The house and grounds were dry enough in summer, but decidedly damp in winter.
Therefore, the widow went to a flat in London, as a rule, for the season of fogs.
But this winter she had made up her mind—so she told Lucy—to remain in her own little castle and brave the watery humors of the marshes.
“I can always keep fires burning in every room,” said Mrs. Jasher, when she had removed her guest’s hat and had settled her for a confidential talk on the sofa. “And after all, my dear, there is no place like home.”
The room was small, and Mrs. Jasher was small, so she suited her surroundings excellently.
Also, the widow had the good taste to furnish it sparsely, instead of crowding it with furniture; but what furniture there was could not be improved upon.
There were Chippendale chairs, a Louis Quinze table, a Sheridan cabinet, and a satin-wood desk, hand-painted, which was said to have been the property of the unhappy Marie Antoinette.
Oil-paintings adorned the rose-tinted walls, chiefly landscapes, although one or two were portraits.
Also, there were water-colored pictures, framed and signed caricatures, many plates of old china, and rice-paper adornments from Canton.
The room was essentially feminine, being filled with Indian stuffs, with silver oddments, with flowers, and with other trifles.
The walls, the carpet, the hangings, and the upholstery of the arm-chairs were all of a rosy hue, so that Mrs. Jasher looked as young as Dame Holda in the Venusberg.
A very pretty room and a very charming hostess, was the verdict of the young gentlemen from the Fort, who came here to flirt when they were not serving their country.
Mrs. Jasher in a tea-rose tea-gown for afternoon tea—she always liked to be in keeping—rang for that beverage dear to the feminine heart, and lighted a rose-shaded lamp.
When a glow as of dawn spread through the dainty room, she settled Lucy on the sofa near the fire, and drew up an arm-chair on the other side of the hearth-rug.
Outside it was cold and foggy, but the rose-hued curtains shut out all that was disagreeable in the weather, and in the absence of male society, the two women talked more or less confidentially.
Lucy did not dislike Mrs. Jasher, even though she fancied that the lively widow was planning to become the mistress of the Pyramids.
“Well, my dear girl,” said Mrs. Jasher, shading her face from the fire with a large fan, “and how is your dear father after his late terrible experiences?”
“He is perfectly well, and rather cross,” replied Lucy, smiling.
“Cross?”
“Of course. He has lost that wretched mummy.”
“And poor Sidney Bolton.”
“Oh, I don’t think he cares for poor Sidney’s death beyond the fact that he misses his services.
But the mummy cost nine hundred pounds, and father is much annoyed, especially as Peruvian mummies are somewhat hard to obtain.
You see, Mrs. Jasher, father wishes to see the difference between the Peruvian and Egyptian modes of embalming.”
“Ugh!
How gruesome!” Mrs. Jasher shuddered. “But has anything been discovered likely to show who killed this poor lad?”
“No, the whole thing is a mystery.”
Mrs. Jasher looked into the fire over the top of the fan.
“I have read the papers,” she said slowly, “and have gathered what I could from what the reporters explained.
But I intend to call on the Professor and hear all that evidence which did not get into the papers.”
“I think that everything has been made public.
The police have no clue to the murderer.
Why do you want to know?”
Mrs. Jasher made a movement of surprise.
“Why, I am the Professor’s friend, of course, my dear, and naturally I want to help him to solve this mystery.”
“There is no chance, so far as I can see, of it ever being solved,” said Lucy. “It’s very sweet of you, of course, but were I you I should not talk about it to my father.”
“Why?” asked Mrs. Jasher quickly.
“Because he thinks of nothing else, and both Archie and I are trying to get him off the subject.
The mummy is lost and poor Sidney is buried.
There is no more to be said.”
“Still, if a reward was offered—”
“My father is too poor to offer a reward, and the Government will not do so. And as people will not work without money, why—” Lucy completed her sentence with a shrug.
“I might offer a reward if the dear Professor will let me,” said the widow unexpectedly.
“You!
But I thought that you were poor, as we are.”
“I was, and I am not very rich now.
All the same, I have come in for some thousands of pounds.”
“I congratulate you.
A legacy?”
“Yes.