She had risen and was facing us with wild terror written on her face as if in appeal for protection against something she was powerless to name.  Spencer, who had not taken his hand off her arm, gently pressed her back into the easy chair and finished the story.

“She screamed and fainted.  Dr. Lith heard it and rushed up-stairs.  There she lay on the floor.  The lid of the sarcophagus had really been moved.  He saw it.  Not a thing else had been disturbed.  He carried her down here and revived her, told her to rest for a day or two, but—­”

“I cannot, I cannot,” she cried.  “It is the fascination of the thing.  It brings me back here.  I dream of it.  I thought I saw those eyes the other night.  They haunt me.  I fear them, and yet I would not avoid them, if it killed me to look.  I must meet and defy the power.  What is it?  Is it a curse four thousand years old that has fallen on me?”

I had heard stories of mummies that rose from their sleep of centuries to tell the fate of some one when it was hanging in the balance, of mummies that groaned and gurgled and fought for breath, frantically beating with their swathed hands in the witching hours of the night.  And I knew that the lure of these mummies was so strong for some people that they were drawn irresistibly to look upon and confer with them.  Was this a case for the oculists, the spiritualists, the Egyptologists, or for a detective?

“I should like to examine the art gallery, in fact, go over the whole museum,” put in Kennedy in his most matter-of-fact tone.

Spencer, with a glance at his watch, excused himself, nodding to Dr. Lith to show us about, and with a good night to Miss White which was noticeable for its sympathy with her fears, said, “I shall be at the house for another half-hour at least, in case anything really important develops.”

A few minutes later Miss White left for the night, with apparent reluctance, and yet, I thought, with just a little shudder as she looked back up the staircase that led to the art-gallery.

Dr. Lith led us into a large vaulted marble hall and up a broad flight of steps, past beautiful carvings and frescoes that I should have liked to stop and admire.

The art-gallery was a long room in the interior and at the top of the building, windowless but lighted by a huge double skylight each half of which must have been some eight or ten feet across.  The light falling through this skylight passed through plate glass of marvellous transparency.  One looked up at the sky as if through the air itself.

Kennedy ignored the gallery’s profusion of priceless art for the time and went directly to the mummy-case of the priestess Ka.

“It has a weird history,” remarked Dr. Lith.  “No less than seven deaths, as well as many accidents, have been attributed to the malign influence of that greenish yellow coffin.  You know the ancient Egyptians used to chant as they buried their sacred dead:  ’Woe to him who injures the tomb.  The dead shall point out the evildoer to the Devourer of the Underworld.  Soul and body shall be destroyed.’”