‘I was a great disappointment to the Dons,’ Carrel said with a short laugh, and he lit a cigarette with all the swagger of an undergraduate.

‘And to your parents?’ queried Lachsyrma.

’My mother was dead.  I don’t exactly know who my father was.  I fear these details bore you, however.  To-morrow—­’ he added satirically.

‘A very romantic story, no doubt,’ said the Professor, rising from his chair, ’and it interests me—­moderately; but before we go on any further, I will be candid with you.  That papyrus is a forgery—­a very clever forgery, too.  I wonder why the writer tried Euripides; we have almost enough of him.’

‘So do I sometimes,’ returned Carrel cheerfully.  The Professor arched his eyebrows in surprise.

He removed the green cardboard lampshade to keep his equivocal visitor under strict observation.

’If you knew it was a forgery, why did you waste my time and your own in bringing it here?  In order to tell me a long story about yourself, which if true is extraordinarily dull?’

It is almost an established convention for experts to be rude when they have given an adverse opinion on anything submitted to them.  It gives weight to their statements.  In the present case, however, the Professor was really annoyed.

‘I wanted to know if you recognised the papyrus,’ said Carrel, and he smiled disingenuously.  The Professor was startled.

’Yes; it was offered to me in Cairo last winter by a German dealer in antiquities.  I recognised it at once.  May I felicitate the talented author?’

‘No.  You would have been taken in if I were the author.’

Professor Lachsyrma waved a white hand, loaded with scarabs and gems, in a deprecatory, patronising manner towards Carrel.

’I must apologise if I have wronged you.  I am hardened to these little amenities between brother palaeographers.  Envy, jealousy, call it what you will, attacks those in high places.  There may be unrecognised artists, mute inglorious Miltons, Chattertons, starving in garrets, Shakespeares in the workhouse, while dull modern productions are applauded on the silly English stage, and poetasters are crowned by the Academies; but believe me that in Archaeology, in the deciphering of manuscripts, the quack is detected immediately.  The science has been carried to such a state of perfection that, if our knowledge is still unhappily imperfect, our materials inadequate, the public recognition of our services quite out of proportion to our labours, there is now no permanent place for the charlatan or the forger.  The first would do better as an art critic for the daily papers; the other might turn his attention to the simple necessary cheque, or the safer and more enticing Bank of England note.  If you are an honest expert, there is a wide field for your talents; and if I do not believe you to be anything of the kind, you have yourself to blame for my scepticism.  You came here without an introduction, without any warning of your arrival.  You refuse to leave my room.  You inform me that you want money with a candour unusual among beggars.  You then ask me to inspect a forged manuscript which you either know or suspect me to have seen before.  Should you have no explanation to offer for this outrageous intrusion, may I ask you to leave the premises immediately?’