oseleaf. At the end of each fourth shelf which separated the rows
of drawers, was a knob. Dartmouth turned one and the shelf fell from
its place. He saw the object. Behind each four rows of drawers was a
room. Each of these rooms had the dome ceiling and Byzantine
pillars of a mosque, and each represented a different portion of the
building--presumably that of St. Sophia. The capitals of the pillars
were exquisite, few being duplicated, and the shafts were solid
columns of black marble, supported on bases of porphyry. The floor was
a network of mosaics, and the walls were a blaze of colored marbles.
The altar, which stood in the central room, was of silver, with
trappings of gold-embroidered velvet, and paraphernalia of gold.
Dartmouth was entranced. He had a keen love of and appreciation
for art, but he had never found anything as interesting as this. He
congratulated himself upon the prospect of many pleasant hours in its
company.

He let it go for the present and pressed his finger against every inch
of the walls and floor and ceilings of the mosque, and of the various
other apartments. It was a good half-hour's work, and the monotony and
non-success induced a certain nervousness. His head ached and his hand
trembled a little. When he had finished, and no panel had flown back
at his touch, he threw himself down on one hand with an exclamation of
impatience, and gazed with a scowl at the noncommittal beauty before
him. He cared nothing for its beauty at that moment. What he wanted
were the papers, and he was determined to find them. He stood up and
examined the top of the chest. There was certainly a space between the
visible depths of the interior and the back wall. He rapped loudly,
but the wood and the stuff with which it was covered were too thick;
there was no answering ring. He recalled the night when he had
cynically examined the fragments of the broken cabinet at Rhyd-Alwyn.
He felt anything but cynical now; indeed, he was conscious of a
restless eagerness and a dogged determination with which curiosity had
little to do. He would find those papers if he died in the attempt.

He knelt once more before the chest, and once more pressed his
finger along its interior, following regular lines. Then he shook the
pillars, and inserted his penknife in each most minute interstice of
the carving; he prodded the ribs of the arches, and brought his fist
down violently on the separate floors of the mosque. At the end of an