As the girl departed, Klaw opened an inner door and ushered me into a dainty white room, an amazing apartment indeed, a true Parisian boudoir. The air was heavy with the scent of roses, for bowls of white and pink roses were everywhere. Klaw lighted a silver table lamp with a unique silver gauze shade apparently lined with pale rose-coloured silk. Evidently this apartment belonged to Isis, and was as appropriate for her, exquisite Parisian that she seemed to be, as the weird barn through which we had come was an appropriate abode for her father. When presently Isis returned I saw her for the first time in her proper setting, a dainty green figure in a white frame. Moris Klaw opened the bulky leather-bound volume which she had handed to him, and whilst I sat sipping my wine and watching him, he busily turned over the pages (apparently French MS.) in quest of the reference he sought. “Ah!” he cried, in sudden triumph; “vaguely I had it in my memory, but here it is, the clue. I will translate for you, Mr. Searles, what is written here: ‘The “Book of the Lamps,” which was revealed to the priest, Pankhaur, and by him revealed only to the Queen’--it was the ancient Egyptian Queen, Hatshepsu, Mr. Searles--‘was kept locked in the secret place beneath the altar, and each high priest of the temple--all of whom were of the family of Pankhaur--held the key and alone might consult the magic writing. In the 14th dynasty, Seteb was high priest, and was the last of the family of Pankhaur. At his death the newly appointed priest, receiving the key of the secret place, complained to Pharaoh that the “Book of the Lamps” was missing.’” He closed the volume and placed it on a little table beside him. “Isis,” he rumbled, looking across at his daughter, “does the mystery become clear to you? Am I not an old fool? Mr. Searles, there is only one other copy of this work”--he laid a long white hand upon the book--“known to European collectors. Do I know where that copy is? Yes? No? I think so!” There was triumph in his hoarse voice. Personally I was quite unable to see in what way the history of the “Book of the Lamps” bore upon the case of the headless mummies; but Moris Klaw evidently considered that it afforded a clue. He stood up. “Isis,” he said, “bring me my catalogue of the mummies of the Bubastite priests.” That imperious beauty departed in meek obedience. “Mr. Searles,” said Moris Klaw, “this will be for Inspector Grimsby another triumph; but without these records of a poor old fool, who shall say if the one that beheads mummies had ever been detected? I neglected to secure the odic negative because I thought I had to deal with a madman; but I was more stupid than an owl. This decapitating of mummies is no madman’s work, but is done with a purpose, my friend--with a wonderful purpose.” IV