His lectures were
frequented by students from every part of the world, and his admirable
management of the collection intrusted to his care was a commonplace in
all learned societies. There was, therefore, considerable surprise when,
at the age of fifty-five, he suddenly resigned his position and retired
from those duties which had been both his livelihood and his pleasure. He and his daughter left the comfortable suite of rooms which had formed
his official residence in connection with the museum, and my friend,
Mortimer, who was a bachelor, took up his quarters there. On hearing of Mortimer’s appointment Professor Andreas had written him a
very kindly and flattering congratulatory letter. I was actually present
at their first meeting, and I went with Mortimer round the museum when
the Professor showed us the admirable collection which he had cherished
so long. The Professor’s beautiful daughter and a young man, Captain
Wilson, who was, as I understood, soon to be her husband, accompanied us
in our inspection. There were fifteen rooms, but the Babylonian, the
Syrian, and the central hall, which contained the Jewish and Egyptian
collection, were the finest of all. Professor Andreas was a quiet, dry,
elderly man, with a clean-shaven face and an impassive manner, but his
dark eyes sparkled and his features quickened into enthusiastic life as
he pointed out to us the rarity and the beauty of some of his specimens. His hand lingered so fondly over them, that one could read his pride in
them and the grief in his heart now that they were passing from his care
into that of another. He had shown us in turn his mummies, his papyri, his rare scarabs, his
inscriptions, his Jewish relics, and his duplication of the famous
seven-branched candlestick of the Temple, which was brought to Rome by
Titus, and which is supposed by some to be lying at this instant in the
bed of the Tiber. Then he approached a case which stood in the very
centre of the hall, and he looked down through the glass with reverence
in his attitude and manner. “This is no novelty to an expert like yourself, Mr. Mortimer,” said he;
“but I daresay that your friend, Mr. Jackson, will be interested to see
it.”

Leaning over the case I saw an object, some five inches square, which
consisted of twelve precious stones in a framework of gold, with golden
hooks at two of the corners. The stones were all varying in sort and
colour, but they were of the same size. Their shapes, arrangement, and
gradation of tint made me think of a box of water-colour paints. Each
stone had some hieroglyphic scratched upon its surface. “You have heard, Mr. Jackson, of the urim and thummim?”

I had heard the term, but my idea of its meaning was exceedingly vague. “The urim and thummim was a name given to the jewelled plate which lay
upon the breast of the high priest of the Jews. They had a very special
feeling of reverence for it—something of the feeling which an ancient
Roman might have for the Sibylline books in the Capitol. There are, as
you see, twelve magnificent stones, inscribed with mystical characters. Counting from the left-hand top corner, the stones are carnelian,
peridot, emerald, ruby, lapis lazuli, onyx, sapphire, agate, amethyst,
topaz, beryl, and jasper.”

I was amazed at the variety and beauty of the stones. “Has the breastplate any particular history?” I asked. “It is of great age and of immense value,” said Professor Andreas. “Without being able to make an absolute assertion, we have many reasons
to think that it is possible that it may be the original urim and
thummim of Solomon’s Temple. There is certainly nothing so fine in any
collection in Europe. My friend, Captain Wilson here, is a practical
authority upon precious stones, and he would tell you how pure these
are.”

Captain Wilson, a man with a dark, hard, incisive face, was standing
beside his _fiancée_ at the other side of the case. “Yes,” said he, curtly, “I have never seen finer stones.”

“And the gold-work is also worthy of attention. The ancients excelled in
——”—he was apparently about to indicate the setting of the stones, when
Captain Wilson interrupted him. “You will see a finer example of their gold-work in this candlestick,”
said he, turning to another table, and we all joined him in his
admiration of its embossed stem and delicately ornamented branches. Altogether it was an interesting and a novel experience to have objects
of such rarity explained by so great an expert; and when, finally,
Professor Andreas finished our inspection by formally handing over the
precious collection to the care of my friend, I could not help pitying
him and envying his successor whose life was to pass in so pleasant a
duty. Within a week, Ward Mortimer was duly installed in his new set of
rooms, and had become the autocrat of the Belmore Street Museum. About a fortnight afterwards my friend gave a small dinner to
half-a-dozen bachelor friends to celebrate his promotion. When his
guests were departing he pulled my sleeve and signalled to me that he
wished me to remain. “You have only a few hundred yards to go,” said he—I was living in
chambers in the Albany. “You may as well stay and have a quiet cigar
with me. I very much want your advice.”

I relapsed into an arm-chair and lit one of his excellent Matronas. When
he had returned from seeing the last of his guests out, he drew a letter
from his dress-jacket and sat down opposite to me. “This is an anonymous letter which I received this morning,” said he. “I
want to read it to you and to have your advice.”

“You are very welcome to it for what it is worth.”

“This is how the note runs: ‘Sir,—I should strongly advise you to keep a
very careful watch over the many valuable things which are committed to
your charge. I do not think that the present system of a single watchman
is sufficient. Be upon your guard, or an irreparable misfortune may
occur.’”

“Is that all?”

“Yes, that is all.”

“Well,” said I, “it is at least obvious that it was written by one of
the limited number of people who are aware that you have only one
watchman at night.”

Ward Mortimer handed me the note, with a curious smile. “Have you an eye
for handwriting?” said he. “Now, look at this!” He put another letter in
front of me. “Look at the _c_ in ‘congratulate’ and the _c_ in
‘committed.’ Look at the capital _I_. Look at the trick of putting in a
dash instead of a stop!”

“They are undoubtedly from the same hand—with some attempt at disguise
in the case of this first one.”

“The second,” said Ward Mortimer, “is the letter of congratulation which
was written to me by Professor Andreas upon my obtaining my
appointment.”

I stared at him in amazement. Then I turned over the letter in my hand,
and there, sure enough, was “Martin Andreas” signed upon the other side. There could be no doubt, in the mind of any one who had the slightest
knowledge of the science of graphology, that the Professor had written
an anonymous letter, warning his successor against thieves.