"Then look on the lid of the sarcophagus and see its portrait in a gentle mood."
"Ptahmes!" I cried.
"Ay, Ptahmes," she said slowly. "We are haunted by his spirit."
I sat down on the edge of the sarcophagus and lit a cigarette.
"I am quite at a present loss to explain my throttling," I observed, "but that is the only mystery. I reject your shadow with the contempt that it deserves. What you saw was some wandering Arab who hopped in here without troubling to tread through the dust in the doorway and who departed in the same fashion. Pish! There, too, is the mystery of my throttling solved."
"Perhaps," said she, "indeed I hope so." She was still trembling in spasms.
"Are you minded for the experiment?" I asked.
"What is it?"
"I wish to drive this foolish fancy from your mind." I took out my revolver and showed it to her. "Spirits are said to love the dark best. Let us put out the lamp. It's their element. How, then, can we better tempt old Ptahmes from his tomb?" I wound up with a laugh. "I can promise him a warm reception."