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 raised his glass, a duplicate of the other one, to his lips and drained it down, Hart did the same. This was a very different style of drinking from the riotous scene that he had left; instead of being filled with a wild excitement, a calm contentment settled down upon him. A forgetfulness of self, a non-regard for responsibility, and a desire only to enjoy the mental and moral drift of the current on which he had embarked. Another glass of champagne and he found himself listening to Danforth's conversation with a grave delight. He had spoken of an object that lay upon a little bracket against the wall, a human hand, black and shining, with delicate finger-tips and pointed nails. The wrappings of mummy cloth were still plain about the fracture at the wrist. Danforth was telling something of it, its age and method of preparation.

"It belonged," he said, "to an Egyptian king. An Arab stole it for me at my direction—a bit of devilish vandalism, I admit. It had a ring upon the finger. I'm wearing the stone from that ring now."

It apparently gave the senior pleasure to talk on of his possessions. His manner was so