god, whose mangled incompleteness
endeared it to him, was crumbling away. He wondered if there were
friends with whom he might share his ugly secret. There was young
Fairleigh, who was always so modern, and actually read modern books. He
might have coped with the blackmailer alive, but hardly with his corpse.
You cannot run round and ask neighbours for coffins, false beards, and
rope in the delightful convention of the _Arabian Nights_, because you
have grazed modern life at a sharp angle, without exciting suspicion or
running the risk of positive refusal. There was his wife, to whom he
confided everything; but she was a lady from Massachusetts, and her
father was European correspondent to many American papers of the highest
repute. How could their pure ears be soiled with so sordid a confidence?
Poor Irene! she was to have an 'At Home' the following afternoon. It
would have to be postponed. Professor Lachsyrma fell to thinking of such
trivial matters, contemptible in their unimportance, as we do at the
terrible moments of our lives. He wondered if they would wait dinner for
him. He often remained at his club--the Serapeum--to finish a discussion
with some erudite antagonist. His absence would therefore cause no
alarm. He consulted the little American clock; it had stopped. How like
America! The only recorded instance, he would explain to Irene, of an
export from that country being required--the commodity proved inadequate.
No, that would make Irene cry. . . . The folly of hopeless, futile
thoughts jingled on. Suddenly he heard the cry of a belated newsvendor,
howling some British victory, some horrible scandal in Paris. Scandal,
exposure, publicity--_there_ was the horror. He could almost hear the
journalists stropping their pens. If his thoughts drifted towards any
potential expiation demanded by officialism, he put them aside. A social
_debacle_ was more fearful and vivid than the dock and its inevitable
consequence. . . . Presently his eyes rested again on the mummy case. A
brilliant inspiration! Here, at all events, was a temporary hiding-place
for the corpse of the blackmailer. If it was putting new wine into old
bottles, circumstances surely justified a violation of the proverb. Till
now a severe unromantic Hellenist, he held Egyptology in some contempt;
and for Egypt, except in so far as it illustrated the art of Greece or
remained a treasure-house for Greek manuscripts, his distaste was only