Then—­Simpkins turned the page.  Accident—­ten killed—­bank robbed—­caught—­Mrs. Jones gets divorce....  What!

NOTED SCIENTIST SECURES IMPORTANT RIGHTS
DOCTOR ATHELSTONE ARRANGES FOR ROYAL SOCIETY
TO EXPLOIT RECENT DISCOVERIES

Simpkins stuttered around for an exclamation; then looked up weakly.  Instinct started him on the run for the nearest long-distance telephone, but before he had gone twenty feet he stopped.  The paper was long since off press and distributed.  He had no desire to know what Naylor was saying.  He could not even guess.  There are heights to which the imagination cannot aspire.

Then came a faint ray of hope.  That was an Associated Press dispatch—­a late one probably.  But if it had reached the New York papers in time to catch the edition, Naylor must have received it soon enough to kill his story.  But even as this hope came it went.  The news interest of the dispatch was largely local.  Doubtless it had been sent out only to the New York papers.

Simpkins forced himself to read the body of the message now, although he gagged over every line of it: 

London, etc.  Dr. Alfred W.R.  Athelstone, well known in London as the president of the American branch of the Royal Society of Egyptian Exploration and Research, arrived here this morning and is stopping at the Carlton.  He announces that the Khedive has been graciously pleased to grant to his society the sole right to excavate the tombs recently discovered by one of its agents in the Karnak region.  Doctor Athelstone left home quietly some weeks ago, and held back any announcement of the discoveries, which promise to be very important, while the negotiations, now brought to a happy conclusion, were pending.  He sails for New York on the Campania tomorrow.

“Do I go off half-cocked?  Am I yellow?  Is a pup yellow?” groaned Simpkins, and he started off aimlessly toward the park, fighting his Waterloo over again and counting up his losses.  That foolish, foolish letter!  Why had he soiled his fingers by opening it!  Of course, that line which loomed so large and fine in his story, that pointed the impressive finger of Fate at Crime, “That thing that I have to do is about done!” referred to Doctor Athelstone’s silly negotiations.  The letter must have been from him.  Now, who could have known that a grown man would indulge in such fool monkey-business as writing love-letters in hieroglyphics to his own wife?...  And that blame black mummy.  Back to darkest Africa for his!  If any one ever said mummy to him there’d be murder done, all right.  Oh, for the happy ignorance of those days when he knew nothing about Egypt except that it was the place from which the cigarettes came!...  Brander, no doubt, had gone out to send a cablegram of congratulation to Doctor Athelstone, and while he was away the woman had started in to repair a crack in that precious old Amosis of hers.  Perhaps the moths had got into him!  “And she thought that I was crazy, and was stringing me along, waiting till the Nile Duck got back,” muttered the reporter, stopping short in his agony.  “Oh! you’re guessing good now, Simp., all right, because there’s only one way to guess.”  And as he started along again he concluded:  “Damn it! even the cat came back!”