Yet, taken in conjunction with the history of this couple, the whole Ragnall affair was very strange.  When but a child Lady Ragnall, then the Hon. Miss Holmes, had been identified by the priests of a remote African tribe as the oracle of their peculiar faith, which we afterwards proved to be derived from old Egypt, in short the worship of Isis and Horus.  Subsequently they tried to steal her away and through the accident of my intervention, failed.  Later on, after her marriage when shock had deprived her of her mind, these priests renewed the attempt, this time in Egypt, and succeeded.  In the end we rescued her in Central Africa, where she was playing the part of the Mother-goddess Isis and even wearing her ancient robes.  Next she and her husband came home with their minds turned towards a branch of study that took them back to Egypt.  Here they devote themselves to unearthing a temple and find out that among all the gods of Egypt, who seem to have been extremely numerous, it was dedicated to Isis and Horus, the very divinities with whom they recently they had been so intimately concerned if in traditional and degenerate forms.

Moreover that was not the finish of it.  They come to the sanctuary.  They discover the statue of the goddess with the child gone, as their child was gone.  A disaster occurs and both destroys and buries Ragnall so effectually that nothing of him is ever seen again:  he just vanishes into another man’s grave and remains there.

A common sort of catastrophe enough, it is true, though people of superstitious mind might have thought that it looked as though the goddess, or whatever force was behind the goddess, was working vengeance on the man who desecrated her ancient shrine.  And, by the way, though I cannot remember whether or no I mentioned it in “The Ivory Child,” I recall that the old priest of the Kendah, Harut, once told me he was sure Ragnall would meet with a violent death.  This seemed likely enough in that country under our circumstances there, still I asked him why.  He answered,

“Because he has laid hands on that which is holy and not meant for man,” and he looked at Lady Ragnall.

I remarked that all women were holy, whereon he replied that he did not think so and changed the subject.

Well, Ragnall, who had married the lady who once served as the last priestess of Isis upon earth, was killed, whereas she, the priestess, was almost miraculously preserved from harm.  And—­oh! the whole story was deuced odd and that is all.  Poor Ragnall!  He was a great English gentleman and one whom when first I knew him, I held to be the most fortunate person I ever met, endowed as he was with every advantage of mind, body and estate.  Yet in the end this did not prove to be the case.  Well, while he lived he was a good friend and a good fellow and none can hope for a better epitaph in a world where all things are soon forgotten.