"Miss Ottley," said I, "you must prepare for the worst." She showed me a face of more than mortal courage. Pride is not always amiss in characters like hers. "I have felt it all along," she said quietly. "Will he regain his senses?" "Yes. At least I think he will--before the end." "Is there no hope?" "None--unless he can be miraculously aroused. Pardon me--is he very much attached to you?" "No--his heart and soul are wrapped up in his work. He died, to all intents and purposes, the hour he was shot. His terrible disappointment had deprived him of his best support." "The robbery, you mean?" "No--the knowledge of his failure. He made certain of finding the body of Ptahmes." "Ah!" said I--and gave myself to thought. When I looked up next Miss Ottley was gazing at her father with a marble countenance, but tears were streaming from her eyes. "You love him," I whispered. "More than all the world," she answered simply. Her voice rang as true and unbroken as the chiming of a bell. I began in spite of myself to admire Miss Ottley. Ten minutes passed; minutes of hideously oppressive silence. Then, without warning, Sir Robert's eyelids flickered and opened. There was the light of reason in them. I bent over him and his glance encountered mine. I pressed his hand and said in brisk, cheerful tones, "You must hurry up and get well, Sir Robert, or I shall not be able to restrain my curiosity. This Ptahmes of yours is the most extraordinary mummy I have ever seen; and I am simply dying to take him from his shroud." The dim eyes of the dying man actually glowed. His fingers clutched at my wrist, and with a superhuman effort he gasped forth, "No--No." "Be easy," I returned, "I'll not touch him till you are well. But you must hurry. Remember we are of a trade, you and I." He smiled and very slowly his eyes closed. His breathing was absolutely imperceptible; but his pulse, though faint, was regular. I made sure and then put down his hand. "He is dead," said Miss Ottley, and her voice thrilled me to the core. "No," said I, "he is sleeping like a babe. The crisis is over. He will live." "Oh! my God!" she cried, and fell on her knees beside the bed shaken with a storm of sobbing. I sneaked out of the temple and smoked my first pipe in three days. I was only half through it when I felt her at my side. "No, please continue smoking," she said, "I like it, really. I have come to try and thank you." "You can't," I replied; "I'm not a man to overestimate his own services, but this is the sort of thing that cannot be repaid by either gold or words." "Oh!" she said. "You see," I went on, "I lied. It was to save his life--for your sake. The sight of your distress touched me. I am glad that he will live, of course. Glad to have served you. But the fact remains, I am a liar." "Dr. Pinsent!" she cried.