Something about the latter electrified him.  He leaped from the couch and seized an end of the linen that bound the mummy.  He pulled, and the linen unwound.  He curiously surveyed something at his feet.  It was a tightly rolled wad of excelsior.  The swathing of linen—­he had unwound it to where the hands should have been folded on the breast—­had enclosed excelsior.

Dazedly he looked into the empty case.  Upon one of the new boards he saw marked with the careless brush of some shipping-clerk, “Watkins & Co., Hartford, Conn.”

Again, as with the unstable lilac-bushes, his world spun about him; it drew in and darkened.  He had the sensation of a grain of dust sucked down a vast black funnel.

Outside the quiet room, the city went on its ruthless, noisy way.  In there where dynasties had fallen and a monarch lay prone, a spotted dog sporting with a papier-mache something, came suddenly on a cold hand flung out on the rug.  Nap instantly forsook the sham for the real, deserted the head of Ram-tah, and laved Bean’s closed eyes with a lolloping pink tongue.

XIV

The next morning at eight-thirty the door of the steam-heated apartment resounded to sharp knocking.  There being no response, the knocking was repeated and prolonged.  Retreating footsteps were heard in the hallway.  Five minutes later a key rattled in the door and Cassidy entered, followed by the waster.

Bean was discovered in a flowered dressing-gown gazing open-eyed at the shut door of a closet.  He sat on the couch and one of his arms clasped a sleeping dog.  The floor was littered with wisps of excelsior.

“My word, old top, had to have the chap let me into your diggin’s you know.  You were sleeping like the dead.”  The waster was bustling and breezy.

“Busy,” said Bean.  He arose and went into the hall where Cassidy stood.

“He would have in,” explained Cassidy.  “Say th’ wor-r-d if he’s no frind, an’ he’ll have out agin.  I’ll put him so.  ’T would not be a refined thing to do, but nicissary if needed.”

“’S all right,” said Bean.  “Friend of mine.”  He closed the door on Cassidy.

Inside, he found the waster interestedly poking with his stick at a roundish object on the floor.

“Dog’s been at it,” explained the waster brightly.  “What’s the idea?  Private theatricals?”

“Yes,” said Bean, “private theatricals,” and resumed his place on the couch, staring dully at the closet door.

“But, look here, old chap, you must liven up.  She would have it I should come for you.  My word!  I believe you’re funking!  You look absurdly rotten like it, you know.”

“Toothache, right across here,” muttered Bean.  “Have to put it off.”

“But that’s not done, old top; really it’s not done, you know.  It ... it ... one doesn’t do it at all, you know.”

“Never?” asked Bean, brightening a little with alarm.