"As it happens, it didn't," Morewood answered with spirit. "But from that day misfortune following misfortune fell upon the family--troubles, disappointments, losses. I have all the details, if you care to hear them." Dunbarton made a sweeping gesture of negation, and his friend resumed: "It so happened that this Mrs. Meiswinkle, who was something of an amateur in occultism, received one day a visit from a noted adept in theosophy. This gentleman, who had newly come from Thibet and was in consequence highly sensitive, had scarcely set foot in the house when he announced the presence of a sinister influence. 'There is something here,' he cried, 'that simply radiates misfortune.'" "Extraordinary acumen!" Dunbarton murmured, having got the better of the yawn. "Of course," Morewood proceeded, "it did not take an expert long to identify the mummy-case, and of course a weight of evidence to support the adept's assertion was not long in accumulating. All the misfortunes which had befallen its recent owners were quickly traced in some direct way to the possession of the mysterious coffin, and in the end Mrs. Meiswinkle needed no great persuasion to rid herself of the thing forever." "How?" Dunbarton asked. "She made a present of it to the city of New York." "Noble woman!" cried the painter. "That simple act of patriotism may account for much!" It was a frivolous remark, but more than once Morewood had noticed that his companion glanced over his shoulder when a breeze from the open windows stirred some bit of drapery, although the studio was still well lighted by a golden sunset. The storyteller's manner would have made a stoic nervous. His muscles twitched, his eyes had brightened, and his bearing was that of one determined to throw off the burden of a mighty secret. "Dunbarton," he said solemnly, "that mummy-case stands at this moment in the uptown corner of the first Egyptian room, numbered 22,542 in the catalogue, which reads, 'Lid of Egyptian coffin, unearthed at Thebes,' and the name of the donor; nothing more. No word to tell that this poor shell of papier-maché once contained the mortal body of a priestess of Amen Ra; no hint of her surpassing loveliness except the lineaments you painters sneer at, and the ill-drawn hands crossed on her breast. She is gone; she is forgotten--she that was the most beautiful of Nature's works!" "Frank," said Dunbarton, "has this story of yours anything to do with your Kodak film?" "Yes, everything!" Morewood declared, speaking rapidly. "Listen. To-day I smuggled my camera into the Museum, and stood before the mummy-case undetected. But scarcely had I pressed the button when I was arrested by an official, who confiscated the machine and took it to the parcel room. I lost no time in finding the Director, gave my name and yours for surety for my respectability, and, after some delay and red tape, got back my property."