The False Gods | Page 9

the letter, she seems to be interested in you as
well," the professor went on smilingly. "In fact, it appears to
be--ahem--a love-letter."
"Eh! What?" exclaimed Simpkins, suddenly serious, "Let's have it."

"Well, roughly, it goes something like this: 'My heart's dearest, my sun,
my Nile duck--the hours are days without thee, the days an æon. The
gods be thanked that this separation is not for long. For apart from thee
I have no life. That thing that I have to do is about done. May the gods
guard thee and the all-mother protect thee. I embrace thee: I kiss thine
eyes and thy lips.' That's a fair translation, though one or two of the
hieroglyphics are susceptible of a slightly different rendering; but the
sense would not be materially affected by the change," the Professor
concluded.
His words fell on inattentive ears; for Simpkins was sitting stunned
under the revelation of the letter. Now that he had his story, he knew
that he had not wanted it.
But he roused himself when he became conscious that the professor
was peering at him curiously over the top of his glasses, and said:
"Pretty warm stuff, eh! Good josh! Great girl! Ought to know her. She's
daft on this Egyptian business."
"Her letter is perhaps a trifle er--impulsive," the professor answered.
"But she combines the ancient and the modern charmingly. I
congratulate you."
"Thanks, Professor," Simpkins answered awkwardly, and took his
leave.
Once in the street, he plunged along, head down. It was worse than he
had suspected. He had felt all along that the boy's surmises about
Brander were correct; now he knew that his suspicions of Mrs.
Athelstone were well founded. But he would keep her from that
hypocrite, that hawk, that--murderer! Simpkins stopped short at the
intrusion of that word. It had come without logic or reason, but he
knew now that it had been shaping in his head for two days past. And
once spoken, it began to justify itself. There was the motive, clear,
distinct and proven; there were the means and the man.
Next morning Simpkins was earlier than usual at the Oriental Building,

where he found the youth waiting for Brander to come and open up the
inner office.
"Parson's late, eh?" he threw out by way of greeting.
"Always is," was the surly answer. "He's de 'rig'nal seven sleepers."
"Puts you behind with your cleaning, eh?"
"Naw; youse ought to know I don't do no cleanin'."
"You don't? I thought you tended to Mrs. Athelstone's rooms and--Mr.
Brander's storeroom."
"Aw, go wan. I'm no second girl, an' de storeroom's never cleaned.
Dere's nothin' to clean but a lot of stones an' bum mummies an' such."
"Brander can't sell much stuff; I never see anything being shipped."
"Oh! I don't know! We sent a couple of embammed dooks to Chicago
last week."
"And last month?"
"Search me; I only copped out me job here last mont'; but seems as if
his whiskers did say dere was somethin' doin'." And just then Mr.
Brander came along.
Simpkins had found out what he wanted to know, and he decided that
he must bring his plans to a head at once. Mrs. Athelstone was
expected back the next day; he must search the storeroom that very
night. If--well, he thought he could spoil one scoundrel.
He worked to good advantage during the day, and at nine o'clock that
night, when he was back outside the Oriental Building, there were three
new keys in his pocket.
He unlocked the door noiselessly, tiptoed up the staircase, and gained
the friendly blackness of the ante-chamber quite unobserved. The

watchman was half a block away, sitting by the only street entrance
kept open at night.
Simpkins took off his shoes and found his sandals without striking a
light, and then felt his way to the door leading into the hall. The knob
rattled a little under his hand. All that evening he had been nerving
himself to go in there alone and in the dark, but now he could have
turned and run like a country boy passing a graveyard at night.
The hall was not utterly black, as he had expected. Light from the
electric lamps without flickered through the stained-glass windows.
Ghastly rays of yellow played over the painted faces on the walls and
lit up the gilded features of the mummy by Mrs. Athelstone's desk.
There were crimson spots, like blotches of blood, on the veil of Isis.
And all about were moving shadows, creeping forward stealthily,
falling back slowly, as the light without flared up or died down.
Step by step Simpkins advanced on the black altar, his muscles rigid,
his nerves quivering, his eyes staring straight ahead, as a child stares
into the dark for some awful shape which