Such a vigil is an excellent lesson, since one has no choice but to look
hard at those objects which we usually pass with such half-hearted
interest. Through my little peep-hole I employed the hours in studying
every specimen, from the huge mummy-case which leaned against the wall
to those very jewels which had brought us there, gleaming and sparkling
in their glass case immediately beneath us. There was much precious
gold-work and many valuable stones scattered through the numerous cases,
but those wonderful twelve which made up the urim and thummim glowed and
burned with a radiance which far eclipsed the others. I studied in turn
the tomb-pictures of Sicara, the friezes from Karnak, the statues of
Memphis, and the inscriptions of Thebes, but my eyes would always come
back to that wonderful Jewish relic, and my mind to the singular mystery
which surrounded it. I was lost in the thought of it when my companion
suddenly drew his breath sharply in, and seized my arm in a convulsive
grip. At the same instant I saw what it was which had excited him. I have said that against the wall—on the right-hand side of the doorway
(the right-hand side as we looked at it, but the left as one
entered)—there stood a large mummy-case. To our unutterable amazement it
was slowly opening. Gradually, gradually the lid was swinging back, and
the black slit which marked the opening was becoming wider and wider. So
gently and carefully was it done that the movement was almost
imperceptible. Then, as we breathlessly watched it, a white thin hand
appeared at the opening, pushing back the painted lid, then another
hand, and finally a face—a face which was familiar to us both, that of
Professor Andreas. Stealthily he slunk out of the mummy-case, like a fox
stealing from its burrow, his head turning incessantly to left and to
right, stepping, then pausing, then stepping again, the very image of
craft and of caution. Once some sound in the street struck him
motionless, and he stood listening, with his ear turned, ready to dart
back to the shelter behind him. Then he crept onwards again upon tiptoe,
very, very softly and slowly, until he had reached the case in the
centre of the room. There he took a bunch of keys from his pocket,
unlocked the case, took out the Jewish breastplate, and, laying it upon
the glass in front of him, began to work upon it with some sort of
small, glistening tool. He was so directly underneath us that his bent
head covered his work, but we could guess from the movement of his hand
that he was engaged in finishing the strange disfigurement which he had
begun. I could realize from the heavy breathing of my companion, and the
twitchings of the hand which still clutched my wrist, the furious
indignation which filled his heart as he saw this vandalism in the
quarter of all others where he could least have expected it. He, the
very man who a fortnight before had reverently bent over this unique
relic, and who had impressed its antiquity and its sanctity upon us, was
now engaged in this outrageous profanation. It was impossible,
unthinkable—and yet there, in the white glare of the electric light
beneath us, was that dark figure with the bent, grey head, and the
twitching elbow. What inhuman hypocrisy, what hateful depth of malice
against his successor must underlie these sinister nocturnal labours. It
was painful to think of and dreadful to watch. Even I, who had none of
the acute feelings of a virtuoso, could not bear to look on and see this
deliberate mutilation of so ancient a relic. It was a relief to me when
my companion tugged at my sleeve as a signal that I was to follow him as
he softly crept out of the room. It was not until we were within his own
quarters that he opened his lips, and then I saw by his agitated face
how deep was his consternation. “The abominable Goth!” he cried. “Could you have believed it?”

“It is amazing.”

“He is a villain or a lunatic—one or the other. We shall very soon see
which. Come with me, Jackson, and we shall get to the bottom of this
black business.”

A door opened out of the passage which was the private entrance from his
rooms into the museum. This he opened softly with his key, having first
kicked off his shoes, an example which I followed. We crept together
through room after room, until the large hall lay before us, with that
dark figure still stooping and working at the central case. With an
advance as cautious as his own we closed in upon him, but softly as we
went we could not take him entirely unawares. We were still a dozen
yards from him when he looked round with a start, and uttering a husky
cry of terror, ran frantically down the museum. “Simpson! Simpson!” roared Mortimer, and far away down the vista of
electric lighted doors we saw the stiff figure of the old soldier
suddenly appear. Professor Andreas saw him also, and stopped running,
with a gesture of despair. At the same instant we each laid a hand upon
his shoulder. “Yes, yes, gentlemen,” he panted, “I will come with you. To your room,
Mr. Ward Mortimer, if you please! I feel that I owe you an explanation.”

My companion’s indignation was so great that I could see that he dared
not trust himself to reply. We walked on each side of the old Professor,
the astonished commissionaire bringing up the rear. When we reached the
violated case, Mortimer stopped and examined the breastplate. Already
one of the stones of the lower row had had its setting turned back in
the same manner as the others. My friend held it up and glanced
furiously at his prisoner. “How could you!” he cried. “How could you!”

“It is horrible—horrible!” said the Professor. “I don’t wonder at your
feelings. Take me to your room.”

“But this shall not be left exposed!” cried Mortimer. He picked the
breastplate up and carried it tenderly in his hand, while I walked
beside the Professor, like a policeman with a malefactor. We passed into
Mortimer’s chambers, leaving the amazed old soldier to understand
matters as best he could. The Professor sat down in Mortimer’s
arm-chair, and turned so ghastly a colour that for the instant, all our
resentment was changed to concern. A stiff glass of brandy brought the
life back to him once more. “There, I am better now!” said he. “These last few days have been too
much for me. I am convinced that I could not stand it any longer. It is
a nightmare—a horrible nightmare—that I should be arrested as a burglar
in what has been for so long my own museum. And yet I cannot blame you. You could not have done otherwise. My hope always was that I should get
it all over before I was detected. This would have been my last night’s
work.”

“How did you get in?” asked Mortimer. “By taking a very great liberty with your private door. But the object
justified it. The object justified everything. You will not be angry
when you know everything—at least, you will not be angry with me. I had
a key to your side door and also to the museum door. I did not give them
up when I left.