closed my eyes. When I opened them again one of the strips of paper was untouched. The other was gone—burnt. Its charred ends were curled up an inch behind the stone.
What did it mean?—A stone that glowed, and pulsed, and moved when placed in a beam of light. A stone that the sun had power to vivify. What did it mean?
The Sun!! The events of yesterday swept back to me—the Yellow Man—his mysterious words—his anxiety to procure the gem, his adoration of the setting sun. The sun again!!
I pressed my hands to my head. The voice of a paper seller in the streets below struck into my thoughts—"Robbery at Buckingham Palace. Strange Rumours."
I ran to the window. A cab drew up at my door. In another moment, Mayfair, paler than pallor itself, burst, or rather staggered into the room.
"Madman," I cried, "to leave your bed."
With a ripple of laughter he placed his hand upon my shoulder, "I'm the madman am I?" he murmured, gazing at me, his blue eyes shining with merriment and admiration, "and you, what about you? Oh, my friend, my friend! Don't speak. Let me laugh before you explain. You-you-you Napoleon! Oh! Oh! Oh! They're after you," he added. "You haven't heard? The Raja and Kettle were found gagged and bound, and the gentle Kettle accuses you of the robbery—protests you were his only visitor during the evening. It was you, wasn't it? Say it was you, do!"
As the words fell from his lips he reeled against me, and would have fallen had I not caught him in my arms. He was so weak, he looked so fragile, the collapse after the excitement of the morning was so complete and so sudden that I determined to keep him under my roof, and after a deal of persuasion I induced him toundress,
