“I certainly feel unaccountably hungry,” admitted Braddock cautiously.

“Unaccountably, when you have eaten nothing since breakfast.  You weird man, I believe you are a mummy yourself.”

But the Professor had again returned to examine the scarabeus, this time with a powerful magnifying glass.

“It certainly belongs to the twentieth dynasty,” he murmured, wrinkling his brows.

Mrs. Jasher stamped and flirted her fan pettishly.  The creature’s soul, she decided, was certainly not in his body, and until it came back he would continue to ignore her.  With the annoyance of a woman who is not getting her own way, she leaned back in Braddock’s one comfortable chair—­which she had unerringly selected—­and examined him intently.  Perhaps the gossips were correct, and she was trying to imagine what kind of a husband he would make.  But whatever might be her thoughts, she eyed Braddock as earnestly as Braddock eyed the scarabeus.

Outwardly the Professor did not appear like the savant he was reported to be.  He was small of stature, plump of body, rosy as a little Cupid, and extraordinarily youthful, considering his fifty-odd years of scientific wear and tear.  With a smooth, clean-shaven face, plentiful white hair like spun silk, and neat feet and hands, he did not look his age.  The dreamy look in his small blue eyes was rather belied by the hardness of his thin-lipped mouth, and by the pugnacious push of his jaw.  The eyes and the dome-like forehead hinted that brain without much originality; but the lower part of this contradictory countenance might have belonged to a prize-fighter.  Nevertheless, Braddock’s plumpness did away to a considerable extent with his aggressive look.  It was certainly latent, but only came to the surface when he fought with a brother savant over some tomb-dweller from Thebes.  In the soft lamplight he looked like a fighting cherub, and it was a pity—­in the interests of art—­that the hairless pink and white face did not surmount a pair of wings rather than a rusty and ill-fitting dress suit.

“He’s nane sa dafty as he looks,” thought Mrs. Jasher, who was Scotch, although she claimed to be cosmopolitan.  “With his mummies he is all right, but outside those he might be difficult to manage.  And these things,” she glanced round the shadowy room, crowded with the dead and their earthly belongings.  “I don’t think I would care to marry the British Museum.  Too much like hard work, and I am not so young as I was.”

The near mirror—­a polished silver one, which had belonged, ages ago, to some coquette of Memphis—­denied this uncomplimentary thought, for Mrs. Jasher did not look a day over thirty, although her birth certificate set her down as forty-five.  In the lamplight she might have passed for even younger, so carefully had she preserved what remained to her of youth.  She assuredly was somewhat stout, and never had been so tall as she desired to be.