There were the objects on the mantelpiece: a facsimile in bronze--not bronzed plaster--of the beautiful head of Hypnos and a pair of fine Ushabti figures.

There were the decorations of the walls, a number of etchings--signed proofs, every one of them--of Oriental subjects, and a splendid facsimile reproduction of an Egyptian papyrus.

It was incongruous in the extreme, this mingling of costly refinements with the barest and shabbiest necessaries of life, of fastidious culture with manifest poverty.

I could make nothing of it.
What manner of man, I wondered, was this new patient of mine?
Was he a miser, hiding himself and his wealth in this obscure court?
An eccentric savant?
A philosopher?
Or--more probably--a crank?
But at this point my meditations were interrupted by the voice from the adjoining room, once more raised in anger.
"But I say that you _are_ making an accusation! You are implying that I made away with him." "Not at all," was the reply; "but I repeat that it is your business to ascertain what has become of him.

The responsibility rests upon you." "Upon me!" rejoined the first voice.