Lying on the bunk in the close cabin, lighted by a dirty lantern pendent from the roof, the Reverend Manetho began to fear that not his worst misfortune was the having been thrown overboard.  At the moment when madness was smouldering to a blaze within him, the lantern flash had revealed to him the face which, for twenty years, he had seen in visions.  Often had he rehearsed this meeting, varying his imaginary behavior to suit all conceivable moods and attitudes of his enemy, but never thinking to provide for perversity in himself!  So far from veiling his designs with the soft-voiced cunning of his Oriental nature, he had been a wild beast!  A misgiving haunted him, moreover, that he had babbled something in the false security of darkness, which might give Helwyse a clew to his secret.

But here Manetho asked himself a question that might have suggested itself before.  Was it really his enemy, Thor Helwyse, whose face he had seen? or only some likeness of him?

Thor must be threescore years old by this,—­the senior by ten years of Manetho himself; while his late antagonist had the strength and aspect of half that age.  Yet how could he be mistaken in the face which had haunted him during more than the third part of his lifetime?  He had recognized it on the instant!

“I will ask the haversack!” said he.  He sat up, and, bracing himself against the roll of the vessel, he opened the bag and carefully examined its contents.  In an inner pocket he found an old letter of Doctor Glyphic’s to Thor; another from Thor to his son, dated three years back; and finally a diary kept by Balder Helwyse, which gave Manetho all the information he wanted.

He had so arranged matters that at Glyphic’s death he had got the control of the money into his own hands, and had made such diligent use of it that enough was not now left to pay for his prosecution as a thief and forger.  In fact, had Balder delayed his return another year, he would have found the enchanted castle in possession of the auctioneer; and as to the fate of its inhabitants, one does not like to speculate!

Having read the papers, Manetho replaced them, and next pulled out the miniature of Doctor Glyphic.  He studied this for a long time.  It was the portrait of a man to whom—­so long as their earthly relations had continued—­the Egyptian renegade had been faithful.  Perhaps there was some secret germ of excellence in poor Hiero, unsuspected by the rest of the world, but revealed to Manetho, from whom in turn it had drawn the best virtues that his life had to show.  Doctor Glyphic had never been a comfortable companion; but Manetho was always patient and honest with him.  This integrity and forbearance were the more remarkable, since the Doctor seldom acknowledged a kindness, and knew so little of business that he might have been robbed of his fortune at any moment with impunity.

Either from physical exhaustion or for some worthier reason, the Egyptian cried over this miniature, as an affectionate girl might have cried over the portrait of her dead lover.  For a time he was all tears and softness.  His emotion had not the convulsiveness which, with men of his age, is apt to accompany the exhibition of much feeling.  He wept with feminine fluency, nor did his tearfulness seem out of character.  There was a great deal of the woman in him.