double doorway, and with a bow invited Sofia to precede him. She faltered,
hazily conceiving that threshold in the guise of an inglorious Rubicon. But
she had already gone too far into this adventure to draw back now without
forfeiting her self-respect. With a deceptively firm step she entered a
room to wonder at.

Sombre shadows masked much of its magnificent proportions, but what Sofia
could see suggested less the study of a man of everyday interests than the
private museum of an Orientalist whose wealth knew no limits.

The air was warm and close, aromatic with the ghosts of ten thousand
perished perfumes. The quiet, when Karslake had closed the door, was
oppressive, as if some dark enchantment here had power to tame and silence
the growl of London that was never elsewhere in all the city for an instant
still.

On a great table of black teakwood inlaid with mother of pearl burned a
solitary lamp, a curious affair in filigree of brass, furnishing what
illumination there was. Its closely shaded rays made vaguely visible walls
dark with books, tier upon tier climbing to the ceiling; chairs of odd
shape, screens of glowing lacquer; tables and stands supporting caskets of
burning cinnabar, of ivory, of gold, of kaleidoscopic cloisonné; trays
heaped high with unset jewels; cabinets crowded with rare objects of
Eastern art; squat shapes of neglected gods brandishing weird weapons;
grotesque devil masks ferociously a-grin; chests of strange woods strangely
fashioned, strangely carved, and decorated with inlays of precious metals,
banded with huge straps of black iron, from which gushed in rainbow
profusion silks and brocades stiff with barbaric embroideries in gold- and
silver-thread and precious stones.