He expanded his chest, erected his shoulders and studied himself in the glass:  there was undoubted majesty in the glance.  He vibrated with some fresh, strange power.

Yes; but what about to-morrow—­out in the world? in daylight, passing the policeman on the corner, down at the office?  Would he remain a king in the presence of Breede, even in the lesser presence of Bulger, or of old Metzeger from whom he purposed to borrow seventeen dollars and seventy-nine cents?  All right about being a king, but how were other people to know it?  Well, he would have to make them feel it.  He must know it himself, first; then impress it upon them.

But a sense of unreality was creeping back.  It was almost better to remember the Napoleon past.  There were books about that.  He pictured again the dead Ram-tah in trappings of royalty.  If he could only see himself, and be sure.  But that was out of the question.  It was no good wishing.  After all, he was Bunker Bean, a poor thing who had to fly when Breede growled “Wantcha.”  He sat at his table, staring moodily into vacancy.  He idly speculated about Breede’s ragged moustache; he thought it had been blasted and killed by the words Breede spoke.  A moment later he was conscious that he stared at an unopened letter on the table before him.

He took it up without interest, perceiving that it came from his Aunt Clara in Chicago.  She would ask if he had yet joined the Y.M.C.A., and warn him to be careful about changing his flannels.

“Dear Bunker” [it began], “my own dear husband passed to his final rest last Thursday at 5 p.m.  He was cheerful to the last and did not seem to suffer much.  The funeral was on Saturday and was very beautiful and impressive.  I did not notify you at the time as I was afraid the shock would affect you injuriously and that you might be tempted to make the long trip here to be with me.  Now that you know it is all over, you can take it peacefully, as I am already doing.  The life-insurance people were very nice about it and paid the claim promptly.  I enclose the money which wipes out all but—­”

He opened the double sheet.  There were many more of the closely written lines, but he read no farther, for a check was folded there.  His trembling fingers pulled the ends apart and his astounded eyes rested on its ornate face.

It was for ten thousand dollars.

* * * * *

At six minutes after eight the following evening the Countess Casanova, moved from her professional calm, hurriedly closed the sliding doors between the two rooms of her apartment and sprang to the telephone where she frantically demanded a number.  The delay seemed interminable to her, but at last she began to speak.

“That you, Ed?  F’r God’s sake, beat it over here quick.  That boob las’ night is back here an’ he’s got it.  I dunno—­but something big, I tell you.  He’s actin’ like a crazy man.  Listen here!  He wants t’ know can you locate it—­see it lyin’ there underground.  Why, the mummy; yes.  M-u-m-m-i-e.  Yes, sure!  He’s afraid mebbe they already dug him up an’ got him in a musee somewheres, but if it’s still there he wants it.  Yes, sure thing, dontchu un’stand? Wants it!  How in—­how can I tell?  That’s up to you.  Git here!  Sure—­fifty-fifty!”