cart, and eddicating him to watch camphorated corpses: not as
what I'd like to keep an eye on them things myself. But there's
no more watching for my boy Sid, as I dreamed."

"What did you dream?" asked Lucy curiously.

Widow Anne threw up two gnarled hands, wrinkled with age and
laundry work, screwing up her face meanwhile.

"I dreamed of battle and murder and sudden death, my lady, with
Sid in his cold grave playing on a harp, angel-like. Yes!" she
folded her rusty shawl tightly round her spare form and nodded,
"there was Sid, looking beautiful in his coffin, and cut into a
hash, as you might say, with--"

"Ugh! ugh!" shuddered Lucy, and Archie strove to draw her away.

"With murder written all over his poor face," pursued the widow.
"And I woke up screeching with cramp in my legs and pains in my
lungs, and beatings in my heart, and stiffness in my--"

"Oh, hang it, shut up!" shouted Archie, seeing that Lucy was
growing pale at this ghoulish recital, "don't be fool, woman.
Professor Braddock says that Bolton'll be back in three days with
the mummy he has been sent to fetch from Malta. You have been
having nightmare! Don't you see how you are frightening Miss
Kendal?"

"'The Witch' of Endor, sir--"