The 'poor learned gentleman' was sitting at a table in the
window, looking at something very small which he held in a pair
of fine pincers. He had a round spy-glass sort of thing in one
eye--which reminded the children of watchmakers, and also of the
long snail's eyes of the Psammead. The gentleman was very long
and thin, and his long, thin boots stuck out under the other side
of his table. He did not hear the door open, and the children
stood hesitating. At last Robert gave the door a push, and they
all started back, for in the middle of the wall that the door had
hidden was a mummy-case--very, very, very big--painted in red and
yellow and green and black, and the face of it seemed to look at
them quite angrily.

You know what a mummy-case is like, of course? If you don't you
had better go to the British Museum at once and find out.
Anyway, it is not at all the sort of thing that you expect to
meet in a top-floor front in Bloomsbury, looking as though it
would like to know what business YOU had there.

So everyone said, 'Oh!' rather loud, and their boots clattered as
they stumbled back.

The learned gentleman took the glass out of his eye and said--'I
beg your pardon,' in a very soft, quiet pleasant voice--the
voice of a gentleman who has been to Oxford.

'It's us that beg yours,' said Cyril politely. 'We are sorry to
disturb you.'

'Come in,' said the gentleman, rising--with the most