chest of drawers against the wall, in which we found, half-rotted away, old-fashioned articles of a man’s dress, such as might have been worn eighty or a hundred years ago by a gentleman of some rank—­costly steel buckles and buttons, like those yet worn in court dresses—­a handsome court sword—­in a waistcoat which had once been rich with gold lace, but which was now blackened and foul with damp, we found five guineas, a few silver coins, and an ivory ticket, probably for some place of entertainment long since passed away.  But our main discovery was in a kind of iron safe fixed to the wall, the lock of which it cost us much trouble to get picked.

In this safe were three shelves and two small drawers.  Ranged on the shelves were several small bottles of crystal, hermetically stopped.  They contained colourless volatile essences, of what nature I shall say no more than that they were not poisons—­phosphor and ammonia entered into some of them.  There were also some very curious glass tubes, and a small pointed rod of iron, with a large lump of rock-crystal, and another of amber—­also a loadstone of great power.

In one of the drawers we found a miniature portrait set in gold, and retaining the freshness of its colours most remarkably, considering the length of time it had probably been there.  The portrait was that of a man who might be somewhat advanced in middle life, perhaps forty-seven or forty-eight.

It was a most peculiar face—­a most impressive face.  If you could fancy some mighty serpent transformed into man, preserving in the human lineaments the old serpent type, you would have a better idea of that countenance than long descriptions can convey:  the width and flatness of frontal—­the tapering elegance of contour disguising the strength of the deadly jaw—­the long, large, terrible eye, glittering and green as the emerald—­and withal a certain ruthless calm, as if from the consciousness of an immense power.  The strange thing was this—­the instant I saw the miniature I recognised a startling likeness to one of the rarest portraits in the world—­the portrait of a man of a rank only below that of royalty, who in his own day had made a considerable noise.  History says little or nothing of him; but search the correspondence of his contemporaries, and you find reference to his wild daring, his bold profligacy, his restless spirit, his taste for the occult sciences.  While still in the meridian of life he died and was buried, so say the chronicles, in a foreign land.  He died in time to escape the grasp of the law, for he was accused of crimes which would have given him to the headsman.