But
Margaret was herself at stake! I was thinking of her and fighting for
her; and yet if I were to work in the dark, I might be even harmful to
her. My first weapon in her defence was truth. I must know and
understand; I might then be able to act. Certainly, I could not act
beneficently without a just conception and recognition of the facts. Arranged in order these were as follows:

Firstly:  the strange likeness of Queen Tera to Margaret who had been
born in another country a thousand miles away, where her mother could
not possibly have had even a passing knowledge of her appearance. Secondly:  the disappearance of Van Huyn’s book when I had read up to
the description of the Star Ruby. Thirdly:  the finding of the lamps in the boudoir. Tera with her
astral body could have unlocked the door of Corbeck’s room in the
hotel, and have locked it again after her exit with the lamps. She
could in the same way have opened the window, and put the lamps in the
boudoir. It need not have been that Margaret in her own person should
have had any hand in this; but—but it was at least strange. Fourthly:  here the suspicions of the Detective and the Doctor came
back to me with renewed force, and with a larger understanding. Fifthly:  there were the occasions on which Margaret foretold with
accuracy the coming occasions of quietude, as though she had some
conviction or knowledge of the intentions of the astral-bodied Queen. Sixthly:  there was her suggestion of the finding of the Ruby which her
father had lost. As I thought now afresh over this episode in the
light of suspicion in which her own powers were involved, the only
conclusion I could come to was—always supposing that the theory of the
Queen’s astral power was correct—that Queen Tera being anxious that
all should go well in the movement from London to Kyllion had in her
own way taken the Jewel from Mr. Trelawny’s pocket-book, finding it of
some use in her supernatural guardianship of the journey. Then in some
mysterious way she had, through Margaret, made the suggestion of its
loss and finding. Seventhly, and lastly, was the strange dual existence which Margaret
seemed of late to be leading; and which in some way seemed a
consequence or corollary of all that had gone before. The dual existence! This was indeed the conclusion which overcame all
difficulties and reconciled opposites. If indeed Margaret were not in
all ways a free agent, but could be compelled to speak or act as she
might be instructed; or if her whole being could be changed for another
without the possibility of any one noticing the doing of it, then all
things were possible. All would depend on the spirit of the
individuality by which she could be so compelled. If this
individuality were just and kind and clean, all might be well. But if
not! ... The thought was too awful for words. I ground my teeth with
futile rage, as the ideas of horrible possibilities swept through me. Up to this morning Margaret’s lapses into her new self had been few and
hardly noticeable, save when once or twice her attitude towards myself
had been marked by a bearing strange to me. But today the contrary was
the case; and the change presaged badly. It might be that that other
individuality was of the lower, not of the better sort! Now that I
thought of it I had reason to fear. In the history of the mummy, from
the time of Van Huyn’s breaking into the tomb, the record of deaths
that we knew of, presumably effected by her will and agency, was a
startling one. The Arab who had stolen the hand from the mummy; and the
one who had taken it from his body. The Arab chief who had tried to
steal the Jewel from Van Huyn, and whose throat bore the marks of seven
fingers. The two men found dead on the first night of Trelawny’s taking
away the sarcophagus; and the three on the return to the tomb. The
Arab who had opened the secret serdab. Nine dead men, one of them
slain manifestly by the Queen’s own hand! And beyond this again the
several savage attacks on Mr. Trelawny in his own room, in which, aided
by her Familiar, she had tried to open the safe and to extract the
Talisman jewel. His device of fastening the key to his wrist by a
steel bangle, though successful in the end, had wellnigh cost him his
life. If then the Queen, intent on her resurrection under her own conditions
had, so to speak, waded to it through blood, what might she not do were
her purpose thwarted? What terrible step might she not take to effect
her wishes? Nay, what were her wishes; what was her ultimate purpose? As yet we had had only Margaret’s statement of them, given in all the
glorious enthusiasm of her lofty soul. In her record there was no
expression of love to be sought or found. All we knew for certain was
that she had set before her the object of resurrection, and that in it
the North which she had manifestly loved was to have a special part. But that the resurrection was to be accomplished in the lonely tomb in
the Valley of the Sorcerer was apparent. All preparations had been
carefully made for accomplishment from within, and for her ultimate
exit in her new and living form. The sarcophagus was unlidded. The oil
jars, though hermetically sealed, were to be easily opened by hand; and
in them provision was made for shrinkage through a vast period of time. Even flint and steel were provided for the production of flame. The
Mummy Pit was left open in violation of usage; and beside the stone
door on the cliff side was fixed an imperishable chain by which she
might in safety descend to earth. But as to what her after intentions
were we had no clue. If it was that she meant to begin life again as a
humble individual, there was something so noble in the thought that it
even warmed my heart to her and turned my wishes to her success. The very idea seemed to endorse Margaret’s magnificent tribute to her
purpose, and helped to calm my troubled spirit. Then and there, with this feeling strong upon me, I determined to warn
Margaret and her father of dire possibilities; and to await, as well
content as I could in my ignorance, the development of things over
which I had no power. I returned to the house in a different frame of mind to that in
which I had left it; and was enchanted to find Margaret—the old
Margaret—waiting for me. After dinner, when I was alone for a time with the father and daughter,
I opened the subject, though with considerable hesitation:

“Would it not be well to take every possible precaution, in case the
Queen may not wish what we are doing, with regard to what may occur
before the Experiment; and at or after her waking, if it comes off?”
Margaret’s answer came back quickly; so quickly that I was convinced
she must have had it ready for some one:

“But she does approve! Surely it cannot be otherwise. Father is
doing, with all his brains and all his energy and all his great
courage, just exactly what the great Queen had arranged!”

“But,” I answered, “that can hardly be.