guard, glaring at them with an air of conscious superiority which held
them powerless. Instinctively they knew that the all-dominating voice in
the records had belonged to this Hercules. But their instinct could not
tell them whether the man still lived.

It was the doctor's brain that worked first. Automatically, from a
lifelong habit of diagnosis, he inspected that dreadful figure quite as
though it were that of a patient. Bit by bit his subconscious mind
pieced together the evidence; the man in the chair showed no signs of
life. And after a while the doctor's conscious mind also knew.

"He is dead," he said positively, in his natural voice; and such was the
vast relief of the other two that they were in no way startled by the
sound. Instantly all three drew long breaths; the tension was relaxed;
and Van Emmon's curiosity found a harsh and unsteady voice.

"How under heaven has he been preserved all this time? Especially," he
added, remembering, "considering the air that we found in the room?"

The doctor answered after a moment, his reply taking the form of
advancing a step or two and holding out a hand. It touched glass.

For the first time since the discovery, the builder shifted the light.
He had held it as still as death for a full minute. Now he flashed it
all about the place, and they saw that the huge figure was entirely
encased in glass. The cabinet measured about six feet on each of its
sides, and about five feet in height; but such were the squat
proportions of the occupant that he filled the whole space.

A slight examination showed that the case was not fixed to the platform,