The room was small, and Mrs. Jasher was small, so she suited her surroundings excellently.  Also, the widow had the good taste to furnish it sparsely, instead of crowding it with furniture; but what furniture there was could not be improved upon.  There were Chippendale chairs, a Louis Quinze table, a Sheridan cabinet, and a satin-wood desk, hand-painted, which was said to have been the property of the unhappy Marie Antoinette.  Oil-paintings adorned the rose-tinted walls, chiefly landscapes, although one or two were portraits.  Also, there were water-colored pictures, framed and signed caricatures, many plates of old china, and rice-paper adornments from Canton.  The room was essentially feminine, being filled with Indian stuffs, with silver oddments, with flowers, and with other trifles.  The walls, the carpet, the hangings, and the upholstery of the arm-chairs were all of a rosy hue, so that Mrs. Jasher looked as young as Dame Holda in the Venusberg.  A very pretty room and a very charming hostess, was the verdict of the young gentlemen from the Fort, who came here to flirt when they were not serving their country.

Mrs. Jasher in a tea-rose tea-gown for afternoon tea—­she always liked to be in keeping—­rang for that beverage dear to the feminine heart, and lighted a rose-shaded lamp.  When a glow as of dawn spread through the dainty room, she settled Lucy on the sofa near the fire, and drew up an arm-chair on the other side of the hearth-rug.  Outside it was cold and foggy, but the rose-hued curtains shut out all that was disagreeable in the weather, and in the absence of male society, the two women talked more or less confidentially.  Lucy did not dislike Mrs. Jasher, even though she fancied that the lively widow was planning to become the mistress of the Pyramids.

“Well, my dear girl,” said Mrs. Jasher, shading her face from the fire with a large fan, “and how is your dear father after his late terrible experiences?”

“He is perfectly well, and rather cross,” replied Lucy, smiling.

“Cross?”

“Of course.  He has lost that wretched mummy.”

“And poor Sidney Bolton.”

“Oh, I don’t think he cares for poor Sidney’s death beyond the fact that he misses his services.  But the mummy cost nine hundred pounds, and father is much annoyed, especially as Peruvian mummies are somewhat hard to obtain.  You see, Mrs. Jasher, father wishes to see the difference between the Peruvian and Egyptian modes of embalming.”

“Ugh!  How gruesome!” Mrs. Jasher shuddered.  “But has anything been discovered likely to show who killed this poor lad?”

“No, the whole thing is a mystery.”

Mrs. Jasher looked into the fire over the top of the fan.

“I have read the papers,” she said slowly, “and have gathered what I could from what the reporters explained.  But I intend to call on the Professor and hear all that evidence which did not get into the papers.”