“I never meant anything else,” said Mr. Arden sturdily; “I shall pay you liberally for any service you render me.”
“That, Sir, is equally frank; we understand now the principle on which I assist you. You wish to see Yelland Mace, so you shall.”
He turned about, and struck the key sharply on the iron door.
“There he waits,” said the baron, “and—did you ever see him?”
“No.”
“Bah! what a wise man. Then I may show you whom I please, and you know nothing. Have you heard him described?”
“Accurately.”
“Well, there is some little sense in it, after all. You shall see.”
He unlocked the safe, opened the door, and displayed shelves, laden with rudely-made deal boxes, each of a little more than a foot square. On these were marks and characters in red, some, and some in black, and others in blue.
“Hé! you see,” said the baron, pointing with his key, “my mummies are cased in hieroglyphics. Come! Here is the number, the date, and the man.”