He was examining the little box, nodding his head, and muttering, “H'm! H'm!” Tom felt the ground slipping away from under the feet of his suspicions even while his perplexity waxed monumental. And with it came the satisfaction of a man convincing himself that he is neither wasting his time nor making himself ridiculous.
The clerk returned with a little drawer in which Tom saw about a hundred and fifty keys.
“Replicas! Originals in museums of world!” explained Lentz. “H'm!” He turned the keys over with, a selective forefinger. “It's that one or this one.” And he picked out two. “Probably this! Damascus! Eighth century. Byzantine influence still strong. See that? And that? And that? H'm!” He inserted the little key and opened the casket. He saw the gold box within. “Ha! H'm! Thracian! How did you get this? H'm!” He raised his head, looked at Tom fiercely, and then said, coldly, “Mr. Merriwether, this has been stolen from the British Museum!”
It beautifully complicated matters. Tom's heart beat faster with interest.
“Are you sure?” he asked, being a Merriwether. “Wait! H'm!” He lifted it out and examined the back. “No! No! Thracian! Of the Bisaltæ! Time of Lysimachus! But—Well! Aryan symbolism! Possibly taken to India by one of Alexander's captains—perhaps Lysimachus himself! And—Oh! Oh, early Christians! Oh, early damned fools! See that? Smoothed away to put that—Oh, beasts! Heritics in art! Curious! Do you know the incantation to use before opening?”
“It was in Greek, and—”
“Of course!”
“Yes. He said this had belonged to Apollonius of Tyana.”
“How much does he ask?”
“It is not for sale.”