his time was
short, hastened on to a certain room, one of those which opened out of
the gallery.

In a corner of this room, upon the wall, amongst many other beautiful
objects, stood that head which Mariette had found, whereof in past years
the cast had fascinated him in London. Now he knew whose head it was;
to him it had been given to find the tomb of her who had sat for that
statue. Her very hand was in his pocket--yes, the hand that had touched
yonder marble, pointing out its defects to the sculptor, or perhaps
swearing that he flattered her. Smith wondered who that sculptor was;
surely he must have been a happy man. Also he wondered whether the
statuette was also this master's work. He thought so, but he wished to
make sure.

Near to the end of the room he stopped and looked about him like a
thief. He was alone in the place; not a single student or tourist could
be seen, and its guardian was somewhere else. He drew out the box
that contained the hand. From the hand he slipped the ring which the
Director-General had left there as a gift to himself. He would much have
preferred the other with the signet, but how could he say so, especially
after the episode of the statuette?

Replacing the hand in his pocket without looking at the ring--for his
eyes were watching to see whether he was observed--he set it upon his
little finger, which it exactly fitted. (Ma-Mee had worn both of them
upon the third finger of her left hand, the Bes ring as a guard to the
signet.) He had the fancy to approach the effigy of Ma-Mee wearing a
ring which she had worn and that came straight from her finger to his
own.

Smith found the head in its accustomed place. Weeks had gone by since he
looked upon it, and now, to his eyes, it had grown more beautiful
than ever, and its smile was more mystical and living. He drew out the
statuette and began to compare them point by point. Oh, no doubt was
possible! Both were likenesses of the same woman, though the statuette
might have been executed two or three years later than the statue. To
him the face of it looked a little older and more spiritual. Perhaps
illness, or some premonition of her end had then thrown its shadow on
the queen. He compared and compared. He made some rough measurements
and sketches in his pocket-book, and set himself to work out a canon of
proportions.

So hard and earnestly did he work, so lost was his mind that he never
heard the accustomed warning sound which announ