must call out, to tell them who it was that was lost.  So he called himself by name, aloud and sternly, and after that he kept on quietly enough, serene in the conviction that he had regained his self-control, fighting to keep his mind from returning to the face that changed before his eyes, like the appearances in the puppet shows.  But suddenly he became conscious that it was his own name that he went shouting through the passages; and that was openly absurd, he reasoned, since if he wanted to be found he must call some one else’s name.  But he must hurry—­hurry—­hurry; no one could tell what might be happening back there to that face that changed.

“Olivia!” he shouted, “Amory!  Jarvo—­oh, Jarvo!  Rollo, you scoundrel—­”

Whereat the memory that Rollo was somewhere on a yacht assailed him, and he pressed on, blindly and in silence, until glimmering before him he saw a light shining from an open door.  Then he rushed forward and with a groan of relief threw himself into the room.  Opposite the door loomed the grim sarcophagus of King Abibaal, and beside it on the floor lay the figure with the face that changed.  He had gone a circle in those tortuous passages, and this was the room of the tombs of the kings.

He dragged himself across the chamber toward the still form.  He must look again; no one could tell what might have happened.  He pulled down the coat and looked.  And there was surely nothing in the delicate, handsome, English-looking face upturned to his to give him new horror.  It was only that he had come down here in the wake of a tottering old creature, and that here in his place lay a man who was not he.  Which was manifestly impossible.

Mechanically St. George’s hand went to the man’s heart.  It was beating regularly and powerfully, and deep breaths were coming from the full, healthily-coloured lips.  For a moment St. George knelt there, his blood tingling and pricking in his veins and pulsing in his temples.  Then he swayed and fell upon the stones.

* * * * *

When St. George opened his eyes it was ten o’clock of the following morning, though he felt no interest in that.  There was before him a great rectangle of light.  He lifted his head and saw that the light appeared to flow from the interior of the tomb of King Abibaal.  The next moment Amory’s cheery voice, pitched high in consternation and relief, made havoc among the echoes with a background of Jarvo’s smooth thanksgiving for the return of adon.

St. George, coatless, stiff from the hours on the mouldy stones, dragged himself up and turned his eyes in fear upon the figure beside him.  It flashed hopefully through his mind that perhaps it had not changed, that perhaps he had dreamed it all, that perhaps ...

By his first glance that hope was dispelled.  From beneath Amory’s coat on the floor an arm came forth, pushing the coat aside, and a man slenderly built, with a youthful, sensitive face and somewhat critically-drooping lids, sat up leisurely and looked about him in slow surprise, kindling to distinct amusement.