sole, as they walked out of the room together. Although the hour
was so late, the hotel was not, of course, closed for the night. A few
guests still remained about in the public rooms, and a few fatigued
waiters were still in attendance. One of these latter was despatched in
search of the singular Mr Hubbard, and it fortunately turned out that
this gentleman had not actually retired, though he was on the point of
doing so. He brought the keys to Mr Racksole in person, and after he
had had a little chat with his former master, the proprietor and the
ex-proprietor of the Grand Babylon Hotel proceeded on their way to the
cellars.

These cellars extend over, or rather under, quite half the superficial
areas of the whole hotel--the longitudinal half which lies next to the
Strand.

Owing to the fact that the ground slopes sharply from the Strand to the
river, the Grand Babylon is, so to speak, deeper near the Strand than
it is near the Thames. Towards the Thames there is, below the entrance
level, a basement and a sub-basement. Towards the Strand there is
basement, sub-basement, and the huge wine cellars beneath all. After
descending the four flights of the service stairs, and traversing a
long passage running parallel with the kitchen, the two found themselves
opposite a door, which, on being unlocked, gave access to another flight
of stairs. At the foot of this was the main entrance to the cellars.
Outside the entrance was the wine-lift, for the ascension of delicious
fluids to the upper floors, and, opposite, Mr Hubbard's little office.
There was electric light everywhere.

Babylon, who, as being most accustomed to them, held the bunch of keys,
opened the great door, and then they were in the first cellar--the first
of a suite of five. Racksole was struck not only by the icy coolness
of the place, but also by its vastness. Babylon had seized a portable
electric handlight, attached to a long wire, which lay handy, and,
waving it about, disclosed the dimensions of the place. By that flashing
illumination the subterranean chamber looked unutterably weird and
mysterious, with its rows of numbered bins, stretching away into the
distance till the radiance was reduced to the occasional far gleam of
the light on the shoulder of a bottle. Then Babylon switched on
the fixed electric lights, and Theodore Racksole entered upon a
personally-conducted tour of what was quite the most interesting part of
his own property.

To see the