The Sins of Severac Bablon Part 5

"Can you see?"

"Not a thing!"

"Then take my hand and follow quickly. Do not speak; do not stumble!"

Cautiously feeling his way, Sheard, one hand clasping that of his guide, stepped out into the keen night air, and was a.s.sisted by some third person--probably the chauffeur--on to the roof of the car!

"Be silent!" from Severac Bablon. "Fear nothing! Step forward as your feet will be directed and trust implicitly to me!"

As a man in a dream Sheard stood there--on the roof of a motor-car, in a London street--and waited. There came dimly to his ears, and from no great distance, the sound of late traffic along what he judged to be a main road. But immediately about him quiet reigned. They were evidently in some deserted back-water of a great thoroughfare. A faint scuffling sound arose, followed by that of someone lightly dropping upon a stone pavement.

Then an arm was slipped about him and he was directed, in a whisper, to step forward. He found his foot upon what he thought to be a flat railing. His ankle was grasped from below and the voice of Severac Bablon came, "On to my shoulders--so!"

Still with the supporting arm about him, he stepped gingerly forward--and stood upon the shoulders of the man below.

"Stand quite rigidly!" said Severac Bablon.

He obeyed; and was lifted, lightly as a feather, and deposited upon the ground! It was such a feat as he had seen professional athletes perform, and he marvelled at the physical strength of his companion.

A keen zest for this extravagant adventure seized him. He thought that it must be good to be a burglar. Then, as he heard the motor re-started and the car move off, a sudden qualm of disquiet came; for it was tantamount to burning one's boats.

"Take my hand!" he heard; and was led to the head of a flight of steps.

Cautiously he felt his way down, in the wake of his guide.

A key was turned in a well-oiled lock, and he was guided inside a building. There was a faint, crypt-like smell--vaguely familiar.

"Quick!" said the soft voice--"remove your boots and leave them here!"

Sheard obeyed, and holding the guiding hand tightly in his own, traversed a stone-paved corridor. Doors were unlocked and re-locked. A flight of steps was negotiated in phantom silence; for his companion's footsteps, like his own, were noiseless. Another door was unlocked.

"Now!" came the whispered words: "Remove the handkerchief!"

Rapidly enough, Sheard obeyed, and, burning with curiosity, looked about him.

"Good heavens!" he muttered.

A supernatural fear of his mysterious cicerone momentarily possessed him. For he thought that he stood in a lofty pagan temple!

High above his head a watery moonbeam filtered through a window, and spilled its light about the base of a gigantic stone pillar. Towering shapes, as of statues of G.o.ds, loomed, awesomely, in the gloom. Behind the pillar dimly he could discern a painted procession of deities upon the wall. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the tall figure of Severac Bablon was at his elbow.

"Where do you stand?" questioned his low voice.

And, like an inspiration, the truth burst in upon Sheard's mind.

"The British Museum!" he whispered hoa.r.s.ely.

"Correct!" was the answer; "the treasure-house of your modern Babylon!

Wait, now, until I return; and, if you have no relish for arrest as a burglar, do not move--do not breathe!"

With that, he was gone, into the dense shadows about; and Henry Thomas Sheard, of the _Gleaner_, found himself, at, approximately, a quarter-past two in the morning, standing in an apartment of the British Museum, with no better explanation to offer, in the event of detection, than that he had come there in the company of Severac Bablon.

He thought of the many printing-presses busy, even then, with the deductions of Fleet Street theorists, regarding this man of mystery. All of their conclusions must necessarily be wrong, since their premises were certainly so. For which of them who had a.s.sured his readers that Severac Bablon was a common cracksman (on a large scale) would not have reconsidered his opinion had he learned that the common cracksman held private keys of the national treasure-house?

His eyes growing more accustomed to the darkness, Sheard began to see more clearly the objects about him. A seated figure of the Pharaoh Seti I. surveyed him with a scorn but thinly veiled; beyond, two towering a.s.syrian bulls showed gigantic in the semi-light. He could discern, now, the whole length of the lofty hall--a carven avenue; and, as his gaze wandered along that dim vista, he detected a black shape emerging from the blacker shadows beyond the bulls.

It was Severac Bablon. In an instant he stood beside him, and Sheard saw that he carried a bag.

"Follow me--quickly!" he said. "Not a second to spare!"

But too fully alive to their peril, Sheard slipped away in the wake of this greatly daring man. The horror of his position was strong upon him now.

"This way!"

Blindly he stumbled forward, upstairs, around a sharp corner, and then a door was unlocked and re-locked behind them. "Egyptian Room!" came a quick whisper. "In here!"

A white beam cut the blackness, temporarily dazzling him, and Sheard saw that his companion was directing the light of an electric torch into a wall-cabinet--which he held open. It contained mummy cases, and, without quite knowing how he got there, Sheard found himself crouching behind one. Severac Bablon vanished.

Darkness followed, and to his ears stole the sound of distant voices.

The voices grew louder.

Behind him, upon the back of the cabinet, danced a sudden disc of light, and, within it, a moving shadow! Someone was searching the room!

m.u.f.fled and indistinct the voices sounded through the gla.s.s and the mummy-case; but that the searchers were standing within a foot of his hiding-place Sheard was painfully certain. He shrank behind the sarcophagus lid like a tortoise within its sh.e.l.l, fearful lest a hand, an arm, a patch of clothing should protrude.

CHAPTER IV

THE HEAD OF CaeSAR

The voices died away. A door banged somewhere.

Then Sheard all but cried out; for a hand was laid upon his arm.

"_Ssh!_" came Severac Bablon's voice from the next mummy-case; and a creak told of the cabinet door swinging open. "This way!"

Sheard followed immediately, and was guided along the whole length of the room. A door was unlocked and re-locked behind them. Downstairs they pa.s.sed, and along a narrow corridor lined with cases, as he could dimly see. Through another door they went, and came upon stone steps.

"Your boots!" said his companion, and put them into his hands.

Rapidly enough he fastened them. A faint creak was followed by a draught of cool air; and, being gently pushed forward, Sheard found himself outside the Museum and somewhere in the rear of the building. The place lay in deep shadow.

"_Sss! Sss!_" came in his ear. "Quiet!"

Whilst he all but held his breath, a policeman tramped past slowly outside the railings. As the sound of his solid tread died away, Severac Bablon raised something to his lips and blew a long-sustained, minor note--shrill, eerie.