purposed seeking permission to look over the place and if possible to
take a few photographs."

Dr. Damar Greefe inclined his head gravely.

"A former monastic house, Mr. Addison," he replied. "And as you say,
of great archæological interest. But the regrettably poor health of
Lady Coverly makes it impossible for her to entertain visitors."

Something in the tone of his voice, which now he had lowered so that
some of its natural harshness was disguised, set me wondering where I
had heard it before. It needed no further scrutiny of the hawk face to
convince me that I had never hitherto met Dr. Damar Greefe; but I
certainly believed that I had previously heard his voice, although I
quite failed to recall where and under what circumstances.

"Sir Burnham has been dead for several years, I believe?" I asked
tentatively.

"For several years, yes."

Without returning to the peremptory tone which had distinguished his
earlier manner, Dr. Damar Greefe coldly but courteously blocked my
path to discussion of the Coverly family; and after several abortive
attempts to draw him out upon the point, I recognized this deliberate
design and abandoned the matter.

The storm was moving westward, and although brilliant flashes of
lightning several times lighted up the queer room, gleaming upon the
gayly-painted lid of an Egyptian sarcophagus or throwing into horrid