" the reporter
answered, trying to assume a properly metropolitan expression. "Suppose
I'll have to take the third degree before I can get out of here."

The youth started noiselessly across the floor, and Simpkins saw that
he wore sandals. His own heavy walking boots rang loudly on the flagged
floors and woke the echoes in the vaulted ceiling. He began to tread on
tiptoe, as one moves in a death-chamber.

And that was what this great room was: a charnel-house filled with
the spoil of tombs and temples. The dim light fluttered down from
quaint, triangular windows, set with a checker-work of brick-red and
saffron-colored panes about a central design, a scarlet heart upon a
white star, and within that a black scarabaeus. The white background of
the walls threw into relief the angular figures on the frieze, scenes
from old Egyptian life: games, marriages, feasts and battles, painted
in the crude colors of early art. Between were paneled pictures of the
gods, monstrous and deformed deities, half men, half beasts; and the
dado, done in black, pictured the funeral rites of the Egyptians, with
explanatory passages from the ritual of the dead. Rudely-sculptured
bas-reliefs and intaglios, torn from ancient mastabas, were set over
windows and doors, and stone colossi of kings and gods leered and
threatened from dusky corners. Sarcophagi of black basalt, red porphyry
and pink-veined alabaster, cunningly carved, were disposed as they had
been found in the pits of the dead, with the sepulchral vases and the
hideous wooden idols beside them.

The descriptions of the place had prepared Simpkins for something out
of the ordinary, but nothing like this; and he looked about him with
wonder in his eyes and a vague awe at his heart, until he found himself
standing in the corner of the hall to the right of the black altar in
the west. Two sarcophagi, one of basalt, the other of alabaster, were
placed at right angles to the walls, partially inclosing a small space.
Within this inclosure, bowed over a stone table, sat a woman, writing.
At either end of the table a mummy case, one black, the other gilt,
stood upright. The boy halted just outside this singular private office,
and the woman rose and came toward them.

Simpkins had never read Virgil, but he knew the goddess by her walk. She
was young--not over thirty--and tall and stately. Her gown was black,
some soft stuff which clung about her, and a bunch of violets at her
waist made the