"Dr. Weatherby, I am an Egyptologist!"
"You are?" I answered.
"Yes," he replied! "Yes, sir, I am an Egyptologist."
"That," I remarked, "is a very abstruse department of knowledge."
"It is, sir," replied the little old gentleman, hitching his chair still nearer, so that leaning forward he could pluck my sleeve. "I am the only man who has ever successfully deciphered the inscriptions on the great stone of Iris-Iris!"
"You don't say so!" I exclaimed.
"I do, Dr. Weatherby. I am stating facts, sir. Others have attempted it, men eminent in the learned world, sir, but I alone—here in my bosom—"
He tapped the region of his heart, where a lump suggested a roll of manuscript. "I alone, Dr. Weatherby, have succeeded in translating those time-worn symbols. Dr. Weatherby"—he lowered his voice almost to a whisper—"it has been the patient toil of seven years!"
He sprang back suddenly in his chair, and drawing a red bandanna from his coat-tails proceeded to mop his brow.
"Mr. Percival," I said, cordially, looking at my watch, "won't you come to dinner?" His eyes sparkled.