“A seam of gold which can be cut with a knife has been found within ten miles of the south pole.”

“This tunnel,” said Dr. Syx, “leads to the mine head, where the ore-bearing rock is blasted.”

Gold in its palmiest days had never enjoyed such a vogue.

“It is my belief that Dr. Max Syx is a deceiver.”

“My dear fellow,” said Hall, laying his hand on my shoulder, “until I see the end of that mystery I shall think of nothing else.”

“Well! well!” I broke in, greatly astonished by Hall’s singular recital, “you must have thought Dr. Syx was a cross between an alchemist and an astrologer.”

My friend’s gloomy prognostications came near being fulfilled to the letter.

“Why, there he is now! Funny I never noticed it before. There’s Dr. Syx’s face in the moon, as plain as day.”