ature. Silence, chillness, and partial
obscurity are depressing influences, and the warm blood flowing through
his veins, ran a trifle more slowly and coldly as he felt the sort of
uncomfortable eerie sensation which is experienced by the jolliest and
most careless traveller, when he first goes down to the catacombs in
Rome. A sort of damp, earthy shudder creeps through the system, and a
dreary feeling of general hopelessness benumbs the faculties; a morbid
state of body and mind which is only to be remedied by a speedy return
to the warm sunlight, and a draught of generous wine.

Sir Philip, however, held the antique lamp aloft, and descended the
clumsy steps cautiously, counting twenty steps in all, at the bottom of
which he found himself face to face with the closed door. It was made of
hard wood, so hard as to be almost like iron. It was black with age, and
covered with quaint carvings and inscriptions; but in the middle,
standing out in bold relief among the numberless Runic figures and
devices, was written in large well-cut letters the word--

THELMA

"By Jove!" he exclaimed, "I have it! The girl's name, of course! This is
some private retreat of hers, I suppose,--a kind of boudoir like my Lady
Winsleigh's, only with rather a difference."

And he laughed aloud, thinking of the dainty gold-satin hangings of a
certain room in a certain great mansion in Park Lane, where an
aristocratic and handsome lady-leader of fashion had as nearly made love
to him as it was possible for her to do without losing her social
dignity. His laugh was echoed back with a weird and hollow sound, as
though a hidden demon of the cave were mocking him, a demon whose
merriment was intense but also horrible. He heard the unpleasant jeering
repetition with a kind of careless admiration.

"That echo would make a fortune in _Faust_, if it could be persuaded to
back up Mephistopheles with that truly fiendish, '_Ha Ha_!'" he said,
resuming his examination of the name on the door. Then an odd fancy
seized him, and he called loudly--

"Thelma!"

"Thelma!" shouted the echo.

"Is that her name?"

"Her name!" replied the echo.

"I thought so!" And Philip laughed again, while the echo laughed wildly
in answer. "Just the sort of name to suit a Norwegian nymph or goddess.
_Thelma_ is quaint and appropriate, and as far as I can remember there's
no rhyme to it in the English language. _Thelma_!" And he lingered on
the pronunciation of