the widow been a dollar heiress with a million at her back he
would not have troubled to place a ring on her finger. And
certainly Mrs. Jasher had little to gain from such a dreary
marriage, beyond a collection of rubbish--as she said--and a
dull country house situated in a district inhabited solely by
peasants belonging to Saxon times.

Archie Hope left Lucy at the door of the Pyramids and repaired to
his village lodgings, for the purpose of assuming evening dress.
Lucy, being her own housekeeper, assisted the overworked parlor
maid to lay and decorate the table before receiving the guests.
Thus Mrs. Jasher found no one in the drawing-room to welcome her,
and, taking the privilege of old friendship, descended to beard
Braddock in his den. The Professor raised his eyes from a newly
bought scarabeus to behold a stout little lady smiling on him
from the doorway. He did not appear to be grateful for the
interruption, but Mrs. Jasher was not at all dismayed, being a
man-hunter by profession. Besides, she saw that Braddock was in
the clouds as usual, and would have received the King himself in
the same absent-minded manner.

"Pouf! what an abominal smell!" exclaimed the widow, holding a
flimsy lace handkerchief to her nose. "Kind of
camphor-sandal-wood-charnel-house smell. I wonder you are not
asphyxiated. Pouf! Ugh! Bur-r-r!"

The Professor stared at her with cold, fishy eyes. "Did you
speak?"

"Oh, dear me, yes, and you don't even ask me to take a chair. If