“That’s strange,” he said thoughtfully. “Oh, of course Lady Thorold can’t have heard of his illness. She would have come at once, or at any rate have telegraphed, if she had.”
We talked a little longer—we had strolled into the morning-room, and sat down there—when Whichelo said suddenly—
“That discovery of a mummy in Sir Charles’ town house is curious, eh? How would you account for that, Ashton? And for the hole in the ceiling?”
“I don’t account for it at all,” I replied quickly, trying to look unconcerned beneath his narrow, scrutinising gaze. “What is your theory with regard to it?”
“Oh, I never theorise in cases of that kind,” he replied. “What is the use of theorising? One is almost certain to be wrong.”
“You must, however,” I said with some emphasis, “have some view or other as to the mummy’s age. Do you think it is an ancient mummy, or a modern one?”
He smiled, showing his wonderfully white teeth, which contrasted strangely with his crisp, black beard.
“I am not a ‘mummy expert,’ so I won’t venture an opinion,” he replied. “I should say the best thing they can do is to bury it, or give it to some museum. I’m sure Thorold won’t want it.”
“Don’t you think,” I said, speaking rather slowly, “Thorold may know how it came to be concealed there?”
“What a ridiculous idea, if you will pardon my saying so,” Whichelo answered quite sharply. “What on earth can he know about it?”