There was
something methodical in her movements now that woke a new interest in
Simpkins. "What the dickens can she be up to?" he thought.
She had lit a lamp, and had shaded it, so that its rays were contracted
in a circle on the floor. From a cupboard let into the wall she was
taking bottles and brushes, a roll of linen bandages and some boxes of
pigments. After laying these on the floor, she walked over to the big
black mummy case by her table, and pushed until she had turned it around
with its face to the wall.
What heathen game was this? Simpkins' interest increased, and he poked
his head out boldly from the sheltering veil.
Mrs. Athelstone was standing directly in front of the case now, pulling
and tugging in an effort to bring it down on her shoulders. Finally, she
managed to tilt it toward her, and then, straining, she lowered it until
it rested flat on the floor.
"Sorry I couldn't have lent a hand," thought the gallant Simpkins; "the
old buck must weigh a ton. Now what's she bothering around that passe,
three-thousand-years-dead sport for?"
Her back was toward him; so, cautious and catlike, he stole from behind
the veil and glided to the shelter of a post not ten feet from her.
He peered around it eagerly. Still panting from her efforts, she was on
her knees beside the case, fumbling a key in the Yale lock, a curious
anachronism which Simpkins, in his cleaning, had found on all the more
valuable mummy cases.
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