CHAPTER XIII

THE WHITE BEAM


That night the deviltry began. Mr. Mostyn found himself wholly
unable to sleep. Many relics have curious histories, and the
experienced archaeologist becomes callous to that uncanniness which
seems to attach to some gruesome curios. But the slipper of the
Prophet was different. No mere ghostly menace threatened its
holders; an avenging scimitar followed those who came in contact
with it; gruesome tragedies, mutilations, murders, had marked its
progress throughout.

The night was still--as still as a London night can be; for there
is always a vague murmuring in the metropolis as though the
sleeping city breathed gently and sometimes stirred in its sleep.

Then, distinct amid these usual nocturnal noises, rose another,
unaccountable sound, a muffled crash followed by a musical tinkling.

Mostyn sprang up in bed, drew on a dressing-gown, and took from the
small safe at his bed-head the Museum keys and a loaded revolver.
A somewhat dishevelled figure, pale and wild-eyed, he made his way
through the private door and into the ghostly precincts of the
Museum. He did not hesitate, but ascended the stairs and unlocked