“Certainly I do hear something,” I answered, “but I think it must be the echo of our own voices.”

“Well, let us hold our jaw, sir, and perhaps they will hold theirs, for this kind of conversation ain’t nice.”

So we were silent, but the strange murmuring still went on, coming apparently from the wall of the cave behind us, and it occurred to me that I had once heard something like it before, though at the time I could not think where.  Afterwards I remembered that it was when, as a boy, I had been taken to see the Whispering Gallery in St. Paul’s Cathedral in London.

Half-an-hour or so went by in this fashion, and still there were no signs of the Abati or of our missing pair.  Quick began to fumble among his clothes.  I asked him what he was doing.

“Can’t help thinking I’ve got a wax match somewhere, Doctor.  I remember feeling it in one of the pockets of this coat on the day before we left London, and thinking afterwards it wasn’t safe to have had it packed in a box marked ‘Hold.’  Now if only I could find that match, we have got plenty of torches, for I’ve stuck to my bundle all through, although I never thought of them when the lamps were going out.”

Having small belief in the Sergeant’s match, I made no answer, and the search went on till presently I heard him ejaculate: 

“By Jingo, here it is, in the lining.  Yes, and the head feels all right.  Now, Doctor, hold two of the torches toward me; make ready, present, fire!” and he struck the match and applied it to the heads of the resinous torches.

Instantly these blazed up, giving an intense light in that awful darkness.  By this light, for one moment only, we saw a strange, and not unattractive spectacle.  I think I forgot to say that in the centre of this vault stood a kind of altar, which until that moment, indeed, I had not seen.  This altar, which, doubtless, had been used for ceremonial purposes at the funerals of the ancient Kings, consisted of a plain block of basalt stone, whereon was cut the symbol of a human eye, the stone being approached by steps and supported upon carved and crouching sphinxes.

On the lowest of these steps, near enough to enable us to see them quite clearly, were seated Oliver Orme and Maqueda, Child of Kings.  They were seated very close together; indeed, if I must tell the truth, Oliver’s arm was about Maqueda’s waist, her head rested upon his shoulder, and apparently he was engaged in kissing her upon the lips.

“Right about face,” hissed the Sergeant, in a tone of command, “and mark time!”

So we right-abouted for a decent period, then, coughing loudly—­because of the irritant smoke of the torches—­advanced to cross the cavern, and by accident stumbled upon our lost companions.  I confess that I had nothing to say, but Quick rose to the occasion nobly.