large enough to encourage an investigator, but not so large as to
enervate him.

There was only one reason which made Ward Mortimer's position a little
difficult at the Belmore Street Museum, and that was the extreme
eminence of the man whom he had to succeed. Professor Andreas was a
profound scholar and a man of European reputation. His lectures were
frequented by students from every part of the world, and his admirable
management of the collection intrusted to his care was a commonplace in
all learned societies. There was, therefore, considerable surprise
when, at the age of fifty-five, he suddenly resigned his position and
retired from those duties which had been both his livelihood and his
pleasure. He and his daughter left the comfortable suite of rooms
which had formed his official residence in connection with the museum,
and my friend, Mortimer, who was a bachelor, took up his quarters there.

On hearing of Mortimer's appointment Professor Andreas had written him
a very kindly and flattering congratulatory letter. I was actually
present at their first meeting, and I went with Mortimer round the
museum when the Professor showed us the admirable collection which he
had cherished so long. The Professor's beautiful daughter and a young
man, Captain Wilson, who was, as I understood, soon to be her husband,
accompanied us in our inspection. There were fifteen rooms, but the
Babylonian, the Syrian, and the central hall, which contained the
Jewish and Egyptian collection, were the finest of all. Professor
Andreas was a quiet, dry, elderly man, with a clean-shaven face and an
impassive manner, but his dark eyes sparkled and his features quickened
into enthusiastic life as he pointed out to us the rarity and the
beauty of some of his specimens. His hand lingered so fondly over
them, that one could read his pride in them and the grief in his heart
now that they were passing from his care into that of another.

He had shown us in turn his mummies, his papyri, his rare scarabs, his
inscriptions, his Jewish relics, and his duplication of the famous
seven-branched candlestick of the Temple, which was brought to Rome by
Titus, and which is supposed by some to be lying at this instant in the
bed of the Tiber. Then he approached a case which stood in the very
centre of the hall, and he looked down through the glass with reverence
in his attitude and manner.

"This is no novelty to an expert like yourself, Mr. Mortimer,