“Quite sure.  I remember that it was mentioned as an uncommon injury, and that Sir Morgan seemed quite pleased with him for doing it.”

“That sounds rather libellous; but I expect he was pleased with the result of the operation.  He might well be.”

Here there was a brief lull in the conversation, and, even as I was trying to think of a poser for Mr. Jellicoe, that gentleman took the opportunity to change the subject.

“Are you going to the Egyptian Rooms?” he asked.

“No,” replied Miss Bellingham; “we are going to look at the pottery.”

“Ancient or modern?”

“The old Fulham ware is what chiefly interests us at present; that of the seventeenth century.  I don’t know whether you would call that ancient or modern.”

“Neither do I,” said Mr. Jellicoe.  “Antiquity and modernity are terms that have no fixed connotation.  They are purely relative and their application in a particular instance has to be determined by a sort of sliding scale.  To a furniture collector, a Tudor chair or a Jacobean chest is ancient; to an architect, their period is modern, whereas an eleventh-century church is ancient; but to an Egyptologist, accustomed to remains of a vast antiquity, both are products of modern periods separated by an insignificant interval.  And, I suppose,” he added, reflectively, “that to a geologist, the traces of the very earliest dawn of human history appertain only to the recent period.  Conceptions of time, like all other conceptions, are relative.”

“You appear to be a disciple of Herbert Spencer,” I remarked.

“I am a disciple of Arthur Jellicoe, sir,” he retorted.  And I believed him.

By the time we had reached the Museum he had become almost genial; and, if less amusing in this frame, he was so much more instructive and entertaining that I refrained from baiting him, and permitted him to discuss his favourite topic unhindered, especially since my companion listened with lively interest.  Nor, when we entered the great hall, did he relinquish possession of us, and we followed submissively, as he led the way past the winged bulls of Nineveh and the great seated statues, until we found ourselves, almost without the exercise of our volition, in the upper room amidst the glaring mummy cases that had witnessed the birth of my friendship with Ruth Bellingham.

“Before I leave you,” said Mr. Jellicoe, “I should like to show you that mummy that we were discussing the other evening; the one, you remember, that my friend, John Bellingham, presented to the Museum a little time before his disappearance.  The point that I mentioned is only a trivial one, but it may become of interest hereafter if any plausible explanation should be forthcoming.”  He led us along the room until we arrived at the case containing John Bellingham’s gift, where he halted and gazed in at the mummy with the affectionate reflectiveness of the connoisseur.