“'Get me a bouquet and a cane. I want some vanity.'
“Then we went and got them vanities, and paraded in glory on the fashionable highway that's called 'The Paseo,' and he told me the origin of his clothes. They came from his being in the Government, a sort of Subcommissioner of National Monuments and Memorials, and from that position's having some pickings of drumsticks while his superiors was busy with other parts of the chicken. I told him how I'd come there, and how electricity had played it dark on Portate, and how Dr. Ulswater was at the Museum sorting out knowledge and wishing he had an Inca mummy for home consumption. Beteta knew about Portate. It was in the morning paper that's called 'El Patria.' Then he took to thinking.
“'Would the learned senor,' he says, 'pay a price for a royal mummy? He is, you say, of great wealth.'
“I says: 'Why?'
“'Because,' he says, 'I may have such an article to dispose of.'
“'Which,' I says, 'is a fraud. It's made of mashed paper and it ain't got no pedigree.'
“'Not at all,' he says, 'not at all! I scorn you. Could I, who am but an amateur, deceive one learned as your friend? It was in this way, simply. Some years ago an ancient tomb was opened and found to contain mummies of the family of the Inca, Huayna Capac. Of him you know nothing at all, but your friend does, and without doubt he knows that most of that family died during, or after, the Conquest. Without doubt he knows of the tomb I speak of and its discovery. It was described in the publications of science. Now the Museum is in my Department of Monuments and Memorials, and somewhat under my charge, because of my great interest in my country's antiquities. Also because of this interest I was allowed to acquire one of these relics for my private collection. But alas! I am unfortunate! Integrity and poverty go together. It rends my heart. I fear I had better dispose of my treasure. You will ask, “Why not to the Museum?” Again, alas! Evil tongues would whisper. I, an official of the Department, sell to the Department! My own conscience, too delicate, would shrink. But you are hardened, of an evil mind, a cynic. You don't understand the scruples.'
“'Sure,' I says, 'I do. Remorse and me are bosom friends. Come see the doctor.'
“'At present,' he says, 'I have an important engagement. Bring him to my house at three this afternoon. Number 20, Street of the Museum.'
“I went after the doctor then, and asked him would he have a birthday present, and what was the market price of royal mummies of the family of Hannah Atkins. 'Who?' says he, and I tried it again. 'Oh!' he says, 'Huayna Capac!'