First, I will describe Higgs, who, I may state, is admitted, even by his enemies, to be one of the most learned antiquarians and greatest masters of dead languages in Europe, though this no one would guess from his appearance at the age of about forty-five.  In build short and stout, face round and high-coloured, hair and beard of a fiery red, eyes, when they can be seen—­for generally he wears a pair of large blue spectacles—­small and of an indefinite hue, but sharp as needles.  Dress so untidy, peculiar, and worn that it is said the police invariably request him to move on, should he loiter in the streets at night.  Such was, and is, the outward seeming of my dearest friend, Professor Ptolemy Higgs, and I only hope that he won’t be offended when he sees it set down in black and white.

That of his companion who was seated at the table, his chin resting on his hand, listening to some erudite discourse with a rather distracted air, was extraordinarily different, especially by contrast.  A tall well-made young man, rather thin, but broad-shouldered, and apparently five or six and twenty years of age.  Face clean-cut—­so much so, indeed, that the dark eyes alone relieved it from a suspicion of hardness; hair short and straight, like the eyes, brown; expression that of a man of thought and ability, and, when he smiled, singularly pleasant.  Such was, and is, Captain Oliver Orme, who, by the way, I should explain, is only a captain of some volunteer engineers, although, in fact, a very able soldier, as was proved in the South African War, whence he had then but lately returned.

I ought to add also that he gave me the impression of a man not in love with fortune, or rather of one with whom fortune was not in love; indeed, his young face seemed distinctly sad.  Perhaps it was this that attracted me to him so much from the first moment that my eyes fell on him—­me with whom fortune had also been out of love for many years.

While I stood contemplating this pair, Higgs, looking up from the papyrus or whatever it might be that he was reading (I gathered later that he had spent the afternoon in unrolling a mummy, and was studying its spoils), caught sight of me standing in the shadow.

“Who the devil are you?” he exclaimed in a shrill and strident voice, for it acquires that quality when he is angry or alarmed, “and what are you doing in my room?”

“Steady,” said his companion; “your housekeeper told you that some friend of yours had come to call.”

“Oh, yes, so she did, only I can’t remember any friend with a face and beard like a goat.  Advance, friend, and all’s well.”

So I stepped into the shining circle of the electric light and halted again.

“Who is it?  Who is it?” muttered Higgs.  “The face is the face of—­of—­I have it—­of old Adams, only he’s been dead these ten years.  The Khalifa got him, they said.  Antique shade of the long-lost Adams, please be so good as to tell me your name, for we waste time over a useless mystery.”