"I think the curtain must be caught," replied a low, melodious voice without. Dunbarton took three strides across the room, seized the drapery, and, with a single movement of his arm, swept it aside. "Oh!" he cried, starting back, while Morewood clutched the table for support. Then, instantly recovering themselves, both men bowed as in the presence of a queen. And well they might. Against the background of green velvet curtain with its embroidery of dull gold, there stood a lady all in poppy red, crowned with a headdress seemingly of the flowers themselves. It was not the dress of any period of time, for since the beginning of time flowers have grown for women to wear, and the two onlookers, being masculine, knew only that she wore them, and cared not whether they had bloomed in Eden or the Rue de la Paix. Time was for the moment eliminated, disregarded: the centuries rolled away like dewdrops from a rose, for, by the grace of Isis and Osiris, were they not bowing before the peerless priestess of the rites of Amen Ra? It was she and none other--the mistress of the mummy-case, the mystery of the Kodak film; the lady of Thebes three thousand years ago. Morewood passed his hand across his brow and caught his breath; Dunbarton was the first to recover the power of speech. "Madam," he said, and his voice shook a little, "you do me far too great an honor. What is your will? You have but to command me." "I venture to assert a prior claim to do your bidding," put in Morewood, coming forward quickly. The priestess of Amen Ra tried to control a little laugh, and failed bewitchingly. "I am looking for a Mr. Dunbarton," she explained. The painter drew himself erect and bowed with dignity. "I have the good fortune to bear that name," he said, taking a sidewise step which left his friend a trifle in the background. "Oh, I am so glad!" cried the lady. "Then perhaps you can tell me where to find a Mr. Morewood?" "Your humble and devoted servant!" the other man pronounced himself, executing a maneuver which totally eclipsed Dunbarton. "Really?" asked the lady, her face radiant with pleasure. "How very fortunate!" At this Morewood fairly beamed with satisfaction, but she went on rapidly, in a silvery ripple of feminine narrative: "Do you know, Mr. Morewood, that you have something of mine and I have something of yours? It was not my fault and it wasn't yours, either; it was the stupid person in the parcel room of the Museum. Of course two Kodaks are exactly alike, if one of them hasn't got a name scratched on the bottom with a pin; but I don't suppose he ever thought of looking, so he gave you mine and me yours, and I should never have found out who you were if you hadn't been arrested. Of course it wouldn't have made very much difference, after all, if my Cousin Jack hadn't snapped me in a most ridiculous Egyptian fancy dress."