"Quite right, Simpkins," Mrs. Athelstone replied, evidently pleased byhis interest and knowledge. "He was Amosis, a king of the eighteenthdynasty, and Nefruari's husband. A big, powerful man!"
"What a bully cigarette brand he'd make!" thought Simpkins, and aloudhe added:
"They must have been a fine-looking pair."
"Indeed, yes," was the earnest answer, and so they moved about the hall,she explaining, he listening and questioning, until at last they stoodbefore the black altar in the west and the veil of velvet. Simpkins sawthat there was an inscription carved in the basalt, and, drawing nearer,slowly spelled out:
TIBI VNA QVE ES OMNIA DEA ISIS
"And what's behind the curtain?" he began, turning toward Mrs.Athelstone.
"The truth, of course. But remember," and her tone was half serious,"none but an adept may look behind the veil and live."
"The truth is my long suit," returned Simpkins mendaciously. "So I'lltake a chance." As he spoke, the heavy velvet fell aside and discloseda statue of a woman carved in black marble. It stood on a pedestal ofbronze, overlaid with silver, and above and behind were hangings ofblue-gray silk. A brilliant ray of light beat down on it. Glancing up,Simpkins saw that it shone from a crescent moon in the arched ceilingabove the altar. Then his eyes came back to the statue. There wassomething so lifelike in the pose of the figure, something so winning inthe smile of the face, something so alluring in the outstretched arms,that he involuntarily stepped nearer.
"And now that you've seen Isis, what do you think of her?" asked Mrs.Athelstone, breaking the momentary silence.
"She's the real thing--the naked truth, sure enough," returned Simpkinswith a grin.
"It _is_ a wonderful statue!" was the literal answer. "There's noother like it in the world. Doctor Athelstone found it near Thebes, andtook a good deal of pride in arranging this shrine. The device _is_clever; the parting of the veil you see, makes the light shine down onthe statue, and it dies out when I close it--so"; and, as she pulled acord, the veil fell before the statue and the light melted away.
"'She's the Real Thing.'"]
"Aren't you initiating the neophyte rather early?" a man's voice askedat Simpkins' elbow, and, as he turned to see who it was, Mrs. Athelstoneexplained: "This is our new clerk, Mr. Simpkins; Doctor Brander is ourtreasurer, and our acting president while my husband's away. He left afew days ago for a little rest." And Mrs. Athelstone turned back to herdesk.
Simpkins instantly decided to dislike the young clergyman beside him. Hewas tall and athletic-looking, but with a slight stoop, that impressedthe reporter as a physical assumption of humility which the handsomeface, with its faintly sneering lines and bold eyes, contradicted. Buthe acknowledged Brander's offhand "How d'ye do?" in a properlydeferential manner, and listened respectfully to a few carelesssentences of instructions.
For the rest of the morning, Simpkins mechanically addressed circularsappealing for funds to carry on the good work of the Society, while hismind was busy trying to formulate a plan by which he could get Mrs.Athelstone to tell what she knew about the whereabouts of MadameBlavatsky's soul. He felt, with the accurate instinct of one used toclassing the frailties of flesh and blood according to their worth incolumns, that those devices which had so often led women to confideto him the details of the particular sensation that he was working upwould avail him nothing here. "You simply haven't got her Bertillonmeasurements, Simp.," he was forced to admit, after an hour of fruitlessthinking. "You'll have to trust in your rabbit's foot."
But if Mrs. Athelstone was a new species to him, the office boy was not.He knew that youth down to the last button on his jacket. He knew, too,that an office boy often whiles away the monotonous hours by piecingtogether the president's secrets from the scraps in his waste-basket.So at the noon hour he slipped out after Buttons, caught him as he wasdisappearing up a near-by alley in a cloud of cigarette smoke, like thedisreputable little devil that he was, and succeeded in establishingfriendly and even familiar relations with him.
It was not, however, until late in the afternoon, when he was calledinto the ante-chamber to discover the business of a caller, that heimproved the opportunity to ask the youth some leading questions.
"Suppose you open up mornings?" he began carelessly.
"Naw; Mrs. A. does. She bunks here."
"How?"
"In a bed. She's got rooms in de buildin'. That door by Booker T. leadsto 'em."
"Booker T.? Oh, sure! The brunette statue. And that other door--the oneto the left. Where does that go?"
"Into Brander's storeroom. He sells mummies on de side."
"Does, eh? Curious business!" commented Simpkins. "Seems to rub it into_you_ pretty hard. And stuck on himself! Don't seem able to spitwithout ringing his bell for some one to see him do it. Guess you'd haveto have four legs to satisfy _him_, all right."
"Say, dat duck ain't on de level," the grievance for which Simpkins hadbeen probing coming to the surface.
"Holds out on what he collects? Steals?"
"Sure t'ing--de loidies," and the boy lowered his voice; "he's deadstuck on Mrs. A."
"Oh! nonsense," commented Simpkins, an invitation to continue in hisvoice. "She's a married woman."
"Never min', I'm tellin' youse; an dat's just where de stink comes in.Ain't I seen 'im wid my own eyes a-makin' goo-goos at 'er. An' wasn'tthere rough house for fair goin' on in dere last mont', just before deDoc. made his get-away? He tumbled to somethin', all right, all right,or why don't he write her? Say, I don't expect _him_ back in nohurry. He's hived up in South Dakote right now, an' she's in trainin'for alimony, or my name's Dennis Don'tknow."
"Does look sort of funny," Simpkins replied, sympathetic, but not toointerested. "When was it Doc. left? Last week?"
"Last week, not; more'n a mont' ago, an' he ain't peeped since, for I'veskinned every mail dat's come in, an' not a picture-postal, see?"
"That isn't very affectionate of Doc., but I wouldn't mention it to anyone else; it might get you into trouble," was Simpkins' comment. "Youbetter--Holy, jumping Pharaoh! what a husky pussy!" As he spoke a bigblack cat, with blinking, tawny eyes, sprang from the floor and curleditself up on the youth's desk. "Where'd that----"
A snarl interrupted the question; for the temptation to pull the cat'stail had proved too strong for the boy. Bowed over his desk in a fit oflaughter at the result, he did not see the door behind him open, butSimpkins did. And he saw Mrs. Athelstone, her eyes blazing, spring intothe room, seize the youth by the collar and shake him roughly.
"You nasty little brute!" she cried. "How dared you do that to a----"And then catching sight of Simpkins, she dropped the frightened boy backinto his chair.
"I can't stand cruelty to animals," she explained, panting a little fromher effort. "If anything of this sort happens again, I'll discharge youon the spot," she added to the boy.
"Shame!" Simpkins echoed warmly. "Didn't know what was up or I'd havestopped him."
"I'm sure of it," she answered graciously, and, stooping, she picked upthe now purring cat and left the room.
Simpkins followed her back to his desk and went on with his addressing,but he had something worth thinking about now. Not for nothing had hebeen educated in that newspaper school which puts two and two togetherand makes six. And by the time he was through work for the day and backin his room at the hotel, he had his result. He embodied it in thisletter to Naylor:
_Dear Mr. Naylor_:
I am in the employ of Mrs. Athelstone. How I managed it is a yarn that will keep till I get back. [He meant until he could invent the story which would reflect the most credit on his ingenuity, for though he knew that the whole thing had been a piece of luck he had no intention of cheapening himself with Naylor by owning as much.] I had intended to return to Boston to-night, but I'm on the track of real news, a lovely stink, something much bigger than the Sunday story. There's a sporting parson, quite a swell, in the office here who's gone on
Mrs. A., and I'm inclined to hope she is on him. Anyway, the Doc. left in a hurry after some sort of a row over a month ago, and hasn't written a line to his wife since. She's as cool as a cucumber about it and handed me a hot one right off the bat about poor old Doc.'s having gone away for a rest _a few days ago_. I've drawn cards and am going to sit in the game, unless you wire me to come home, for I smell a large, fat, front-page exclusive, which will jar the sensitive slats of some of our first families both here and in dear old London.
Yours, SIMPKINS.
He hesitated a few minutes before he mailed the letter. He really didnot want to do anything to involve _her_ in a scandal, but, afterall, it was simply anticipating the inevitable, and--he pulled himselfup short and put the letter in the box. He could not afford any mawkishsentiment in this.
IV
Simpkins received a monosyllabic telegram from Naylor, instructing himto "stay," but after working in the Society's office for another threedays he was about ready to give up all hope of getting at the facts.Some other reason, he scarcely knew what, kept him on. Perhaps it wasMrs. Athelstone herself. For though he appreciated how ridiculous hisinfatuation was, he found a miserable pleasure in merely being near her.And she was pleased with her new clerk, amused at what she called hisquaint Americanisms, and if she noticed his too unrepressed admirationfor her, she smiled it aside. It was something to which she wasaccustomed, an involuntary tribute which most men who saw her oftenrendered her.
She never referred, even indirectly, to her husband, but Simpkins,as he watched her move about the hall, divined that he was often inher thoughts. And there was another whom he watched--Brander; for hefelt certain now that the acting president's interest in his handsomesecretary was not purely that of the Egyptologist. And though there wasnothing but a friendly courtesy in her manner toward him, Simpkins knewhis subject well enough to understand that, whatever her real feelingswere, she was far too clever to be tripped into betraying them to him."She doesn't wear her heart on her sleeve--if she has a heart," hedecided.
He was trying to make up his mind to force things to some sort of acrisis, one morning, when Mrs. Athelstone called him to her desk andsaid rather sharply:
"You've been neglecting your work, Simpkins. Isis looks as if she hadn'tbeen dusted since you came."
This was the fact. Simpkins never passed the black altar without abackward glance, as if he were fearful of an attack from behind. And hehad determined that nothing should tempt him to a tete-a-tete with thestatue behind the veil. But having so senseless, so cowardly a feelingwas one thing, and letting Mrs. Athelstone know it another. So he onlyreplied:
"I'm very sorry; afraid I have been a little careless about the statue."And taking up a soft cloth, he walked toward the altar.
It was quite dark behind the veil; so dark that he could see nothing atfirst. But after the moment in which his eyes grew accustomed to thechange, he made out the vague lines of the statue in the faint lightfrom above. He set to work about the pedestal, touching it gingerly atfirst, then more boldly. At length he looked up into the face, blurredin the half-light.
When he had finished with the pedestal he pulled himself up between theoutstretched arms, and perhaps a trifle hurriedly now, as he saw theface more distinctly, began to pass the cloth over the arms and back.
Then, quick as the strike of a snake, the arms crushed him against thestone breast. He could not move; he could not cry out; he could notbreathe. The statue, seen from the level of the pedestal, had changedits whole expression. Hate glowed in its eyes; menace lived in everyline of its face. The arms tightened slowly, inexorably; then, asquickly as they had closed, unclasped; and Simpkins half-slid, half-fellto the floor.
When the breath came back into his lungs and he found himself unharmed,he choked back the cry on his lips, for in that same moment a suspicionfloated half-formed through his brain. He forced himself to climb up onthe pedestal again, and made a careful inspection of the statue--butfrom behind this time.
The arms were metal, enameled to the smoothness of the body, andjointed, though the joints were almost invisible. The statue was one ofthose marvelous creations of the ancient priests, and once, no doubt, ithad stood behind the veil in some Egyptian temple to tempt and to punishthe curiosity of the neophyte.
Though Simpkins could find no clew to the mechanism of the statue, hedetermined that he had sprung it with his feet, and that during hisstruggles a lucky kick had touched the spring which relaxed the arms."Did any one beside himself know their strength?" he asked himself, ashe stepped out into the hall again. Mrs. Athelstone was bent over herdesk writing; Brander was yawning over a novel in his corner, andneither paid any attention to him. So he busied himself going over themummy-cases, and by the time he had worked around to the two beside Mrs.Athelstone he had himself well in hand, outwardly. But he was still soshaken internally that he knocked the black case rather roughly as hedusted.
"What way is that to treat a king?" demanded Mrs. Athelstone; and theanger in her voice was so real that Simpkins, startled, blundered out:
"I really meant no disrespect. Very careless of me, I'm sure." He lookedso distressed that Mrs. Athelstone's anger melted into a deliciouslittle laugh, as she answered:
"Really, Simpkins, you musn't be so bungling. These mummies arepriceless." And she got up and made a careful inspection of the case.
Simpkins, rather crestfallen, went back to his desk and began to addresscirculars, his brain busy with the shadow which had crept into it. Butthere was nothing to make it more tangible, everything to dispel it,and he was forced to own as much. "It's a lovely little cozy corner,"was his final conclusion; "but keep out of it, Simp., old boy. Thesemechanical huggers are great stuff, but they're too strong for a fellowthat's been raised on Boston girls."
[Illustration ]
V
Mrs. Athelstone was not in the office when he came down the nextday--she had gone to Washington on the Society's affairs, Brandersaid--and so he moped about, finding the place dreary without herbrightening presence. In fact, when Brander went out, he slipped intothe sunlit ante-chamber, for companionship, he told himself; but in hisheart he knew that he did not want to be alone with that thing behindthe altar. He had satisfactorily explained its mechanism to himself, butthere was something else about it which he could not explain.
Naylor had telegraphed that very morning: "Get story. Come home. What doyou think you're doing?" and he tried to make up his mind to end thewhole affair by taking the night train to Boston. But he hated to goback empty-handed from a four days' assignment. Besides, though he knewhimself a fool for it, he wanted to see Mrs. Athelstone once more.
So it happened that he was lingering on in the outer office when thepostman threw the afternoon mail on the desk. Simpkins was alone at themoment, and he ran over the letters carelessly until he came to oneaddressed to Brander in Mrs. Athelstone's writing. The blue card of thepalace car company was in a corner of the envelope.
"Why the deuce is she writing that skunk before she's well out of town?"he thought, scanning the envelope with jealous eyes. Then he held it upto the light, but the thick paper told nothing of what was within.Frowning, he laid the letter down, fingered it, withdrew his itchinghand, hesitated, and finally put it in his pocket.
Simpkins went straight from the office to his hotel, for, though hetold himself that the letter contained some instructions which Mrs.Athelstone had forgotten to give Brander before leaving, he was anxiousto see just how those instructions were worded. Alone in his littleroom, he ripped open the letter and ran over its two pages withbewilderment growing in his face. He finished by throwing it down onthe table and exclaiming helplessly: "Well, I'll be damned!"
The first sheet, without beginning or ending, contained only a line inMrs. Athelstone's handwriting, reading: "I had to leave in such a hurrythat I missed seeing you."
There was not an intelligible word on the second sheet; it was simply asuccession of scrawls and puerile outline pictures,
such as a childmight have drawn.
To Simpkins' first aggrieved feeling that his confidence had beenabused, the certainty that he had stumbled on something of importancequickly succeeded. He concluded a second and more careful scrutiny ofthe letter with the exclamation, "Cipher! all right, all right," and,after a third, he jumped up excitedly and rushed off to ColumbiaUniversity.
An hour later, Professor Ashmore, whose well-known work on "HieraticWritings" is so widely accepted an authority on that fascinatingsubject, looked across to Simpkins, who for some minutes had beensitting quietly in a corner of his study, and observed dryly:
"This is a queer jumble of hieroglyphics and hieratic writing, and isnot, I should judge," and his eyes twinkled, "of any great antiquity."
"Quite right, Professor," Simpkins assented cheerfully. "The lady whowrote it is interested in Egyptology, and is trying to have a little funwith me."
"If I may judge from the letter, she seems to be interested in you aswell," the professor went on smilingly. "In fact, it appears tobe--ahem--a love-letter."
"Eh! What?" exclaimed Simpkins, suddenly serious, "Let's have it."
"Well, roughly, it goes something like this: 'My heart's dearest, mysun, my Nile duck--the hours are days without thee, the days an aeon. Thegods be thanked that this separation is not for long. For apart fromthee I have no life. That thing that I have to do is about done. May thegods guard thee and the all-mother protect thee. I embrace thee: I kissthine eyes and thy lips.' That's a fair translation, though one or twoof the hieroglyphics are susceptible of a slightly different rendering;but the sense would not be materially affected by the change," theProfessor concluded.
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