his MS., and by whose decision he would abide.  After some delay and correspondence, he could think of only two—­Professor Girdelstone and Monteagle.  They possessed great opportunities, he said, of judging on such matters.  Their erudition was of a steadier and more solid nature than his own.  Then the world and Oxbridge joined again in a chorus of praise.  What could be more honest, more straightforward, than submitting the MS. to a final examination at the hands of the two curators of the FitzTaylor, who were to have the first refusal of the MS. if it was considered authentic?  No museum was ever given such an opportunity.  Professor Girdelstone and his colleague soon came to a conclusion.  They decided that there could be no doubt as to the authenticity of the Aulus Gellius.  In portions it was true that between the lines other characters were partly legible; but this threw no slur on the MS. itself.  Of the commentary on the book of Jasher, it will be remembered, they gave no decisive opinion, and it is still an open question.  They expressed their belief that the Aulus Gellius was alone worth the price asked by Dr. Groschen.  It only remained now for the University to advance a sum to the FitzTaylor for the purchase of this treasure.  The curators, rather prematurely perhaps, wrote privately to Dr. Groschen making him an offer for his MS., and paid him half the amount out of their own pockets, so as to close the bargain once and for all.

The delay of the University in making the grant caused a good deal of apprehension in the hearts of Professor Girdelstone and Monteagle.  They feared that the enormous sums offered by the Berlin Museum would tempt even the simple-minded Dr. Groschen, though the interests of the FitzTaylor were so near his heart.  These suspicions proved unfounded as they were ungenerous.  The savant was contented with his degree and college rooms, and showed no hurry for the remainder of the sum to be paid.

One night, when I was seated in my rooms beside the fire, preparing lectures on the ichthyosaurus, I was startled by a knock at my door.  It was a hurried, jerky rap.  I shouted, ‘Come in.’  The door burst open, and on the threshold I saw Monteagle, with a white face, on which the beads of perspiration glittered.  At first I thought it was the rain which had drenched his cap and gown, but in a moment I saw that the perspiration was the result of terror or anxiety (cf. my lectures on Mental Equilibrium).  Monteagle and I in our undergraduate days had been friends; but like many University friendships, ours proved evanescent; our paths had lain in different directions.

He had chosen archaeology.  We failed to convert one another to each other’s views.  When he became a member of ‘The Disciples,’ a mystic Oxbridge society, the fissure between us widened to a gulf.  We nodded when we met, but that was all.  With Girdelstone I was not on speaking terms.  So when I found Monteagle on my threshold I confess I was startled.