There was an occupant of the room--there,
in the great chair between the tall candlesticks on the dais. An old man
sat--half lay--there; asleep, it seemed; his eyes were shut. The color of
his face struck Gentleman Mike as being peculiar. But everything in that
place was peculiar; like a great tomb--a blooming mausoleum--the whole
place was. Though he had the reputation of being an _esprit fort_, Mike
felt uncomfortable. Cold and clammy too, the beastly place was!
Still--business is business. Letting the matter of the unlocked door wait
for the moment, he began to steal catlike across the floor towards the
dais. He had to investigate; also he really ought to put out those
candles; it was utterly unprofessional to leave them alight. But he could
not conquer a feeling that the place would seem still more peculiar when
they were put out.
Big Neddy's eyes had not followed his comrade to the door; they had been
held by the queer hole and its queer contents--by the gleaming gold that
strewed its floor, by the mock symbol of majesty which he had lifted from
it and still held in his hand, by the oddly suggestive shape and
dimensions of the hole itself.
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