Harry broke into a peal of laughter and caught her in his arms.
"Is that the only reason you won't?"
"Harry, is it true?"
"I don't know and I don't care—what difference does it make who your mother was? You are you, that's all I care for." His voice shook. "I love you so, Pauline, that I can't stand this life any longer—another adventure—"
Pauline silenced him with a kiss.
"I'm all through with adventures," she declared. "Harry, I'm going to—"
"Marry me? Polly, do you mean it?"
"Yes, yes. Oh, my dearest, I've been a selfish, silly, conceited little pig, but I'm cured, I'm cured at last."
As he clasped her in his arms, the shutter swung violently to, and the case containing the Mummy fell with a clatter to the floor. Harry ran and lifted it as tenderly as if it had been a little child.
"I suppose we can hardly keep her here," he said regretfully, "but we'll give, no, I can't give her up entirely, we'll lend her to the Metropolitan Art Museum where she'll receive due honor. She's been a faithful friend to us, Polly."