d
to spend the evening in building a pyre which should consume the memory
of the secret Sir Jacques.

The books, many of them in handsome bindings, he glanced at, in order
that no one worthy of life should be destroyed. The verdict pronounced
he either laid the book aside or broke it up and threw it on to the
great fire in the adjoining room. He worked for an hour, eagerly,
savagely, his coat stripped off and his shirt sleeves rolled above the
elbow. The collection, though valuable, was small, and within the hour
the bulk of it was ashes. Paul the iconoclast then turned his attention
to the portfolios of water-colours, etchings and photographs which
occupied the lower and deeper shelves of the bureau.

Here he found exquisite reproductions of Pompeiian frescoes,
illustrations in line and colour to divers works, as Pierre Louys'
_Aphrodite_, the _Satyricon_ of Petronius, and Ovid's _Amours_. The
crowning horror of the thing was the artistic skill which had been
prostituted to such ends. Technically, many of the pictures were above
criticism; morally all were beyond. He consigned the entire heap of them
to the flames.

Only the photographs remained, and a glance at the first of these
resulted in a journey to the dining-room with laden arms. By impish
chance two large and tastefully mounted panels both representing a
sun-kissed nymph posed beside a pool slipped from the bundle and fell at
his feet. Kicking the ash-stifled fire into a blaze, he stooped to
recover them. So stooping he remained, staring down at the pictures on
the floor. Then slowly, dazedly, he took them up, one in either hand.
They were photographs of Flamby.

* * * * *

The fire roared up the brick chimney, the wind fought for entrance from
above, rain beat dismally upon the high windows. The fire died down
again, seeming to retire into the mound of grey ashes which it had
created; and the photographs fell from Paul's grasp.

A wrought-iron poker hung from a rack in the hearth, and, his face set
like a mask, Paul took the crude weapon in his hand, and slowly raised
his head until he was looking up at the oil-painting above the
mantelpiece. The sound of a dry and discreet cough close behind him drew
his attention to the presence of Davison. He turned, a strange figure,
something very menacing in his eyes. Davison glanced furtively under the
gate-legged table.

"Mr. Thessaly has called, sir," he said, and held out a sa