ad them to battle. Above all, be proud, and not afraid."

The ioterpreter hesitated a moment.

"There was another White Queen whose coming was prophesied many
hundreds of years ago," he said. "She came. She led the Indians
victory over other Indians and then she vanished in the strangest way.
I would tell you of it--but I am afraid. They say her spirit is
always near. Some day you may know how she vanished."

Before she could speak again, he had glided out of the teepee.

While Pauline was away Harry had planned to accomplish mighty labors.
With masculine fatuity he let himself believe--before she went away
--that a man can get more work done with his goddess afar than when
Cupid has a desk in his office.

It did not take more than thirty-six hours to turn separation into
bereavement; not more than forty-eight to turn his "freedom for work"
into slavery to the fidgets. The office, instead of a refuge, became
a prison to him. However, he made a pretense of sticking to the grind,
and it was not until the Thursday on which his chartings showed Pauline
would arrive at Rockvale that he actually quit and went home.

He slipped into the library to be alone. It was more restful here. As
he sat in the great leather chair and unfolded a newspaper, the
portrait of Pauline smiled brightly down at him in seeming
camaraderie. At his side stood the Mummy so intimately associated with
her and his dead father's strange vision from the tomb.

Harry began to read, but he was still nervous to the point of
excitement, and his thoughts wandered from the words. He was suddenly
conscious of another presence in the room. He let the paper fall and
gazed intently at the portrait.

But a moment later, Harry Marvin sprang excitedly from the chair and
fairly leaped towards the picture. From somewhere out of the dim air
of the library a hand had reached and touched his. It had touched his
shoulder and then, with a commanding finger, had pointed upward at the
picture on the wall.

"The Mummy! It has warned again," gasped Harry. "Polly, Polly!" he
cried to the portrait, "I'm coming. Just hold on."

He strode bark to the table and pressed a bell.

"Tell Reynolds to pack me up, Bemis," he charged the astonished
butler. "Tell him it's for Montana in a rush. Have a machine ready
for me in fifteen minutes."

Even Bemis's constitutional aversion to haste was overridden. He sped
into the hall, calling to the valet, as Harry p