Yet they approached nearer; they came to the edge and stood looking in.  As though he could not believe the mere sight of his eyes, big Neddy crouched down, reached out his hand, and took up Mr. Saffron’s scepter.  With a look of half-scared amazement he held it up for his companion’s inspection.  Mike eyed it uneasily, but his thoughts were getting back to business.  He stole softly off to the door, with intent to see whether it was locked; he stooped down to examine it and perceived that it was not.  It would be well, then, to barricade it, and he turned round to look for some heavy bit of furniture suitable for his purpose, something that would delay the entrance of an intruder and give them notice of the interruption.

As he turned, his body suddenly stiffened; only his trained instinct prevented him from crying out.  There was an occupant of the room—­there, in the great chair between the tall candlesticks on the dais.  An old man sat—­half lay—­there; asleep, it seemed; his eyes were shut.  The color of his face struck Gentleman Mike as being peculiar.  But everything in that place was peculiar; like a great tomb—­a blooming mausoleum—­the whole place was.  Though he had the reputation of being an esprit fort, Mike felt uncomfortable.  Cold and clammy too, the beastly place was!

Still—­business is business.  Letting the matter of the unlocked door wait for the moment, he began to steal catlike across the floor towards the dais.  He had to investigate; also he really ought to put out those candles; it was utterly unprofessional to leave them alight.  But he could not conquer a feeling that the place would seem still more peculiar when they were put out.

Big Neddy’s eyes had not followed his comrade to the door; they had been held by the queer hole and its queer contents—­by the gleaming gold that strewed its floor, by the mock symbol of majesty which he had lifted from it and still held in his hand, by the oddly suggestive shape and dimensions of the hole itself.  But now he raised his eyes from these things and looked across at Mike, mutely asking what he thought of matters.  He saw Mike stealing across the floor, looking very, very hard at—­something.

Mute as Neddy’s inquiry was, Mike seemed somehow aware of it.  He raised his hand, as though to enjoin silence, and then pointed it in front of him, raised to the level of his head.  Neddy turned round to look in the direction indicated.  He saw the throne and its silent occupant—­the waxen-faced old man who sat there, seeming to preside over the scene, whose head was turned towards him, whose closed eyes would open directly on his face if their lids were lifted.

Neddy feared no living man; so he was accustomed to boast, and with good warrant.  But was that man living?  How came he up there?  And what had he to do with the queer-shaped hole that had all that gold in it?  And the thing he held in his own hand?  Did that belong to the old man up there?  Had he flung it into the hole?  Or (odd fancies began to assail big Neddy) had he left it behind him when he got out?  And would he, by chance, come down to look for it?