But Mrs. Athelstone answered nothing, only looked off toward the altar.
It almost seemed as if she waited for something.
"Go on," commanded Simpkins, stirred to roughness by his growing
uneasiness.
"You will not leave while yet you may?" and her tone doubled the threat
of her words.
"No, not till I've heard it all," he answered doggedly, and gripped
the butt of his revolver tighter. But though he told himself that her
changed manner, this new confidence, this sudden indifference to his
going, was the freak of a madwoman, down deep he felt that it portended
some evil thing for him, knew it, and would not go, could not go; for he
dared not pass the ambushed terror of that altar.
"You still insist?" the woman asked with rising anger. "So be it. Learn
then the fate of meddlers, of dogs who dare to penetrate the mysteries
of Isis."
Simpkins took his eyes from her face and glanced mechanically toward
the veil. But he looked back suddenly, and caught her signalling with a
swift motion of her head to something in the darkness. There could be
no mistake this time. And following her eyes he saw a form, black and
shapeless, steal along to the nearest post.
Revolver in hand, he leaped up and back, upsetting his chair. The thing
remained hidden. He cleared the partitioning sarcophagus at a bound,
and, sliding and backing, reached the centre of the hall, never for one
instant taking his eyes from that post or lowering his revolver.
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