They were coming down the back stairs. I waited at the foot of the stairs, just out of sight. They were firm, heavy footfalls. A moment later, a tall man stood facing me. It was the dark giant I had first met at dinner at the _Stag's Head_, when we had shared a table on the night of the Hunt Ball--the man whom I now knew to be Henry Whichelo. CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. MR. SMITHSON AGAIN. He gave a hardly perceptible start on seeing me. Then he extended his big hand and grasped mine in the most friendly way. "Well, this is a real surprise--a very pleasant surprise, Mr. Ashton," he said, looking me full in the eyes. "I have often thought of you since the evening we met and had that pleasant meal together, and I told you my name was Smithson, because I knew the name would puzzle you. And what are you doing here? Making an ocular survey--as I am?" The ready lie rose to my lips. It is very well for moralists to tell us we should always speak the truth. There are occasions when an aptitude for wandering into paths of falsehood may prove extremely useful. It did so now. "No," I answered, "I'm not. I am on my way to my little place about twenty miles from here--it is let now, but I think of returning to live there--and it occurred to me to look in at Houghton again. I saw it mentioned, in some paper the other day, that the Thorolds are returning." "Yes, that is so," Whichelo answered. "Sir Charles has instructed me to see to everything, and make all arrangements. I have only to-day heard that he is very ill at the hospital. Have you seen him?" I told him the latest bulletin. Then I asked him if he had any idea of Lady Thorold's whereabouts. "All I know," he answered, "is that she was abroad when last I heard of her." "Abroad? Was that lately?" "About a week ago. She was then somewhere in the Basses Alpes. Has she not been to see Sir Charles?" "No. We don't know where she is." "Who do you mean by `we'?" "Vera Thorold and myself." "That's strange," he said thoughtfully. "Oh, of course Lady Thorold can't have heard of his illness. She would have come at once, or at any rate have telegraphed, if she had." We talked a little longer--we had strolled into the morning-room, and sat down there--when Whichelo said suddenly-- "That discovery of a mummy in Sir Charles' town house is curious, eh? How would you account for that, Ashton? And for the hole in the ceiling?" "I don't account for it at all," I replied quickly, trying to look unconcerned beneath his narrow, scrutinising gaze. "What is your theory with regard to it?" "Oh, I never theorise in cases of that kind," he replied. "What is the use of theorising? One is almost certain to be wrong." "You must, however," I said with some emphasis, "have some view or other as to the mummy's age. Do you think it is an ancient mummy, or a modern one?" He smiled, showing his wonderfully white teeth, which contrasted strangely with his crisp, black beard.