well-shaped nose, and square, determined-looking chin. “what can i do for you?”

“i believe you are in a position to furnish me with some important information,” he replied. “to begin with, i might inform you that a diabolical murder was committed at the old curiosity shop at the corner of the next street, either late last night or during the early hours of this morning, most probably between midnight and one o’clock. it is altogether a most remarkable affair, and, from the evidence we have before us, though no cries were heard, the struggle must have been a desperate one. from the fact that the front door was still locked and bolted when we forced our way in, it is plain that the murderer must have effected his escape by the back. indeed, a man was seen entering the alley behind the house between one and two o’clock, though this circumstance excited no suspicion at the time. the witness who saw him reports that he came along on this side of the street, in the shadow, and, though he is not at all certain on this point, believes that he entered one of the houses hereabouts. that on your right is empty, and the doors and windows are securely fastened. he could not, therefore, have gone in there. that on the left is a boarding-house. i have called upon the landlady, who asserts most positively that her front door was not opened to any one after ten o’clock last night. she informs me, however, that a light was burning in your studio all night, and i see for myself that you have not been to bed. may i ask, therefore, if you saw anything of such a man, or whether you can furnish me with such particulars as will be likely to help us in our search for him.”

like lightning, while he was talking, the memory of everything connected with the visit pharos had paid me flashed across my mind. i glanced involuntarily toward that part of the room where the mummy had hitherto stood. to my amazement — i might almost say to my consternation — it was no longer there. what had become of it? could pharos, after disposing of me as he had done, have stolen it and transported it away? it seemed impossible, and yet i had the best of evidence before me that it was no longer there. and then another question: had pharos had any connection with the murder? the time at which it was supposed to have been committed, between midnight and one o’clock, was precisely that at which he had made his appearance before me. and yet what reason had i, but my own terrible suspicions, to lead me to the conclusion that he was the author of this fiendish bit of work? i saw, however, that my continued silence was impressing the inspector unfavourably.

“come, sir,” he said, this time a little more sharply than before, “i must remind you that my time is valuable. am i to understand that you are in a position to help me, or not?”

god knows, if i had been my own master i should have instantly loosed my tongue and revealed all i knew. i should have told him under what terrible circumstances i had met pharos on the embankment that wet night toward the end of march, and have commented on his inhuman conduct on that occasion. i should have informed him of the appearance the other had made in my studio early this morning, not only with a frightened look in his eyes, but breathing heavily, as though he had been running, a thing which would have seemed impossible in a man of his years. then i should have gone on to tell how he had attempted to induce me to part with something upon which i placed considerable value, and, being disappointed, had hypnotised me and made off with the article in question. all this, as i say, i should have narrated had i been my own master. but god knows i was not. an irresistible force was at work within me, compelling me, even against my will, to screen him, and to tell the first deliberate lie to which, i think, i had ever given utterance in my life.

it is a poor excuse to offer, and i am aware that a world so censorious as our own will not, in all probability, believed this statement, but upon my hopes of forgiveness at the last great day, at that dread moment when the sins of all men shall be judged and punishment awarded, i declare it to be true in every single particular: and what is more, i further say that even if my life depended on it i could not have done otherwise.

though it has taken some time to place these thoughts on paper, the interval that elapsed between the inspector’s last question and my answer, which seemed to me so halting and suspicious, to the effect that i had neither seen nor heard anything of the man he wanted, was scarcely more than a few seconds.

having received my assurance, the officer apologised for troubling me and withdrew, and i was left alone with my thoughts. deep down in my heart there was the desire to hasten after him and to tell him that not only i had lied to him, but that it was possible for me to make amends by putting him on the track of the man who, i felt morally certain, was the criminal. the wish, however, was scarcely born before it was dragged down and stifled by that same irresistible force i have described a few lines since. it seemed to me i was bound hand and foot, powerless to help myself and incapable of doing aught save carry out the will of the remorseless being into whose power i had fallen so completely. but had i really so fallen? could it be possible that such power was permitted to a human being? no, no — a thousand times no! if he had that influence he must be an agent of the evil one, whose mission it was to draw to perdition the souls of helpless men. filled with shame, i sank into a chair and covered my face with my hands, as if by so doing i could shut out the horrible thoughts that filled my brain. could it be true that i, who had always regarded a liar as the most despicable of men, had sunk so low as to become one myself? god help me! god pity me! of all the bitter hours my life has known, i think that moment was the worst.

for some time after the inspector had taken his departure i sat, as i have said, my face covered with my hands, trying to think coherently. twenty-four hours before i had been one of the happiest men in england. nothing had troubled me. i had lived for my art and in my art, and i believe i can confidently say that i had not an enemy in the world. now, in a single hour, my whole life was changed. i had been drawn into the toils of a fiend in human shape and i was paying the awful penalty.

hour after hour went by. my servant arrived and presently brought in my breakfast, but i put it aside; i had too much upon my mind to eat. it was in vain i tried to force myself. my food stuck in my throat and defied me. and all the time i was oppressed by the diabolical picture of that murder. the shop in which it had occurred was one with which i was familiar. in my mind’s eye i saw the whole scene as clearly as if i had been present at the time. i saw the shop, filled to overflowing with bric-a-brac, the light of the single gas-lamp reflected in a hundred varieties of brass and pottery work. at a desk in the corner sat the dealer himself, and before him, holding him in earnest conversation, the extraordinary figure of pharos the assassin. how he came to be there at such an hour i could not tell, but from what i knew of him i was convinced it was with no good purpose. i could imagine how off his guard and totally unprepared for attack the other would be; and, even if he had entertained any suspicions, it is extremely doubtful whether he would have credited this deformed atom with the possession, either of such malignity or of such giant strength. then that same cruel light that had exercised such an influence upon me a few hours before began to glisten in the murderer’s eyes. little by little he moved his right hand behind him until it touched an oriental dagger lying on a table beside which he stood. then, with that cat-like spring which i had good reason to remember, he leaped upon his opponent and seized him by the throat, driving the blade deep in below the shoulder. his victim, paralyzed with surprise, at first offered no resistance. then, with the instinct of self-preservation, he began to struggle with his devilish opponent, only to discover the strength that seemingly attenuated form possessed. little by little his power departed from him, and at last, with a crash, he fell back upon the floor. i pictured pharos stooping over him to see if he were dead, chuckling with delight at the success he had achieved. when he had convinced himself on this head, he abstracted a key from the dead man’s pocket and approached a safe, built into the wall. the handle turned and the door swung open. a moment later he had taken a ring set with a scarab?us from a drawer and dropped it into his pocket. after that he paused while he considered in which direction it would be safest for him to make his escape. a policeman’s step sounded on the pavement outside, and as he heard it he looked up, and his thin lips drew back, showing the wolfish teeth behind. his horrible cunning pointed out to him the danger he would incur in leaving by the front. accordingly he made his way through the sitting-room behind the shop and passed out by the gate in the yard beyond. a few seconds later he was in my presence, but whether by accident or design was more than i could say.

so vivid was the picture i had conjured up that i could not help believing it must be something more than mere conjecture on my part. if so, what course should i pursue? i had been robbed. i had given a murderer shelter at the very moment when he stood most in need of it, and, when the law was close upon his heels, i had pledged my word for his innocence and perjured myself to ensure his salvation. his presence had been repulsive to me ever since i had first set eyes on him. i hated the man as i had hitherto deemed it impossible i could hate any one. yet, despite all this, by some power — how real i can not expect any one to believe — he was compelling me to shield and behave toward him as if he had been my brother, or at least my dearest friend. i can feel the shame of that moment even now, the agonising knowledge of the gulf that separated me from the man i was yesterday, or even an hour before.

i rose from the table, leaving my breakfast untouched, and stood at the window looking out upon the dismal square beyond. the sunshine of the earlier morning had given place to a cloudy sky, and, as i watched, a heavy shower began to fall. it was as if nature were weeping tears of shame to see a child of man brought so low. i went to the place where, until a few hours before, the mummy had stood — that wretched mummy which had been the cause of all the trouble. as i had good reason to know, it weighed a considerable amount, more, indeed, than i should have imagined an old man like pharos could have lifted, much less carried. i examined the floor, to see if the case had been dragged across it, but, highly polished as the boards were, i could detect no sign of such a thing having taken place. the wainscoting of the hall next received my attention, but with a similar result. and it was at this juncture that another curious point in the evening’s story struck me. when i had admitted the inspector of police, i had unlocked and unchained the door. i was the sole occupant of the building. how, therefore, had pharos conveyed his burden outside, and locked, chained, and bolted the door behind him? under the influence of this discovery i returned with all speed to the studio. perhaps he had not gone out by the front door at all, but had made his escape by the windows at the back. these i carefully examined, only to find them safely bolted as usual. the riddle was beyond me. i had to confess myself beaten. was it possible i could have dreamed the whole thing? had i fallen asleep in my chair and imagined a meeting with pharos which had really never taken place? oh, if only it could be true, what a difference it would make in my happiness! and yet, staring me in the face, was the damning fact that the mummy was gone. when i rose from my chair my mind was made up. i would seek pharos out, accuse him not only of the theft, but of the murder, and make him understand, with all the earnestness of which i was master, that justice should be done, and that i would no longer shield him from the consequences of his villainy. it was only then i remembered that i had no knowledge of the man’s whereabouts. i considered for a moment how i could best overcome this difficulty. lady medenham was, of course, the one person of all others to help me. since she had invited the man to her house, it was almost certain that she would be able to furnish me with his address. i would go to her without further waste of time. accordingly i made the necessary changes in my toilet and left the studio. the rain had ceased and the streets were once more full of sunshine. it was a pleasant morning for walking, but so urgent did my business seem that i felt i could not even spare the time for exercise. hailing a hansom, i bade the man drive me with all possible speed to eaton square. to my delight lady medenham was at home, and i was shown forthwith to her boudoir. a few moments elapsed before she joined me there, and then her first remark was one of astonishment.

“why, mr. forrester, what is the matter with you?” she cried. “i have never seen you look so ill.”

“it is nothing,” i answered, with a forced laugh. “i have had some bad news this morning, and it has upset me. lady medenham, i have come to beg a favour at your hands.”

“if it is within my power, you know it is already granted,” she said kindly. “won’t you sit down and tell me what it is?”

“i want you to furnish me with the address of that singular old gentleman who was at your ‘at home’ last evening,” i replied, as i seated myself opposite her.

“london would say that there were many singular old gentlemen at my ‘at home,’” she answered with a smile; “but my instinct tells me you mean monsieur pharos.”

“that, i believe, is his name,” i said, and then, as if to excuse the question, i added, “he is, as i think you heard him say, an ardent egyptologist.”

“i do not know anything about his attainments in that direction,” lady medenham replied, “but he is certainly a most extraordinary person. were it not for his beautiful ward, whose case i must confess excites my pity, i should not care if i never saw him again.”

“she is his ward, then?” i said, with an eagerness that i could see was not lost upon my companion. “i had made up my mind she was his granddaughter.”

“indeed, no,” lady medenham replied. “the poor girl’s story is a very strange and sad one. her father was a hungarian noble, a brilliant man in his way, i believe, but a confirmed spendthrift. her mother died when she was but six years old. from a very early age she gave signs of possessing extraordinary musical talent, and this her father, perhaps with some strange prevision of the future, fostered with every care. when she was barely fifteen he was killed in a duel. it was then discovered that his money was exhausted and that the home was mortgaged beyond all redemption to the jews. thus the daughter, now without relations or friends of any sort or description, was thrown upon the world to sink or swim just as fate should decree. for any girl the position would have been sufficiently unhappy, but for her, who had seen nothing of life, and who was of an extremely sensitive disposition, it was well-nigh insupportable. what her existence must have been like for the next five years one scarcely likes to think. but it served its purpose. with a bravery that excites one’s admiration she supported herself almost entirely by her music; gaining in breadth, power, and knowledge of technique with every year. then — where, or in what manner i have never been able to discover, for she is peculiarly sensitive upon this point — she became acquainted with the old gentleman you saw last night, monsieur pharos. he was rich, eccentric, and perhaps what most attracted her, passionately fond of music. his extreme age obviated any scandal, even had there been any one to raise it, so that when he proposed to adopt the friendless but beautiful girl, and to enable her to perfect her musical education under the best masters, no one came forward to protest against it. she has, i believe, been with him upward of seven years now.”

i shuddered when i heard this. knowing what i did of pharos i could not find it in my heart to credit him with the possession of so much kindly feeling. but if it were not so, what could the bond between them be?

“what you tell me is extremely interesting,” i remarked, “and only adds to my desire to see the old gentleman once more. if you could let me have his address i should be more grateful than i can say.”

“i am very much afraid it is not in my power,” she replied. “it is one of the least of monsieur pharos’s many peculiarities to take extraordinary precautions to prevent his whereabouts becoming known; but stay, i think i can tell you of some one who may be of more service to you. you know sir george legrath, do you not?”

“the director of the egyptian museum?” i said. “yes, i know him very well indeed. he was an old friend of my father’s.”

“to be sure he was,” she answered. “well, then, go and see him. i think it is probable that he may be able to assist you. monsieur pharos is an acquaintance of his, and it was to sir george’s care that i sent the invitation to my ‘at home’ last night.”

“i can not thank you enough for your kindness, lady medenham,” i replied, as i rose from my chair. “i will go and see sir george at once.”

“and i hope you may be successful. if i can help you in any other way be sure i will do so. but before you go, mr. forrester, let me give you another piece of advice. you should really consult a doctor without delay. i do not like your appearance at all. we shall hear of your being seriously ill if you do not take more care of yourself.”

i laughed uneasily. in my own heart i knew my ailment was not of the body but of the mind, and until my suspicions concerning pharos were set at rest it was beyond the reach of any doctor’s science to do me good. once more i thanked lady medenham for her kindness, and then left her and made my way back to the cab.

“to the egyptian museum,” i cried to the driver, as i took my seat in the vehicle, “and as quickly as you can go!”

the man whipped up his horse, and in less than ten minutes from the time the butler closed the front door upon me at medenham house i was entering the stately portico of the world-famous museum. for some years i had been a constant visitor there, and as a result was well known to the majority of the officials. i inquired from one, whom i met in the vestibule, whether i should find sir george in his office.

“i am not quite certain, sir,” the man replied. “it’s only just gone half past ten, and unless there is something important doing, we don’t often see him much before a quarter to eleven. however, if you will be kind enough, sir, to step this way, i’ll very soon find out.”

so saying he led me along the corridor, past huge monuments and blocks of statuary, to a smaller passage on the extreme left of the building. at the farther end of this was a door, upon which he knocked. no answer rewarded him.

“i am very much afraid, sir, he has not arrived,” remarked the man, “but perhaps you will be good enough to step inside and take a seat. i feel sure he won’t be very long.”

“in that case i think i will do so,” i replied, and accordingly i was ushered into what is perhaps the most characteristic office in london. having found the morning paper and with unconscious irony placed it before me, the man withdrew, closing the door behind him.

i have said that the room in which i was now seated was characteristic of the man who occupied it. sir george legrath is, as every one knows, the most competent authority the world possesses at the present time on the subject of ancient egypt. he had graduated under my own poor father, and, if only for this reason, we had always been the closest friends. it follows as a natural sequence that the walls of the room should be covered from ceiling to floor with paintings, engravings, specimens of papyrus, and the various odds and ends accumulated in an egyptologist’s career. he had also the reputation of being one of the best-dressed men in london, and was at all times careful to a degree of his appearance. this accounted for the velvet office-coat, a sleeve of which i could just see peeping out from behind a curtain in the corner. kindly of heart and the possessor of a comfortable income, it is certain that but few of those in need who applied to him did so in vain; hence the pile of begging letters from charitable institutions and private individuals that invariably greeted his arrival at his office. i had not been waiting more than five minutes before i heard an active step upon the stone flagging of the passage outside. the handle of the door was sharply turned, and the man for whom i was waiting entered the room.

“my dear cyril,” he cried, advancing toward me with outstretched hand, “this is indeed a pleasure! it is now some weeks since i last saw you, but, on the other hand, i have heard of you. the fame of your picture is in every one’s mouth.”

“every one is very kind,” i replied, “but i am afraid in this instance the public says rather more than it means.”

“not a bit of it,” answered my friend. “that reminds me, however, that there is one point in the picture about which i want to talk to you.”

“at any other time i shall be delighted,” i replied, “but to-day, sir george, i have something else to say to you. i have come to you because i am very much worried.”

“now that i look at you i can see you are not quite the thing,” he said. “but what is this worry? tell me about it, for you know if i can help you i shall be only too glad to do so.”

“i have come to seek your advice in a rather strange matter,” i replied, “and before i begin i must ask that everything i say shall remain in the strictest confidence between us.”

“i will give you that promise willingly,” he said, “and i think you know me well enough to feel certain i shall keep it. now let me hear your troubles.”

“in the first place i want you to tell me all you know of an extraordinary individual who has been seen a good deal in london society of late. i refer to a man named pharos.”

while i had been speaking sir george had seated himself in the chair before his writing-table. on hearing my question, however, he sprang to his feet with an exclamation that was as startling as it was unexpected. it did not exactly indicate surprise, nor did it express annoyance or curiosity; yet it seemed to partake of all three. it was his face, however, that betrayed the greatest change. a moment before it had exhibited the ruddiness of perfect health, now it was ashen pale.

“pharos?” he cried. then, recovering his composure a little, he added, “my dear forrester, what can you possibly want with him?”

“i want to know all you can tell me about him,” i replied gravely. “it is the greatest favour i have ever asked of you, and i hope you will not disappoint me.”

for some moments he paced the room as if in anxious thought. then he returned to his seat at the writing-table. the long hand of the clock upon the mantelpiece had made a perceptible movement when he spoke again. so changed was his voice, however, that i scarcely recognised it.

“cyril,” he said, “you have asked me a question to which i can return you but one answer, and that is — may god help you if you have fallen into that man’s power! what he has done or how he has treated you i do not know, but i tell you this, that he is as cruel and as remorseless as satan himself. you are my friend, and i tell you i would far rather see you dead than in his clutches. i do not fear many men, but pharos the egyptian is to me an incarnate terror.”

“you say pharos the egyptian. what do you mean by that?”

“what i say. the man is an egyptian, and claims, i believe, to be able to trace his descent back at least three thousand years.”

“and you know no more of him?”

as i put the question i looked at sir george’s hand, which rested on his blotting-pad, and noticed that it was shaking as if with the palsy.

once more a pause ensued.

“what i know must remain shut up in my own brain,” he answered slowly and as if he were weighing every word before he uttered it; “and it will go down to my grave with me. dear lad, fond as i am of you, you must not ask any more of me, for i can not satisfy your curiosity.”

“but, sir george, i assure you, with all the earnestness at my command, that this is a matter of life and death to me,” i replied. “you can have no notion what it means. my honour, my good name — nay, my very existence itself — depends upon it.”

as if in answer to my importunity, my friend rose from his chair and picked up the newspaper which the attendant had placed on the table beside me. he opened it, and, after scanning the pages, discovered what he was looking for. folding it carefully, he pointed to a certain column and handed it to me. i took it mechanically and glanced at the item in question. it was an account of the murder of the unfortunate curiosity dealer, but, so far as i could see, my name was not mentioned. i looked up at sir george for an explanation.

“well?” i said, but the word stuck in my throat.

“though you will scarcely credit it, i think i understand everything,” he replied. “the murdered man’s shop was within a short distance of your abode. a witness states that he saw some one leave the victim’s house about the time the deed must have been committed and that he made his way into your street. as i said, when you first asked me about him, may god help you, cyril forrester, if this is your trouble!”

“but what makes you connect pharos with the murder described here?” i asked, feigning a surprise i was far from feeling.

“that i can not tell you,” he replied. “to do so would bring upon me —— but no, my lips are sealed, hopelessly sealed.”

“but surely you are in a position to give me that man’s address? lady medenham told me you were aware of it.”

“it is true i was, but i am afraid you have come too late.”

“too late! what do you mean? oh, sir george, for heaven’s sake do not trifle with me!”

“i am not trifling with you, forrester,” he replied seriously. “i mean that it is impossible for you to find him in london, for the simple reason that he left england with his companion early this morning.”

on hearing this i must have looked so miserable that sir george came over to where i sat and placed his hand upon my shoulder.

“dear lad,” he said, “you don’t know how it pains me to be unable to help you. if it were possible, you have every reason to know that i would do so. in this case, however, i am powerless, how powerless you can not imagine. but you must not give way like this. the man is gone, and in all human probability you will never see his face again. try to forget him.”

“it is impossible. i assure you, upon my word of honour, that i shall know neither peace nor happiness until i have seen him and spoken to him face to face. if i wish ever to be able to look upon myself as an honourable man i must do so. is there no way in which i can find him?”

“i fear none; but stay, now i come to think of it, there is a chance, but a very remote one. i will make inquiries about it and let you know within an hour.”

“god bless you! i will remain in my studio until your messenger arrives.”

i bade him good-bye and left the museum. that he did not forget his promise was proved by the fact that within an hour a cab drove up to my door and one of the attendants from the museum alighted. i took in the note he brought with him at the door, and, when i had returned to the studio, tore open the envelope and drew forth a plain visiting card. on it was written:

“inquire for the man you seek from

carlo angelotti,

public letter-writer,

in the arches of the theatre san carlo, naples.“