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.