Robert was bawling out from the dining-room window that lunch was ready, and as she retraced her steps to the house, she thought that perhaps it would be better to eat humble pie and get Simkinson to return. It was clear to Daisy that if she was to do her duty as medium between ancient Egypt and the world of to-day, the garden would deteriorate even more rapidly than it was doing already, and no doubt Robert would consent to eat the humble pie for her, and tell Simkinson that they couldn’t get on without him, and that when she had said he was lazy, she had meant industrious, or whatever else was necessary. Robert was in a very good temper that day because Roumanian oils which were the main source of his fortunes had announced a higher dividend than usual, and he promised to seek out Simkinson and explain what lazy meant, and if he didn’t understand to soothe his injured feelings with a small tip. “And tell him he needn’t make a rockery at all,” said Daisy. “He always hated the idea of a rockery. He can dig a pit and bury the fossils and the architectural fragments and everything. That will be the easiest way of disposing of them.” “And what is he to do with the earth he takes out of the pit, my dear?” asked Robert. “Put it back, I suppose,” said Daisy rather sharply. Robert was so pleased at having “caught” her, that he did not even explain that she had been caught.... * * * * * After lunch Daisy found the coins; it was odd that, having forgotten where she had put them for so long, she should suddenly remember, and she was inclined to attribute this inspiration to Abfou. The difficulty was to know what, having found them, to do with them next. Some of them obviously bore signs of once having had profiles of Roman emperors stamped on them, and she was sure she had heard that some Roman coins were of great value, and probably these were the ones. Perhaps when she sent the Arabic script to the British Museum she might send these too for identification.... And then she dropped them all on the floor as the great idea struck her. She flew into the garden, calling to Georgie, who was putting up croquet-hoops. “Georgie, I’ve got it!” she said. “It’s as plain as plain. What Abfou wants us to do is to start a Riseholme Museum. He wrote Riseholme Museum quite distinctly. Think how it would pay too, when we’re overrun with American tourists in the summer! They would all come to see it. A shilling admission I should put it at, and sixpence for the catalogue.” “I wonder if Abfou meant that,” said Georgie. “He said it,” said Daisy. “You can’t deny that!” “But what should we put in the Museum?” asked he.