Some people see things that others cannot. Tales of Mystery and Imagination. “The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown” (H.P. Lovecraft).

Arthur Conan Doyle: Lot No. 249

Arthur Conan Doyle, Lot No. 249 , Relatos de misterio, Tales of mystery, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo

Of the dealings of Edward Bellingham with William Monkhouse Lee, and of the cause of the great terror of Abercrombie Smith, it may be that no absolute and final judgment will ever be delivered. It is true that we have the full and clear narrative of Smith himself, and such corroboration as he could look for from Thomas Styles the servant, from the Reverend Plumptree Peterson, Fellow of Old’s, and from such other people as chanced to gain some passing glance at this or that incident in a singular chain of events. Yet, in the main, the story must rest upon Smith alone, and the most will think that it is more likely that one brain, however outwardly sane, has some subtle warp in its texture, some strange flaw in its workings, than that the path of nature has been overstepped in open day in so famed a centre of learning and light as the University of Oxford. Yet when we think how narrow and how devious this path of Nature is, how dimly we can trace it, for all our lamps of science, and how from the darkness which girds it round great and terrible possibilities loom ever shadowly upwards, it is a bold and confident man who will put a limit to the strange by-paths into which the human spirit may wander.

In a certain wing of what we will call Old College in Oxford there is a corner turret of an exceeding great age. The heavy arch which spans the open door has bent downwards in the centre under the weight of its years, and the grey, lichen-blotched blocks of stone are bound and knitted together with withes and strands of ivy, as though the old mother had set herself to brace them up against wind and weather. From the door a stone stair curves upward spirally, passing two landings, and terminating in a third one, its steps all shapeless and hollowed by the tread of so many generations of the seekers after knowledge. Life has flowed like water down this winding stair, and, waterlike, has left these smooth-worn grooves behind it. From the long-gowned, pedantic scholars of Plantagenet days down to the young bloods of a later age, how full and strong had been that tide of young English life. And what was left now of all those hopes, those strivings, those fiery energies, save here and there in some old-world churchyard a few scratches upon a stone, and perchance a handful of dust in a mouldering coffin? Yet here were the silent stair and the grey old wall, with bend and saltire and many another heraldic device still to be read upon its surface, like grotesque shadows thrown back from the days that had passed.

In the month of May, in the year 1884, three young men occupied the sets of rooms which opened on to the separate landings of the old stair. Each set consisted simply of a sitting-room and of a bedroom, while the two corresponding rooms upon the ground-floor were used, the one as a coal-cellar, and the other as the living-room of the servant, or scout, Thomas Styles, whose duty it was to wait upon the three men above him. To right and to left was a line of lecture-rooms and of offices, so that the dwellers in the old turret enjoyed a certain seclusion, which made the chambers popular among the more studious undergraduates. Such were the three who occupied them now ––Abercrombie Smith above, Edward Bellingham beneath him, and William Monkhouse Lee upon the lowest storey.

It was ten o’clock on a bright spring night, and Abercrombie
Smith lay back in his armchair, his feet upon the fender, and his
briar-root pipe between his lips. In a similar chair, and equally at his
ease, there lounged on the other side of the fireplace his old school
friend Jephro Hastie. Both men were in flannels, for they had spent
their evening upon the river, but apart from their dress no one could
look at their hard-cut, alert faces without seeing that they were openair
men––men whose minds and tastes turned naturally to all that
was manly and robust. Hastie, indeed, was stroke of his college boat,
and Smith was an even better oar, but a coming examination had
already cast its shadow over him and held him to his work, save for
the few hours a week which health demanded. A litter of medical
books upon the table, with scattered bones, models and anatomical
plates, pointed to the extent as well as the nature of his studies, while
a couple of single-sticks and a set of boxing-gloves above the mantelpiece
hinted at the means by which, with Hastie’s help, he might
take his exercise in its most compressed and least distant form. They
knew each other very well ––so well that they could sit now in
that soothing silence which is the very highest development of

Lot No. 249

‘Have some whisky,’ said Abercrombie Smith at last between
two cloudbursts. ‘Scotch in the jug and Irish in the bottle.’

‘No, thanks. I’m in for the skulls. I don’t liquor when I’m training.
How about you?’

‘I’m reading hard. I think it best to leave it alone.’

Hastie nodded, and they relapsed into a contented silence.

‘By the way, Smith,’ asked Hastie, presently, ‘have you made the
acquaintance of either of the fellows on your stair yet?’

‘Just a nod when we pass. Nothing more.’

‘Hum! I should be inclined to let it stand at that. I know something
of them both. Not much, but as much as I want. I don’t think I
should take them to my bosom if I were you. Not that there’s much
amiss with Monkhouse Lee.’

‘Meaning the thin one?’

‘Precisely. He is a gentlemanly little fellow. I don’t think there is
any vice in him. But then you can’t know him without knowing

‘Meaning the fat one?’

‘Yes, the fat one. And he’s a man whom I, for one, would rather
not know.’

Abercrombie Smith raised his eyebrows and glanced across at his

‘What’s up, then?’ he asked. ‘Drink? Cards? Cad? You used not to
be censorious.’

‘Ah! you evidently don’t know the man, or you wouldn’t ask.
There’s something damnable about him ––something reptilian. My
gorge always rises at him. I should put him down as a man with
secret vices––an evil liver. He’s no fool, though. They say that he is
one of the best men in his line that they have ever had in the college.’

‘Medicine or classics?’

‘Eastern languages. He’s a demon at them. Chillingworth met him
somewhere above the second cataract* last long, and he told me that
he just prattled to the Arabs as if he had been born and nursed and
weaned among them. He talked Coptic to the Copts, and Hebrew to
the Jews, and Arabic to the Bedouins, and they were all ready to kiss
the hem of his frock-coat. There are some old hermit Johnnies up in
those parts who sit on rocks and scowl and spit at the casual stranger.
Well, when they saw this chap Bellingham, before he had said five
words they just lay down on their bellies and wriggled. Chillingworth

said that he never saw anything like it. Bellingham seemed to take it
as his right, too, and strutted about among them and talked down to
them like a Dutch uncle. Pretty good for an undergrad of Old’s,
wasn’t it?’

‘Why do you say you can’t know Lee without knowing

‘Because Bellingham is engaged to his sister Eveline. Such a
bright little girl, Smith! I know the whole family well. It’s disgusting
to see that brute with her. A toad and a dove, that’s what they always
remind me of.’

Abercrombie Smith grinned and knocked his ashes out against the
side of the grate.

‘You show every card in your hand, old chap,’ said he. ‘What a
prejudiced, green-eyed, evil-thinking old man it is! You have really
nothing against the fellow except that.’

‘Well, I’ve known her ever since she was as long as that cherrywood
pipe, and I don’t like to see her taking risks. And it is a risk. He
looks beastly. And he has a beastly temper, a venomous temper. You
remember his row with Long Norton?’

‘No; you always forget that I am a freshman.’

‘Ah, it was last winter. Of course. Well, you know the towpath
along by the river. There were several fellows going along it,
Bellingham in front, when they came on an old market-woman coming
the other way. It had been raining ––you know what those fields
are like when it has rained –– and the path ran between the river and a
great puddle that was nearly as broad. Well, what does this swine do
but keep the path, and push the old girl into the mud, where she and
her marketings came to terrible grief. It was a blackguard thing to do,
and Long Norton, who is as gentle a fellow as ever stepped, told him
what he thought of it. One word led to another, and it ended in
Norton laying his stick across the fellow’s shoulders. There was the
deuce of a fuss about it, and it’s a treat to see the way in which
Bellingham looks at Norton when they meet now. By Jove, Smith,
it’s nearly eleven o’clock!’

‘No hurry. Light your pipe again.’

‘Not I. I’m supposed to be in training. Here I’ve been sitting
gossiping when I ought to have been safely tucked up. I’ll borrow
your skull, if you can share it. Williams has had mine for a month.
I’ll take the little bones of your ear, too, if you are sure you won’t

Lot No. 249

need them. Thanks very much. Never mind a bag, I can carry them
very well under my arm. Good-night, my son, and take my tip as to
your neighbour.’

When Hastie, bearing his anatomical plunder, had clattered off
down the winding stair, Abercrombie Smith hurled his pipe into the
waste-paper basket, and drawing his chair nearer to the lamp,
plunged into a formidable green-covered volume, adorned with
great coloured maps of that strange internal kingdom of which we
are the hapless and helpless monarchs. Though a freshman at
Oxford, the student was not so in medicine, for he had worked for
four years at Glasgow and at Berlin, and this coming examination
would place him finally as a member of his profession. With his firm
mouth, broad forehead, and clear-cut, somewhat hard-featured face,
he was a man who, if he had no brilliant talent, was yet so dogged, so
patient, and so strong that he might in the end overtop a more showy
genius. A man who can hold his own among Scotchmen and North
Germans is not a man to be easily set back. Smith had left a name at
Glasgow and at Berlin, and he was bent now upon doing as much at
Oxford, if hard work and devotion could accomplish it.

He had sat reading for about an hour, and the hands of the noisy
carriage clock upon the side table were rapidly closing together upon
the twelve, when a sudden sound fell upon the student’s ear ––a
sharp, rather shrill sound, like the hissing intake of a man’s breath
who gasps under some strong emotion. Smith laid down his book
and slanted his ear to listen. There was no one on either side or above
him, so that the interruption came certainly from the neighbour
beneath ––the same neighbour of whom Hastie had given so
unsavoury an account. Smith knew him only as a flabby, pale-faced
man of silent and studious habits, a man, whose lamp threw a golden
bar from the old turret even after he had extinguished his own. This
community in lateness had formed a certain silent bond between
them. It was soothing to Smith when the hours stole on towards
dawning to feel that there was another so close who set as small a
value upon his sleep as he did. Even now, as his thoughts turned
towards him, Smith’s feelings were kindly. Hastie was a good fellow,
but he was rough, strong-fibred, with no imagination or sympathy.
He could not tolerate departures from what he looked upon as the
model type of manliness. If a man could not be measured by a publicschool
standard, then he was beyond the pale with Hastie. Like so

many who are themselves robust, he was apt to confuse the constitution
with the character, to ascribe to want of principle what was
really a want of circulation. Smith, with his stronger mind, knew his
friend’s habit, and made allowance for it now as his thoughts turned
towards the man beneath him.

There was no return of the singular sound, and Smith was about
to turn to his work once more, when suddenly there broke out in the
silence of the night a hoarse cry, a positive scream ––the call of a man
who is moved and shaken beyond all control. Smith sprang out of his
chair and dropped his book. He was a man of fairly firm fibre, but
there was something in this sudden, uncontrollable shriek of horror
which chilled his blood and pringled in his skin. Coming in such a
place and at such an hour, it brought a thousand fantastic possibilities
into his head. Should he rush down, or was it better to wait?
He had all the national hatred of making a scene, and he knew so
little of his neighbour that he would not lightly intrude upon his
affairs. For a moment he stood in doubt and even as he balanced the
matter there was a quick rattle of footsteps upon the stairs, and
young Monkhouse Lee, half dressed and as white as ashes, burst into
his room.

‘Come down!’ he gasped. ‘Bellingham’s ill.’

Abercrombie Smith followed him closely down stairs into the
sitting-room which was beneath his own, and intent as he was upon
the matter in hand, he could not but take an amazed glance around
him as he crossed the threshold. It was such a chamber as he had
never seen before ––a museum rather than a study. Walls and ceiling
were thickly covered with a thousand strange relics from Egypt and
the East. Tall, angular figures bearing burdens or weapons stalked in
an uncouth frieze round the apartments. Above were bull-headed,
stork-headed, cat-headed, owl-headed statues, with viper-crowned,
almond-eyed monarchs, and strange, beetle-like deities cut out of
the blue Egyptian lapis lazuli. Horus and Isis and Osiris* peeped
down from every niche and shelf, while across the ceiling a true son
of Old Nile, a great, hanging-jawed crocodile, was slung in a double

In the centre of this singular chamber was a large, square table,
littered with papers, bottles, and the dried leaves of some graceful,
palm-like plant. These varied objects had all been heaped together in
order to make room for a mummy case, which had been conveyed

Lot No. 249

from the wall, as was evident from the gap there, and laid across the
front of the table. The mummy itself, a horrid, black, withered thing,
like a charred head on a gnarled bush, was lying half out of the case,
with its clawlike hand and bony forearm resting upon the table.
Propped up against the sarcophagus was an old yellow scroll of
papyrus, and in front of it, in a wooden arm-chair, sat the owner of
the room, his head thrown back, his widely-opened eyes directed in a
horrified stare to the crocodile above him, and his blue, thick lips
puffing loudly with every expiration.

‘My God! he’s dying!’ cried Monkhouse Lee distractedly.

He was a slim, handsome young fellow, olive-skinned and darkeyed,
of a Spanish rather than of an English type, with a Celtic
intensity of manner which contrasted with the Saxon phlegm of
Abercrombie Smith.

‘Only a faint, I think,’ said the medical student. ‘Just give me a
hand with him. You take his feet. Now on to the sofa. Can you kick
all those little wooden devils off? What a litter it is! Now he will be
all right if we undo his collar and give him some water. What has he
been up to at all?’

‘I don’t know. I heard him cry out. I ran up. I know him pretty
well, you know. It is very good of you to come down.’

‘His heart is going like a pair of castanets,’ said Smith, laying his
hand on the breast of the unconscious man. ‘He seems to me to be
frightened all to pieces. Chuck the water over him! What a face he
has got on him!’

It was indeed a strange and most repellent face, for colour and
outline were equally unnatural. It was white, not with the ordinary
pallor of fear, but with an absolutely bloodless white, like the
under side of a sole. He was very fat, but gave the impression of
having at some time been considerably fatter, for his skin hung
loosely in creases and folds, and was shot with a meshwork of
wrinkles. Short, stubbly brown hair bristled up from his scalp,
with a pair of thick, wrinkled ears protruding on either side. His
light grey eyes were still open, the pupils dilated and the balls
projecting in a fixed and horrid stare. It seemed to Smith as he
looked down upon him that he had never seen nature’s danger
signals flying so plainly upon a man’s countenance, and his
thoughts turned more seriously to the warning which Hastie had
given him an hour before.

‘What the deuce can have frightened him so?’ he asked.

‘It’s the mummy.’

‘The mummy? How, then?’

‘I don’t know. It’s beastly and morbid. I wish he would drop it. It’s
the second fright he has given me. It was the same last winter. I
found him just like this, with that horrid thing in front of him.’

‘What does he want with the mummy, then?’

‘Oh, he’s a crank, you know. It’s his hobby. He knows more about
these things than any man in England. But I wish he wouldn’t! Ah,
he’s beginning to come to.’

A faint tinge of colour had begun to steal back into Bellingham’s
ghastly cheeks, and his eyelids shivered like a sail after a calm. He
clasped and unclasped his hands, drew a long, thin breath between
his teeth, and suddenly jerking up his head, threw a glance of recognition
around him. As his eyes fell upon the mummy, he sprang off
the sofa, seized the roll of papyrus, thrust it into a drawer, turned the
key, and then staggered back on to the sofa.

‘What’s up?’ he asked. ‘What do you chaps want?’

‘You’ve been shrieking out and making no end of a fuss,’ said
Monkhouse Lee. ‘If our neighbour here from above hadn’t come
down, I’m sure I don’t know what I should have done with you.’

‘Ah, it’s Abercrombie Smith,’ said Bellingham, glancing up at
him. ‘How very good of you to come in! What a fool I am! Oh, my
God, what a fool I am!’

He sunk his head on to his hands, and burst into peal after peal of
hysterical laughter.

‘Look here! Drop it!’ cried Smith, shaking him roughly by the

‘Your nerves are all in a jangle. You must drop these little midnight
games with mummies, or you’ll be going off your chump.
You’re all on wires now.’

‘I wonder,’ said Bellingham, ‘whether you would be as cool as I am
if you had seen ––’

‘What then?’

‘Oh, nothing. I meant that I wonder if you could sit up at night
with a mummy without trying your nerves. I have no doubt that you
are quite right. I dare say that I have been taking it out of myself too
much lately. But I am all right now. Please don’t go, though. Just wait
for a few minutes until I am quite myself.’

Lot No. 249

‘The room is very close,’ remarked Lee, throwing open the
window and letting in the cool night air.

‘It’s balsamic resin,’ said Bellingham. He lifted up one of the dried
palmate leaves from the table and frizzled it over the chimney of the
lamp. It broke away into heavy smoke wreaths, and a pungent, biting
odour filled the chamber. ‘It’s the sacred plant ––the plant of the
priests,’ he remarked. ‘Do you know anything of Eastern languages,

‘Nothing at all. Not a word.’

The answer seemed to lift a weight from the Egyptologist’s mind.

‘By the way,’ he continued, ‘how long was it from the time that
you ran down, until I came to my senses?’

‘Not long. Some four or five minutes.’

‘I thought it could not be very long,’ said he, drawing a long
breath. ‘But what a strange thing unconsciousness is! There is no
measurement to it. I could not tell from my own sensations if it were
seconds or weeks. Now that gentleman on the table was packed up in
the days of the eleventh dynasty, some forty centuries ago, and yet if
he could find his tongue, he would tell us that this lapse of time has
been but a closing of the eyes and a reopening of them. He is a
singularly fine mummy, Smith.’

Smith stepped over to the table and looked down with a professional
eye at the black and twisted form in front of him. The
features, though horribly discoloured, were perfect, and two little
nut-like eyes still lurked in the depths of the black, hollow sockets.
The blotched skin was drawn tightly from bone to bone, and a tangled
wrap of black coarse hair fell over the ears. Two thin teeth, like
those of a rat, overlay the shrivelled lower lip. In its crouching
position, with bent joints and craned head, there was a suggestion of
energy about the horrid thing which made Smith’s gorge rise. The
gaunt ribs, with their parchment-like covering, were exposed, and
the sunken, leaden-hued abdomen, with the long slit where the
embalmer had left his mark; but the lower limbs were wrapt round
with coarse yellow bandages. A number of little clove-like pieces of
myrrh and of cassia were sprinkled over the body, and lay scattered
on the inside of the case.

‘I don’t know his name,’ said Bellingham, passing his hand over
the shrivelled head. ‘You see the outer sarcophagus with the inscriptions
is missing. Lot 249 is all the title he has now. You see it printed

on his case. That was his number in the auction at which I picked
him up.’

‘He has been a very pretty sort of fellow in his day,’ remarked
Abercrombie Smith.

‘He has been a giant. His mummy is six feet seven in length, and
that would be a giant over there, for they were never a very robust
race. Feel these great knotted bones, too. He would be a nasty fellow
to tackle.’

‘Perhaps these very hands helped to build the stones into the
pyramids,’ suggested Monkhouse Lee, looking down with disgust in
his eyes at the crooked, unclean talons.

‘No fear. This fellow has been pickled in natron, and looked after
in the most approved style. They did not serve hodsmen in that
fashion. Salt or bitumen was enough for them. It has been calculated
that this sort of thing cost about seven hundred and thirty pounds in
our money. Our friend was a noble at the least. What do you make of
that small inscription near his feet, Smith?’

‘I told you that I know no Eastern tongue.’

‘Ah, so you did. It is the name of the embalmer, I take it. A very
conscientious worker he must have been. I wonder how many modern
works will survive four thousand years?’

He kept on speaking lightly and rapidly, but it was evident to
Abercrombie Smith that he was still palpitating with fear. His hands
shook, his lower lip trembled, and look where he would, his eye
always came sliding round to his gruesome companion. Through all
his fear, however, there was a suspicion of triumph in his tone and
manner. His eyes shone, and his footstep, as he paced the room, was
brisk and jaunty. He gave the impression of a man who has gone
through an ordeal, the marks of which he still bears upon him, but
which has helped him to his end.

‘You’re not going yet?’ he cried, as Smith rose from the sofa.

At the prospect of solitude, his fears seemed to crowd back upon
him, and he stretched out a hand to detain him.

‘Yes, I must go. I have my work to do. You are all right now. I think
that with your nervous system you should take up some less morbid

‘Oh, I am not nervous as a rule; and I have unwrapped mummies

‘You fainted last time,’ observed Monkhouse Lee.

Lot No. 249

‘Ah, yes, so I did. Well, I must have a nerve tonic or a course of
electricity.* You are not going, Lee?’

‘I’ll do whatever you wish, Ned.’

‘Then I’ll come down with you and have a shake-down on your
sofa. Good-night, Smith. I am so sorry to have disturbed you with
my foolishness.’

They shook hands, and as the medical student stumbled up the
spiral and irregular stair he heard a key turn in a door, and the steps
of his two new acquaintances as they descended to the lower floor.

In this strange way began the acquaintance between Edward
Bellingham and Abercrombie Smith, an acquaintance which the latter,
at least, had no desire to push further. Bellingham, however,
appeared to have taken a fancy to his rough-spoken neighbour, and
made his advances in such a way that he could hardly be repulsed
without absolute brutality. Twice he called to thank Smith for his
assistance, and many times afterwards he looked in with books,
papers and such other civilities as two bachelor neighbours can offer
each other. He was, as Smith soon found, a man of wide reading,
with catholic tastes and an extraordinary memory. His manner, too,
was so pleasing and suave that one came, after a time, to overlook his
repellent appearance. For a jaded and wearied man he was no
unpleasant companion, and Smith found himself, after a time, looking
forward to his visits, and even returning them.

Clever as he undoubtedly was, however, the medical student
seemed to detect a dash of insanity in the man. He broke out at times
into a high, inflated style of talk which was in contrast with the
simplicity of his life.

‘It is a wonderful thing,’ he cried, ‘to feel that one can command
powers of good and of evil ––a ministering angel or a demon of
vengeance.’ And again, of Monkhouse Lee, he said, ––‘Lee is a good
fellow, an honest fellow, but he is without strength or ambition. He
would not make a fit partner for a man with a great enterprise. He
would not make a fit partner for me.’

At such hints and innuendoes stolid Smith, puffing solemnly at his
pipe, would simply raise his eyebrows and shake his head, with little
interjections of medical wisdom as to earlier hours and fresher air.

One habit Bellingham had developed of late which Smith knew to
be a frequent herald of a weakening mind. He appeared to be forever

talking to himself. At late hours of the night, when there could be no
visitor with him, Smith could still hear his voice beneath him in a
low, muffled monologue, sunk almost to a whisper, and yet very
audible in the silence. This solitary babbling annoyed and distracted
the student, so that he spoke more than once to his neighbour about
it. Bellingham, however, flushed up at the charge, and denied curtly
that he had uttered a sound; indeed, he showed more annoyance over
the matter than the occasion seemed to demand.

Had Abercrombie Smith had any doubt as to his own ears he had
not to go far to find corroboration. Tom Styles, the little wrinkled
man-servant who had attended to the wants of the lodgers in the
turret for a longer time than any man’s memory could carry him, was
sorely put to it over the same matter.

‘If you please, sir,’ said he, as he tidied down the top chamber one
morning, ‘do you think Mr Bellingham is all right, sir?’

‘All right, Styles?’

‘Yes sir. Right in his head, sir.’

‘Why should he not be, then?’

‘Well, I don’t know, sir. His habits has changed of late. He’s not
the same man he used to be, though I make free to say that he was
never quite one of my gentlemen, like Mr Hastie or yourself, sir.
He’s took to talkin’ to himself something awful. I wonder it don’t
disturb you. I don’t know what to make of him, sir.’

‘I don’t know what business it is of yours, Styles.’

‘Well, I takes an interest, Mr Smith. It may be forward of me, but
I can’t help it. I feel sometimes as if I was mother and father to my
young gentlemen. It all falls on me when things go wrong and the
relations come. But Mr Bellingham, sir. I want to know what it is
that walks about his room sometimes when he’s out and when the
door’s locked on the outside.’

‘Eh? you’re talking nonsense, Styles.’

‘Maybe so, sir; but I heard it more’n once with my own ears.’

‘Rubbish, Styles.’

‘Very good, sir. You’ll ring the bell if you want me.’

Abercrombie Smith gave little heed to the gossip of the old manservant,
but a small incident occurred a few days later which left an
unpleasant effect upon his mind, and brought the words of Styles
forcibly to his memory.

Bellingham had come up to see him late one night, and was

Lot No. 249

entertaining him with an interesting account of the rock tombs of
Beni Hassan in Upper Egypt, when Smith, whose hearing was
remarkably acute, distinctly heard the sound of a door opening on
the landing below.

‘There’s some fellow gone in or out of your room,’ he remarked.

Bellingham sprang up and stood helpless for a moment, with the
expression of a man who is half incredulous and half afraid.

‘I surely locked it. I am almost positive that I locked it,’ he
stammered. ‘No one could have opened it.’

‘Why, I hear someone coming up the steps now,’ said Smith.

Bellingham rushed out through the door, slammed it loudly
behind him, and hurried down the stairs. About half-way down
Smith heard him stop, and thought he caught the sound of whispering.
A moment later the door beneath him shut, a key creaked in a
lock, and Bellingham, with beads of moisture upon his pale face,
ascended the stairs once more, and re-entered the room.

‘It’s all right,’ he said, throwing himself down in a chair. ‘It was
that fool of a dog. He had pushed the door open. I don’t know how I
came to forget to lock it.’

‘I didn’t know you kept a dog,’ said Smith, looking very
thoughtfully at the disturbed face of his companion.

‘Yes, I haven’t had him long. I must get rid of him. He’s a great

‘He must be, if you find it so hard to shut him up. I should have
thought that shutting the door would have been enough, without
locking it.’

‘I want to prevent old Styles from letting him out. He’s of some
value, you know, and it would be awkward to lose him.’

‘I am a bit of a dog-fancier myself,’ said Smith, still gazing hard at
his companion from the corner of his eyes. ‘Perhaps you’ll let me
have a look at it.’

‘Certainly. But I am afraid it cannot be tonight; I have an
appointment. Is that clock right? Then I am a quarter of an hour late
already. You’ll excuse me, I am sure.’

He picked up his cap and hurried from the room. In spite of his
appointment, Smith heard him re-enter his own chamber and lock
his door upon the inside.

This interview left a disagreeable impression upon the medical
student’s mind. Bellingham had lied to him, and lied so clumsily that

it looked as if he had desperate reasons for concealing the truth.
Smith knew that his neighbour had no dog. He knew, also, that the
step which he had heard upon the stairs was not the step of an
animal. But if it were not, then what could it be? There was old
Styles’s statement about the something which used to pace the room
at times when the owner was absent. Could it be a woman? Smith
rather inclined to the view. If so, it would mean disgrace and expulsion
to Bellingham if it were discovered by the authorities, so that his
anxiety and falsehoods might be accounted for. And yet it was
inconceivable that an undergraduate could keep a woman in his
rooms without being instantly detected. Be the explanation what it
might, there was something ugly about it, and Smith determined, as
he turned to his books, to discourage all further attempts at intimacy
on the part of his soft-spoken and ill-favoured neighbour.

But his work was destined to interruption that night. He had
hardly caught up the broken threads when a firm, heavy footfall
came three steps at a time from below, and Hastie, in blazer and
flannels, burst into the room.

‘Still at it!’ said he, plumping down into his wonted arm-chair.
‘What a chap you are to stew! I believe an earthquake might come
and knock Oxford into a cocked hat, and you would sit perfectly
placid with your books among the ruins. However, I won’t bore you
long. Three whiffs of baccy, and I am off.’

‘What’s the news, then?’ asked Smith, cramming a plug of bird’seye
into his briar with his forefinger.

‘Nothing very much. Wilson made 70 for the freshmen against the
eleven. They say that they will play him instead of Buddicomb, for
Buddicomb is clean off colour. He used to be able to bowl a little, but
it’s nothing but half-volleys and long hops now.’

‘Medium right,’ suggested Smith, with the intense gravity which
comes upon a ’varsity man when he speaks of athletics.

‘Inclining to fast, with a work from leg. Comes with the arm
about three inches or so. He used to be nasty on a wet wicket. Oh,
by-the-way, have you heard about Long Norton?’

‘What’s that?’

‘He’s been attacked.’


‘Yes, just as he was turning out of the High Street, and within a
hundred yards of the gate of Old’s.’

Lot No. 249

‘But who––’

‘Ah, that’s the rub! If you said “what,” you would be more grammatical.
Norton swears that it was not human, and, indeed, from the
scratches on his throat, I should be inclined to agree with him.’

‘What, then? Have we come down to spooks?’

Abercrombie Smith puffed his scientific contempt.

‘Well, no; I don’t think that is quite the idea, either. I am inclined
to think that if any showman has lost a great ape lately, and the brute
is in these parts, a jury would find a true bill against it. Norton passes
that way every night, you know, about the same hour. There’s a tree
that hangs low over the path ––the big elm from Rainy’s garden.
Norton thinks the thing dropped on him out of the tree. Anyhow, he
was nearly strangled by two arms, which, he says, were as strong and
as thin as steel bands. He saw nothing; only those beastly arms that
tightened and tightened on him. He yelled his head nearly off, and a
couple of chaps came running, and the thing went over the wall like
a cat. He never got a fair sight of it the whole time. It gave Norton a
shake up, I can tell you. I tell him it has been as good as a change at
the sea-side for him.’

‘A garrotter, most likely,’ said Smith.

‘Very possibly. Norton says not; but we don’t mind what he says.
The garrotter had long nails, and was pretty smart at swinging himself
over walls. By-the-way, your beautiful neighbour would be
pleased if he heard about it. He had a grudge against Norton, and
he’s not a man, from what I know of him, to forget his little debts.
But hallo, old chap, what have you got in your noddle?’

‘Nothing,’ Smith answered curtly.

He had started in his chair, and the look had flashed over his
face which comes upon a man who is struck suddenly by some
unpleasant idea.

‘You looked as if something I had said had taken you on the
raw. By-the-way, you have made the acquaintance of Master B. since
I looked in last, have you not? Young Monkhouse Lee told me
something to that effect.’

‘Yes; I know him slightly. He has been up here once or twice.’

‘Well, you’re big enough and ugly enough to take care of yourself.
He’s not what I should call exactly a healthy sort of Johnny, though,
no doubt, he’s very clever, and all that. But you’ll soon find out for
yourself. Lee is all right; he’s a very decent little fellow. Well, so long,

old chap! I row Mullins for the Vice-Chancellor’s pot on Wednesday
week, so mind you come down, in case I don’t see you before.’

Bovine Smith laid down his pipe and turned stolidly to his books
once more. But with all the will in the world, he found it very hard to
keep his mind upon his work. It would slip away to brood upon the
man beneath him, and upon the little mystery which hung round his
chambers. Then his thoughts turned to this singular attack of which
Hastie had spoken, and to the grudge which Bellingham was said to
owe the object of it. The two ideas would persist in rising together in
his mind, as though there were some close and intimate connection
between them. And yet the suspicion was so dim and vague that it
could not be put down in words.

‘Confound the chap!’ cried Smith, as he shied his book on pathology
across the room. ‘He has spoiled my night’s reading, and that’s
reason enough, if there were no other, why I should steer clear of
him in the future.’

For ten days the medical student confined himself so closely to his
studies that he neither saw nor heard anything of either of the men
beneath him. At the hours when Bellingham had been accustomed to
visit him, he took care to sport his oak, and though he more than
once heard a knocking at his outer door, he resolutely refused to
answer it. One afternoon, however, he was descending the stairs
when, just as he was passing it, Bellingham’s door flew open, and
young Monkhouse Lee came out with his eyes sparkling and a dark
flush of anger upon his olive cheeks. Close at his heels followed
Bellingham, his fat, unhealthy face all quivering with malignant

‘You fool!’ he hissed. ‘You’ll be sorry.’

‘Very likely,’ cried the other. ‘Mind what I say. It’s off! I won’t hear
of it!’

‘You’ve promised, anyhow.’

‘Oh, I’ll keep that! I won’t speak. But I’d rather little Eva was in
her grave. Once for all, it’s off. She’ll do what I say. We don’t want to
see you again.’

So much Smith could not avoid hearing, but he hurried on, for he
had no wish to be involved in their dispute. There had been a serious
breach between them, that was clear enough, and Lee was going to
cause the engagement with his sister to be broken off. Smith thought
of Hastie’s comparison of the toad and the dove, and was glad to

Lot No. 249

think that the matter was at an end. Bellingham’s face when he was
in a passion was not pleasant to look upon. He was not a man to
whom an innocent girl could be trusted for life. As he walked, Smith
wondered languidly what could have caused the quarrel, and what
the promise might be which Bellingham had been so anxious that
Monkhouse Lee should keep.

It was the day of the sculling match between Hastie and Mullins,
and a stream of men were making their way down to the banks of the
Isis. A May sun was shining brightly, and the yellow path was barred
with the black shadows of the tall elm-trees. On either side the grey
colleges lay back from the road, the hoary old mothers of minds
looking out from their high, mullioned windows at the tide of young
life which swept so merrily past them. Black-clad tutors, prim officials,
pale reading men, brown-faced, straw-hatted young athletes in
white sweaters or many-coloured blazers, all were hurrying towards
the blue winding river which curves through the Oxford meadows.

Abercrombie Smith, with the intuition of an old oarsman, chose
his position at the point where he knew that the struggle, if there
were a struggle, would come. Far off he heard the hum which
announced the start, the gathering roar of the approach, the thunder
of running feet, and the shouts of the men in the boats beneath him.
A spray of half-clad, deep-breathing runners shot past him, and
craning over their shoulders, he saw Hastie pulling a steady thirtysix,
while his opponent, with a jerky forty, was a good boat’s length
behind him. Smith gave a cheer for his friend, and pulling out
his watch, was starting off again for his chambers, when he felt a
touch upon his shoulder, and found that young Monkhouse Lee was
beside him.

‘I saw you there,’ he said, in a timid, deprecating way. ‘I wanted to
speak to you, if you could spare me a half-hour. This cottage is mine.
I share it with Harrington of King’s. Come in and have a cup of tea.’

‘I must be back presently,’ said Smith. ‘I am hard on the grind at
present. But I’ll come in for a few minutes with pleasure. I wouldn’t
have come out only Hastie is a friend of mine.’

‘So he is of mine. Hasn’t he a beautiful style? Mullins wasn’t in it.
But come into the cottage. It’s a little den of a place, but it is pleasant
to work in during the summer months.’

It was a small, square, white building, with green doors and shutters,
and a rustic trellis-work porch, standing back some fifty yards

from the river’s bank. Inside, the main room was roughly fitted up as
a study ––deal table, unpainted shelves with books, and a few cheap
oleographs upon the wall. A kettle sang upon a spirit-stove, and
there were tea things upon a tray on the table.

‘Try that chair and have a cigarette,’ said Lee. ‘Let me pour you
out a cup of tea. It’s so good of you to come in, for I know that your
time is a good deal taken up. I wanted to say to you that, if I were
you, I should change my rooms at once.’


Smith sat staring with a lighted match in one hand and his unlit
cigarette in the other.

‘Yes; it must seem very extraordinary, and the worst of it is that I
cannot give my reasons, for I am under a solemn promise ––a very
solemn promise. But I may go so far as to say that I don’t think
Bellingham is a very safe man to live near. I intend to camp out here
as much as I can for a time.’

‘Not safe! What do you mean?’

‘Ah, that’s what I mustn’t say. But do take my advice, and move
your rooms. We had a grand row to-day. You must have heard us, for
you came down the stairs.’

‘I saw that you had fallen out.’

‘He’s a horrible chap, Smith. That is the only word for him. I have
had doubts about him ever since that night when he fainted ––you
remember, when you came down. I taxed him to-day, and he told me
things that made my hair rise, and wanted me to stand in with him.
I’m not strait-laced, but I am a clergyman’s son, you know, and I
think there are some things which are quite beyond the pale. I only
thank God that I found him out before it was too late, for he was to
have married into my family.’

‘This is all very fine, Lee,’ said Abercrombie Smith curtly. ‘But
either you are saying a great deal too much or a great deal too little.’

‘I give you a warning.’

‘If there is real reason for warning, no promise can bind you. If I
see a rascal about to blow a place up with dynamite no pledge will
stand in my way of preventing him.’

‘Ah, but I cannot prevent him, and I can do nothing but warn

‘Without saying what you warn me against.’

‘Against Bellingham.’

Lot No. 249

‘But that is childish. Why should I fear him, or any man?’

‘I can’t tell you. I can only entreat you to change your rooms. You
are in danger where you are. I don’t even say that Bellingham
would wish to injure you. But it might happen, for he is a dangerous
neighbour just now.’

‘Perhaps I know more than you think,’ said Smith, looking keenly
at the young man’s boyish, earnest face. ‘Suppose I tell you that
some one else shares Bellingham’s rooms.’

Monkhouse Lee sprang from his chair in uncontrollable

‘You know, then?’ he gasped.

‘A woman.’

Lee dropped back again with a groan.

‘My lips are sealed,’ he said. ‘I must not speak.’

‘Well, anyhow,’ said Smith, rising, ‘it is not likely that I should
allow myself to be frightened out of rooms which suit me very nicely.
It would be a little too feeble for me to move out all my goods and
chattels because you say that Bellingham might in some unexplained
way do me an injury. I think that I’ll just take my chance, and stay
where I am, and as I see that it’s nearly five o’clock, I must ask you to
excuse me.’

He bade the young student adieu in a few curt words, and made
his way homeward through the sweet spring evening, feeling halfruffled,
half-amused, as any other strong, unimaginative man might
who has been menaced by a vague and shadowy danger.

There was one little indulgence which Abercrombie Smith always
allowed himself, however closely his work might press upon him.
Twice a week, on the Tuesday and the Friday, it was his invariable
custom to walk over to Farlingford, the residence of Doctor
Plumptree Peterson, situated about a mile and a half out of Oxford.
Peterson had been a close friend of Smith’s elder brother Francis,
and as he was a bachelor, fairly well-to-do, with a good cellar and a
better library, his house was a pleasant goal for a man who was in
need of a brisk walk. Twice a week, then, the medical student would
swing out there along the dark country roads, and spend a pleasant
hour in Peterson’s comfortable study, discussing, over a glass of old
port, the gossip of the ’varsity or the latest developments of
medicine or of surgery.

On the day which followed his interview with Monkhouse Lee,

Smith shut up his books at a quarter past eight, the hour when he
usually started for his friend’s house. As he was leaving his room,
however, his eyes chanced to fall upon one of the books which
Bellingham had lent him, and his conscience pricked him for not
having returned it. However repellent the man might be, he should
not be treated with discourtesy. Taking the book, he walked downstairs
and knocked at his neighbour’s door. There was no answer; but
on turning the handle he found that it was unlocked. Pleased at the
thought of avoiding an interview, he stepped inside, and placed the
book with his card upon the table.

The lamp was turned half down, but Smith could see the details
of the room plainly enough. It was all much as he had seen it
before ––the frieze, the animal-headed gods, the hanging crocodile,
and the table littered over with papers and dried leaves. The mummy
case stood upright against the wall, but the mummy itself was missing.
There was no sign of any second occupant of the room, and he
felt as he withdrew that he had probably done Bellingham an
injustice. Had he a guilty secret to preserve, he would hardly leave
his door open so that all the world might enter.

The spiral stair was as black as pitch, and Smith was slowly making
his way down its irregular steps, when he was suddenly conscious
that something had passed him in the darkness. There was a faint
sound, a whiff of air, a light brushing past his elbow, but so slight
that he could scarcely be certain of it. He stopped and listened, but
the wind was rustling among the ivy outside, and he could hear
nothing else.

‘Is that you, Styles?’ he shouted.

There was no answer, and all was still behind him. It must have
been a sudden gust of air, for there were crannies and cracks in the
old turret. And yet he could almost have sworn that he heard a
footfall by his very side. He had emerged into the quadrangle, still
turning the matter over in his head, when a man came running
swiftly across the smooth-cropped lawn.

‘Is that you, Smith?’

‘Hullo, Hastie!’

‘For God’s sake come at once! Young Lee is drowned! Here’s
Harrington of King’s with the news. The doctor is out. You’ll do, but
come along at once. There may be life in him.’

‘Have you brandy?’

Lot No. 249


‘I’ll bring some. There’s a flask on my table.’

Smith bounded up the stairs, taking three at a time, seized the
flask, and was rushing down with it, when, as he passed Bellingham’s
room, his eyes fell upon something which left him gasping and
staring upon the landing.

The door, which he had closed behind him, was now open, and
right in front of him, with the lamp-light shining upon it, was the
mummy case. Three minutes ago it had been empty. He could swear
to that. Now it framed the lank body of its horrible occupant, who
stood, grim and stark, with his black shrivelled face towards the door.
The form was lifeless and inert, but it seemed to Smith as he gazed
that there still lingered a lurid spark of vitality, some faint sign of
consciousness in the little eyes which lurked in the depths of the
hollow sockets. So astounded and shaken was he that he had forgotten
his errand, and was still staring at the lean, sunken figure when
the voice of his friend below recalled him to himself.

‘Come on, Smith!’ he shouted. ‘It’s life and death, you know.
Hurry up! Now, then,’ he added, as the medical student reappeared,
‘let us do a sprint. It is well under a mile, and we should do it in five
minutes. A human life is better worth running for than a pot.’

Neck and neck they dashed through the darkness, and did not pull
up until panting and spent, they had reached the little cottage by the
river. Young Lee, limp and dripping like a broken water-plant, was
stretched upon the sofa, the green scum of the river upon his black
hair, and a fringe of white foam upon his leaden-hued lips. Beside
him knelt his fellow-student Harrington, endeavouring to chafe
some warmth back into his rigid limbs.

‘I think there’s life in him,’ said Smith, with his hand to the lad’s
side. ‘Put your watch glass to his lips. Yes, there’s dimming on it.
You take one arm, Hastie. Now work it as I do, and we’ll soon pull
him round.’

For ten minutes they worked in silence, inflating and depressing
the chest of the unconscious man. At the end of that time a shiver
ran through his body, his lips trembled, and he opened his eyes. The
three students burst out into an irrepressible cheer.

‘Wake up, old chap. You’ve frightened us quite enough.’

‘Have some brandy. Take a sip from the flask.’

‘He’s all right now,’ said his companion Harrington. ‘Heavens,

what a fright I got! I was reading here, and he had gone out for a
stroll as far as the river, when I heard a scream and a splash. Out I
ran, and by the time I could find him and fish him out, all life seemed
to have gone. Then Simpson couldn’t get a doctor, for he has a
game-leg, and I had to run, and I don’t know what I’d have done
without you fellows. That’s right, old chap. Sit up.’

Monkhouse Lee had raised himself on his hands, and looked
wildly about him.

‘What’s up?’ he asked. ‘I’ve been in the water. Ah, yes; I

A look of fear came into his eyes, and he sank his face into his

‘How did you fall in?’

‘I didn’t fall in.’

‘How, then?’

‘I was thrown in. I was standing by the bank, and something
from behind picked me up like a feather and hurled me in. I heard
nothing, and I saw nothing. But I know what it was, for all that.’

‘And so do I,’ whispered Smith.

Lee looked up with a quick glance of surprise.

‘You’ve learned, then?’ he said. ‘You remember the advice I
gave you?’

‘Yes, and I begin to think that I shall take it.’

‘I don’t know what the deuce you fellows are talking about,’ said
Hastie, ‘but I think, if I were you, Harrington, I should get Lee to
bed at once. It will be time enough to discuss the why and the
wherefore when he is a little stronger. I think, Smith, you and I can
leave him alone now. I am walking back to college; if you are coming
in that direction, we can have a chat.’

But it was little chat that they had upon their homeward path.
Smith’s mind was too full of the incidents of the evening, the
absence of the mummy from his neighbour’s rooms, the step that
passed him on the stair, the reappearance ––the extraordinary,
inexplicable reappearance of the grisly thing ––and then this attack
upon Lee, corresponding so closely to the previous outrage upon
another man against whom Bellingham bore a grudge. All this settled
in his thoughts, together with the many little incidents which
had previously turned him against his neighbour, and the singular
circumstances under which he was first called in to him. What had

Lot No. 249

been a dim suspicion, a vague, fantastic conjecture, had suddenly
taken form, and stood out in his mind as a grim fact, a thing not to be
denied. And yet, how monstrous it was! how unheard of ! how
entirely beyond all bounds of human experience. An impartial judge,
or even the friend who walked by his side, would simply tell him that
his eyes had deceived him, that the mummy had been there all the
time, that young Lee had tumbled into the river as any other man
tumbles into a river, and that a blue pill was the best thing for a
disordered liver. He felt that he would have said as much if the
positions had been reversed. And yet he could swear that Bellingham
was a murderer at heart, and that he wielded a weapon such as no
man had ever used in all the grim history of crime.

Hastie had branched off to his rooms with a few crisp and
emphatic comments upon his friend’s unsociability, and Abercrombie
Smith crossed the quadrangle to his corner turret with a strong
feeling of repulsion for his chambers and their associations. He
would take Lee’s advice, and move his quarters as soon as possible,
for how could a man study when his ear was ever straining for every
murmur or footstep in the room below? He observed, as he crossed
over the lawn, that the light was still shining in Bellingham’s window,
and as he passed up the staircase the door opened, and the man
himself looked out at him. With his fat, evil face he was like some
bloated spider fresh from the weaving of his poisonous web.

‘Good-evening,’ said he. ‘Won’t you come in?’

‘No,’ cried Smith, fiercely.

‘No? You are busy as ever? I wanted to ask you about Lee. I was
sorry to hear that there was a rumour that something was amiss
with him.’

His features were grave, but there was the gleam of a hidden laugh
in his eyes as he spoke. Smith saw it, and he could have knocked him
down for it.

‘You’ll be sorrier still to hear that Monkhouse Lee is doing very
well, and is out of all danger,’ he answered. ‘Your hellish tricks have
not come off this time. Oh, you needn’t try to brazen it out. I know
all about it.’

Bellingham took a step back from the angry student, and
half-closed the door as if to protect himself.

‘You are mad,’ he said. ‘What do you mean? Do you assert that I
had anything to do with Lee’s accident?’

‘Yes,’ thundered Smith. ‘You and that bag of bones behind you;
you worked it between you. I tell you what it is, Master B., they have
given up burning folk like you, but we still keep a hangman, and, by
George! if any man in this college meets his death while you are here,
I’ll have you up, and if you don’t swing for it, it won’t be my fault.
You’ll find that your filthy Egyptian tricks won’t answer in England.’

‘You’re a raving lunatic,’ said Bellingham.

‘All right. You just remember what I say, for you’ll find that I’ll be
better than my word.’

The door slammed, and Smith went fuming up to his chamber,
where he locked the door upon the inside, and spent half the night in
smoking his old briar and brooding over the strange events of the

Next morning Abercrombie Smith heard nothing of his neighbour,
but Harrington called upon him in the afternoon to say that
Lee was almost himself again. All day Smith stuck fast to his work,
but in the evening he determined to pay the visit to his friend Doctor
Peterson upon which he had started upon the night before. A good
walk and a friendly chat would be welcome to his jangled nerves.

Bellingham’s door was shut as he passed, but glancing back when
he was some distance from the turret, he saw his neighbour’s head at
the window outlined against the lamp-light, his face pressed apparently
against the glass as he gazed out into the darkness. It was a
blessing to be away from all contact with him, if but for a few hours,
and Smith stepped out briskly, and breathed the soft spring air into
his lungs. The half-moon lay in the west between two Gothic pinnacles,
and threw upon the silvered street a dark tracery from the
stone-work above. There was a brisk breeze, and light, fleecy clouds
drifted swiftly across the sky. Old’s was on the very border of the
town, and in five minutes Smith found himself beyond the houses
and between the hedges of a May-scented Oxfordshire lane.

It was a lonely and little frequented road which led to his friend’s
house. Early as it was, Smith did not meet a single soul upon his way.
He walked briskly along until he came to the avenue gate, which
opened into the long gravel drive leading up to Farlingford. In front
of him he could see the cosy red light of the windows glimmering
through the foliage. He stood with his hand upon the iron latch of
the swinging gate, and he glanced back at the road along which he
had come. Something was coming swiftly down it.

Lot No. 249

It moved in the shadow of the hedge, silently and furtively, a dark,
crouching figure, dimly visible against the black background. Even
as he gazed back at it, it had lessened its distance by twenty paces,
and was fast closing upon him. Out of the darkness he had a glimpse
of a scraggy neck, and of two eyes that will ever haunt him in his
dreams. He turned, and with a cry of terror he ran for his life up the
avenue. There were the red lights, the signals of safety, almost within
a stone’s-throw of him. He was a famous runner, but never had he
run as he ran that night.

The heavy gate had swung into place behind him, but he heard it
dash open again before his pursuer. As he rushed madly and wildly
through the night, he could hear a swift, dry patter behind him, and
could see, as he threw back a glance, that this horror was bounding
like a tiger at his heels, with blazing eyes and one stringy arm outthrown.
Thank God, the door was ajar. He could see the thin bar of
light which shot from the lamp in the hall. Nearer yet sounded the
clatter from behind. He heard a hoarse gurgling at his very shoulder.
With a shriek he flung himself against the door, slammed and bolted
it behind him, and sank half-fainting on to the hall chair.

‘My goodness, Smith, what’s the matter?’ asked Peterson, appearing
at the door of his study.

‘Give me some brandy!’

Peterson disappeared, and came rushing out again with a glass and
a decanter.

‘You need it,’ he said, as his visitor drank off what he poured out
for him. ‘Why, man, you are as white as a cheese.’

Smith laid down his glass, rose up, and took a deep breath.

‘I am my own man again now,’ said he. ‘I was never so unmanned
before. But, with your leave, Peterson, I will sleep here to-night, for I
don’t think I could face that road again except by daylight. It’s weak,
I know, but I can’t help it.’

Peterson looked at his visitor with a very questioning eye.

‘Of course you shall sleep here if you wish. I’ll tell Mrs Burney to
make up the spare bed. Where are you off to now?’

‘Come up with me to the window that overlooks the door. I want
you to see what I have seen.’

They went up to the window of the upper hall whence they could
look down upon the approach to the house. The drive and the fields
on either side lay quiet and still, bathed in the peaceful moonlight.

‘Well, really, Smith,’ remarked Peterson, ‘it is well that I know you
to be an abstemious man. What in the world can have frightened

‘I’ll tell you presently. But where can it have gone? Ah, now look,
look! See the curve of the road just beyond your gate.’

‘Yes, I see; you needn’t pinch my arm off. I saw someone pass. I
should say a man, rather thin, apparently, and tall, very tall. But
what of him? And what of yourself ? You are still shaking like an
aspen leaf.’

‘I have been within hand-grip of the devil, that’s all. But come
down to your study, and I shall tell you the whole story.’

He did so. Under the cheery lamp-light, with a glass of wine on
the table beside him, and the portly form and florid face of his friend
in front, he narrated, in their order, all the events, great and small,
which had formed so singular a chain, from the night on which he
had found Bellingham fainting in front of the mummy case until his
horrid experience of an hour ago.

‘There now,’ he said as he concluded, ‘that’s the whole black
business. It is monstrous and incredible, but it is true.’

Doctor Plumptree Peterson sat for some time in silence with a
very puzzled expression upon his face.

‘I never heard of such a thing in my life, never!’ he said at last.
‘You have told me the facts. Now tell me your inferences.’

‘You can draw your own.’

‘But I should like to hear yours. You have thought over the matter,
and I have not.’

‘Well, it must be a little vague in detail, but the main points seem
to me to be clear enough. This fellow Bellingham, in his Eastern
studies, has got hold of some infernal secret by which a mummy ––or
possibly only this particular mummy ––can be temporarily brought
to life. He was trying this disgusting business on the night when he
fainted. No doubt the sight of the creature moving had shaken his
nerve, even though he had expected it. You remember that almost
the first words he said were to call out upon himself as a fool. Well,
he got more hardened afterwards, and carried the matter through
without fainting. The vitality which he could put into it was evidently
only a passing thing, for I have seen it continually in its case as
dead as this table. He has some elaborate process, I fancy, by which
he brings the thing to pass. Having done it, he naturally bethought

Lot No. 249

him that he might use the creature as an agent. It has intelligence
and it has strength. For some purpose he took Lee into his confidence;
but Lee, like a decent Christian, would have nothing to do
with such a business. Then they had a row, and Lee vowed that he
would tell his sister of Bellingham’s true character. Bellingham’s
game was to prevent him, and he nearly managed it, by setting this
creature of his on his track. He had already tried its powers upon
another man––Norton ––towards whom he had a grudge. It is the
merest chance that he has not two murders upon his soul. Then,
when I taxed him with the matter, he had the strongest reasons for
wishing to get me out of the way before I could convey my knowledge
to anyone else. He got his chance when I went out, for he knew
my habits, and where I was bound for. I have had a narrow shave,
Peterson, and it is mere luck you didn’t find me on your doorstep in
the morning. I’m not a nervous man as a rule, and I never thought to
have the fear of death put upon me as it was to-night.’

‘My dear boy, you take the matter too seriously,’ said his companion.
‘Your nerves are out of order with your work, and you make
too much of it. How could such a thing as this stride about the
streets of Oxford, even at night, without being seen?’

‘It has been seen. There is quite a scare in the town about an
escaped ape, as they imagine the creature to be. It is the talk of the

‘Well, it’s a striking chain of events. And yet, my dear fellow, you
must allow that each incident in itself is capable of a more natural

‘What! even my adventure of to-night?’

‘Certainly. You come out with your nerves all unstrung, and your
head full of this theory of yours. Some gaunt, half-famished tramp
steals after you, and seeing you run, is emboldened to pursue you.
Your fears and imagination do the rest.’

‘It won’t do, Peterson; it won’t do.’

‘And again, in the instance of your finding the mummy case
empty, and then a few moments later with an occupant, you know
that it was lamp-light, that the lamp was half turned down, and that
you had no special reason to look hard at the case. It is quite possible
that you may have overlooked the creature in the first instance.’

‘No, no; it is out of the question.’

‘And then Lee may have fallen into the river, and Norton been

garrotted. It is certainly a formidable indictment that you
have against Bellingham; but if you were to place it before a police
magistrate, he would simply laugh in your face.’

‘I know he would. That is why I mean to take the matter into my
own hands.’


‘Yes; I feel that a public duty rests upon me, and, besides, I must
do it for my own safety, unless I choose to allow myself to be hunted
by this beast out of the college, and that would be a little too feeble. I
have quite made up my mind what I shall do. And first of all, may I
use your paper and pens for an hour?’

‘Most certainly. You will find all that you want upon that side

Abercrombie Smith sat down before a sheet of foolscap, and for an
hour, and then for a second hour his pen travelled swiftly over it.
Page after page was finished and tossed aside while his friend leaned
back in his arm-chair, looking across at him with patient curiosity.
At last, with an exclamation of satisfaction, Smith sprang to his
feet, gathered his papers up into order, and laid the last one upon
Peterson’s desk.

‘Kindly sign this as a witness,’ he said.

‘A witness? Of what?’

‘Of my signature, and of the date. The date is the most important.
Why, Peterson, my life might hang upon it.’

‘My dear Smith, you are talking wildly. Let me beg you to go
to bed.’

‘On the contrary, I never spoke so deliberately in my life. And I
will promise to go to bed the moment you have signed it.’

‘But what is it?’

‘It is a statement of all that I have been telling you to-night. I wish
you to witness it.’

‘Certainly,’ said Peterson, signing his name under that of his
companion. ‘There you are! But what is the idea?’

‘You will kindly retain it, and produce it in case I am arrested.’

‘Arrested? For what?’

‘For murder. Is is quite on the cards. I wish to be ready for every
event. There is only one course open to me, and I am determined to
take it.’

‘For Heaven’s sake, don’t do anything rash!’

Lot No. 249

‘Believe me, it would be far more rash to adopt any other course. I
hope that we won’t need to bother you, but it will ease my mind to
know that you have this statement of my motives. And now I am
ready to take your advice and to go to roost, for I want to be at my
best in the morning.’

Abercrombie Smith was not an entirely pleasant man to have as an
enemy. Slow and easy-tempered, he was formidable when driven to
action. He brought to every purpose in life the same deliberate resoluteness
which had distinguished him as a scientific student. He had
laid his studies aside for a day, but he intended that the day should
not be wasted. Not a word did he say to his host as to his plans, but
by nine o’clock he was well on his way to Oxford.

In the High Street he stopped at Clifford’s, the gun-maker’s, and
bought a heavy revolver, with a box of central-fire cartridges. Six of
them he slipped into the chambers, and half-cocking the weapon,
placed it in the pocket of his coat. He then made his way to Hastie’s
rooms, where the big oarsman was lounging over his breakfast, with
the Sporting Times propped up against the coffee-pot.

‘Hullo! What’s up?’ he asked. ‘Have some coffee?’

‘No, thank you. I want you to come with me, Hastie, and do what I
ask you.’

‘Certainly, my boy.’

‘And bring a heavy stick with you.’

‘Hullo!’ Hastie stared. ‘Here’s a hunting-crop that would fell
an ox.’

‘One other thing. You have a box of amputating knives. Give me
the longest of them.’

‘There you are. You seem to be fairly on the war trail. Anything else?’

‘No; that will do.’ Smith placed the knife inside his coat, and led
the way to the quadrangle. ‘We are neither of us chickens, Hastie,’
said he. ‘I think I can do this job alone, but I take you as a precaution.
I am going to have a little talk with Bellingham. If I have only him to
deal with, I won’t, of course, need you. If I shout, however, up you
come, and lam out with your whip as hard as you can lick. Do you

‘All right. I’ll come if I hear you bellow.’

‘Stay here, then. I may be a little time, but don’t budge until I
come down.’

‘I’m a fixture.’

Smith ascended the stairs, opened Bellingham’s door and stepped
in. Bellingham was seated behind his table, writing. Beside him,
among his litter of strange possessions, towered the mummy case,
with its sale number 249 still stuck upon its front, and its hideous
occupant stiff and stark within it. Smith looked very deliberately
round him, closed the door, locked it, took the key from the inside,
and then stepping across to the fireplace, struck a match and set the
fire alight. Bellingham sat staring, with amazement and rage upon
his bloated face.

‘Well, really now, you make yourself at home,’ he gasped.

Smith sat himself deliberately down, placing his watch upon the
table, drew out his pistol, cocked it, and laid it in his lap. Then he
took the long amputating knife from his bosom, and threw it down in
front of Bellingham.

‘Now, then,’ said he, ‘just get to work and cut up that mummy.’

‘Oh, is that it?’ said Bellingham with a sneer.

‘Yes, that is it. They tell me that the law can’t touch you. But I
have a law that will set matters straight. If in five minutes you have
not set to work, I swear by the God who made me that I will put a
bullet through your brain!’

‘You would murder me?’

Bellingham had half risen, and his face was the colour of putty.


‘And for what?’

‘To stop your mischief. One minute has gone.’

‘But what have I done?’

‘I know and you know.’

‘This is mere bullying.’

‘Two minutes are gone.’

‘But you must give reasons. You are a madman ––a dangerous
madman. Why should I destroy my own property? It is a valuable

‘You must cut it up, and you must burn it.’

‘I will do no such thing.’

‘Four minutes are gone.’

Smith took up the pistol and he looked towards Bellingham with
an inexorable face. As the second-hand stole round, he raised his
hand, and the finger twitched upon the trigger.

Lot No. 249

‘There! there! I’ll do it!’ screamed Bellingham.

In frantic haste he caught up the knife and hacked at the figure of
the mummy, ever glancing round to see the eye and the weapon of
his terrible visitor bent upon him. The creature crackled and
snapped under every stab of the keen blade. A thick yellow dust rose
up from it. Spices and dried essences rained down upon the floor.
Suddenly, with a rending crack, its backbone snapped asunder, and it
fell, a brown heap of sprawling limbs, upon the floor.

‘Now into the fire!’ said Smith.

The flames leaped and roared as the dried and tinderlike débris
was piled upon it. The little room was like the stoke-hole of a
steamer and the sweat ran down the faces of the two men; but still
the one stooped and worked, while the other sat watching him with
a set face. A thick, fat smoke oozed out from the fire, and a heavy
smell of burned rosin and singed hair filled the air. In a quarter of an
hour a few charred and brittle sticks were all that was left of Lot
No. 249.

‘Perhaps that will satisfy you,’ snarled Bellingham, with hate and
fear in his little grey eyes as he glanced back at his tormentor.

‘No; I must make a clean sweep of all your materials. We must
have no more devil’s tricks. In with all these leaves! They may have
something to do with it.’

‘And what now?’ asked Bellingham, when the leaves also had been
added to the blaze.

‘Now the roll of papyrus which you had on the table that night. It
is in that drawer, I think.’

‘No, no,’ shouted Bellingham. ‘Don’t burn that! Why, man, you
don’t know what you do. It is unique; it contains wisdom which is
nowhere else to be found.’

‘Out with it!’

‘But look here, Smith, you can’t really mean it. I’ll share the
knowledge with you. I’ll teach you all that is in it. Or, stay, let me
only copy it before you burn it!’

Smith stepped forward and turned the key in the drawer. Taking
out the yellow, curled roll of paper, he threw it into the fire, and
pressed it down with his heel. Bellingham screamed, and grabbed at
it; but Smith pushed him back, and stood over it until it was reduced
to a formless grey ash.

‘Now, Master B.,’ said he, ‘I think I have pretty well drawn your

teeth. You’ll hear from me again, if you return to your old tricks.
And now good-morning, for I must go back to my studies.’

And such is the narrative of Abercrombie Smith as to the singular
events which occurred in Old College, Oxford, in the spring of ’84.
As Bellingham left the university immediately afterwards, and was
last heard of in the Soudan, there is no one who can contradict his
statement. But the wisdom of men is small, and the ways of nature
are strange, and who shall put a bound to the dark things which may
be found by those who seek for them?

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