“Talking of superstition,” said Sledge, “you have never been to the Far East, have you?”
“No,” Ferrol answered, “Egypt is Eastern enough for me, and cannot be bettered.”
“Well,” said Sledge, “I have been in the Far East. I have lived there many years. I am not a superstitious man; but there is one thing I would not do in any circumstances whatsoever, and that is to keep in my sitting-room the things you have got there.”
“But why?” asked Ferrol.
“Well,” said Sledge, “nearly all of them have come from the tombs of the dead, and some of them are gods. Such things may have attached to them heaven knows what spooks and spirits.”
Ferrol shut his eyes and smiled, a faint, seraphic smile. “My dear boy,” he said, “you forget. This is the Twentieth Century.”
“And you,” answered Sledge, “forget that the things you have here were made before the Twentieth Century. B.C.”
“You don’t seriously mean,” said Ferrol, “that you attach any importance to these—” he hesitated.
“Children’s stories?” suggested Sledge.
Ferrol nodded.