Mike’s hand, stretched out from his body towards his friend, now again enjoined silence.  He was at the foot of the dais; he was going up its steps.  He was no good in a scrap, but he had a nerve in some things!  He was up the steps now, and leaning forward; he was looking hard in the old man’s face; his own was close to it.  He laid hold of one of the old man’s arms, it happened to be that left arm of Mr. Saffron’s, lifted it, and let it fall again; it fell back just in the position from which he had lifted it.  Then he straightened himself up, looking a trifle green perhaps, but reassured, and called out to Mike, in a penetrating whisper, “He’s a stiff un all right!”

Yes!  But then, what of the grave?  Because it was a grave and nothing else; there was no getting away from it.  What of the grave, and what about the scepter?

And what was Mike going to do now?  He was tiptoeing to the edge of the dais.  He was moving towards one of the high candlesticks, the top of which was a little below the level of his head, as he stood raised on the dais beside the throne.  He leant forward towards the candles; his intent was obvious.

But big Neddy was not minded that he should carry it out, could not suffer him to do it.  With the light of the candles—­well, at all events you could see what was happening; you could see where you were, and where anybody else was.  But in the dark—­left to torches which illuminated only bits of the place, and which perhaps you mightn’t switch on in time or turn in the right direction; if you were left like that, anybody might be anywhere, and on to you before you knew it!

“Let them lights alone, Mike!” he whispered hoarsely.  “I’ll smash your ’ead in if you put them lights out!”

Mike had conquered his own fit of nerves, not without some exercise of will, and had not given any notice to his companion’s, which was considerably more acute; perhaps the constant use of that roomy flask had contributed to that, though lack of a liberal education (such as Mike had enjoyed and misused) must also bear its share of responsibility.  He was amazed at this violent and threatening interruption.  He gave a funny little skip backwards on the dais; his heel came thereby in contact with the high hassock on which Mr. Saffron’s feet rested.  The hassock was shifted; one foot fell from it on to the dais, and Mr. Saffron’s body fell a little forward from out of the deep recess of his great chair.  To big Neddy’s perturbed imagination it looked as if Mr. Saffron had set one foot upon the floor of the dais and was going to rise from his seat, perhaps to come down from the dais, to come nearer to his grave—­to ask for his scepter.

It was too much for Neddy.  He shuddered, he could not help it; and the scepter dropped from his hand.  It fell from his hand back into the grave again; under its impact the gold coins in the grave again jangled.

Beaumaroy had, by this time, been standing close outside the door for about two minutes; he had lighted a cigarette from the candle on the parlor table.  The sounds that he thought he heard were not conclusive; creaks and cracks did sometimes come from the boarded-up window and the rafters of the roof.  But the sound of the jangling gold was conclusive; it must be due in some way to human agency; and in the circumstances human agency must mean a thief.