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him bodily out of it if displeased. Jumping lithelyto the ground after him, Emerson seized his hand, wrung it fiercely, dropped it, and turned away. Seizing Evelyn in one hand and me in the other, he escorted us rapidly through the gate and along the path toward the house.
    Before Emerson bustled me indoors I saw something that took my mind off my brother's machinations. It had begun to rain harder, and there were not many people abroad. Only one head was uncovered to the elements. It belonged to an individual standing by the park railings across the street, and it was crowned by a mop of fiery red hair.
    Catching my eye, the individual in question stood on tiptoe and went through a series of extraordinary gesticulations, first raising a hand with the thumb folded under, then bringing an invisible vessel to his lips, as if drinking, then pointing, holding up his forefinger, and pointing again. These gestures were performed with great vigor and intensity, before he clapped a shabby cap on his head and glided rapidly away.
    With a tact I had not expected from him, James absented himself from the luncheon table. Afterward Emerson and Walter retired to the library to revel in conversation of an Egyptological nature until teatime. I persuaded Evelyn to lie down for a little rest (Emerson's random surmise as to her delicate condition having been verified by no less an authority than Evelyn herself); and, having left Ramses lecturing Rose on various subjects that did not interest her in the slightest, I was able to concentrate on the peculiar behavior of Mr. Kevin O'Connell.
    Why he had not left a written message instead of following us from the dock and carrying on like a maniacal mime, I could not imagine. Possibly—I speculated—he feared Emerson might intercept or inquire about such a letter. Well, I was no more anxious than he to involve Emerson, but I was very anxious indeed to talk with Mr. O'Connell. I had a few things to say to him.
    Since four o'clock was the hour he had indicated, I had a little time to spare before leaving to keep the appointment, and I occupied it in reviewing the past week's newspapers. They had been tidied away, but at my request one of the footmen retrieved them and brought them to my room.
    By the time I had finished reading, my amused tolerance for Mr. O'Connell had completely evaporated. His cool and unfounded statement that we had consented to investigate a fictitious criminal case was bad enough. His most recent references to us were positively infuriating.
    Since the so-called mystery was no mystery at all, only a string of meaningless coincidences, it would have died a natural death had not
    O'Connell and his co-conspirators of the press kept it alive by various doubtful stratagems. Especially useful to them were the activities of certain members of the lunatic public, including the sem priest who had been mentioned in an earlier article. This individual had become a regular visitor to the exhibit where, attired in flowing white robes and moth-eaten leopard skin, he prostrated himself and performed mysterious rituals with the intention, one presumes, of propitiating the mummy.
    Emerson and I had been Mr. O'Connell's principal victims. There were several stories about our past activities, including a picture of Emerson that would assuredly drive him to homicide when he saw it. The artist had depicted an incident that had occurred the summer before, on the steps of the British Museum. Emerson had only waved his fist under Mr. Budge's nose, he had never actually struck the man; but the drawing might have served as an illustration to a sensational novel—"Take that, you dastardly cur!" Budge's bulging eyes and look of abject terror were very cleverly portrayed. (The dispute, a mere tempest in a teapot, had arisen after Budge had the effrontery to write to The Times objecting to Emerson's valid criticisms of an Egyptian pottery exhibition. In the course of the letter he had used language no