A day or two afterwards, while spending an hour in the rooms of the Egyptology Society I was introduced to a new Fellow, who had been appointed during my absence from England. His name was Louis Coen. He was in private life a broker, but his heart and soul were wrapped in the Cause. He evidently spelt it with a capital, in sympathy, perhaps, with the vast sums in cash he had already put at the disposal of the Society for exploration work. He was intensely entertaining. He took me aside and confided that it was his ambition to transform the Society into a sort of club. We needed a liquor license and more commodious premises, it seemed. Then we would boom. He offered to provide all the money requisite and he begged me to use my influence with other members to get his views adopted. He was one of those men whose mission in life is to "run" every concern into which they can manage to insinuate themselves. I was afraid I disappointed him, although I did my best to be polite. But he was nothing daunted. He declared he would galvanise the "old fogies" into fresh activity and make us see things from his point of view or die in the attempt. We might be as serious as we pleased, but he would force us to be sociable. He had a nose like a parrot, and was already on the committee of management. He even proposed to change our name. The Royal Egyptian Club seemed to him a "real smart monniker." He saved me from an impending mental and physical collapse by mentioning the name of Sir Robert Ottley. Ottley, it appeared, was his latest convert. Ottley agreed with him that we wanted new blood, that our methods were too conservative. Ottley thought it was ridiculous that everything a member did or discovered should have to be reported to, and judged about, by a lot of old fossils. What right had those old "stick-at-homes" to appropriate the credit of the exertions of the energetic? "Would you believe it," cried Mr. Coen, "they have had the impudence to demand from him an account of his recent find—the tomb of an old johnny named Ptahmes—which he unearthed at his own expense entirely! They have had the 'hide' to insist that he shall immediately hand over the mummy to the British Museum and place the papyri before them—them—them—for the purpose of translation, et-cetera! I never heard a more cheeky proposition in my life. My friend Ottley would act rightly if he told them to go to the deuce!"

"What has he told them?" I inquired.

"Oh, he is temporising. He has written to say that he will place his discoveries at their disposal when he has satisfied himself of their authenticity, et-cetera. Of course that's all 'gyver.' The mummy is genuine enough, so are the papyri. But he naturally wants to have first 'go' at them, and he is fighting for time. Meanwhile, I am organising the progressives. We can never hope to get this show properly on the move till we shake things up and reform on sound commercial lines. I tell you, sir, before I've done with it, I'll make this Society a power in the land. I'm going to take it up in both hands and chuck it right in the eyes of the B. P., that means the British Public. And you take it from me, it's going to stay there. Good-day to you. I'm glad to have met you. You are a bit antiquated in your notions; but you're a young man yet, and you'll find you'll have to join my crowd. S'long!"

He shook my hand very energetically and bustled off. I sank into a chair and began to fan myself. A moment later the president, Lord Ballantine, entered the room. The poor old gentleman was purple in the face, spluttering: "Has-has-has that man Coen been can-can-canvassing you?" he thundered.

I nodded.

"I-I-I'll resign—by God!" cried Lord Ballantine. "It-it-it's too much. I-I-I," he stopped——gasping for a word, the picture of impotent rage and misery.

But I felt no sympathy for him. "Why did you let him in?" I asked.

"We-we-we were short of funds."

"And now?"

"He's bought us, or thinks he has, body and soul."

"Who nominated him?"

"Ottley."

I was not surprised to hear it. "He—he's Ottley's broker. Ottley and he are running the market-change—together. Have you heard. They have cornered South Africans. They made half a million between them yesterday. All London is talking about it. And they want to turn us into a beer garden."

"You'll have to turn them out."

"How can we? We owe them, Lord knows how much."

"Then if you cannot," I said calmly, rising as I spoke, "you'll have to grin and bear the infliction you have brought upon yourselves. After all, it's a question of voting."

"You'll stand by us, Pinsent?" he implored.

"My resignation is at any time at your disposal, Ballantine. All the same, I don't pity you a scrap. You are getting little more than you deserve. I have been working for three years for the Society without remuneration, and I am a poor man. Many of your older members are as rich as Croesus, and yet you must needs import a vulgar semitic broker to help you out of a hole. Good-afternoon."

I left the poor old fellow helpless and speechless, staring after me with anguished eyes and mouth agape. That evening I received a letter from Louis Coen offering to finance my book on the Nile Monuments. He said he felt sure it would prove a work of rare educational value, and on that account he was willing to furnish every library in the English-speaking world with a free copy. Aware, however, that I was not a business man, he would conduct all the business arrangements himself. On receipt of the manuscript, therefore, he would forward me a cheque for £1000 as an instalment in advance of my share of the profits—fifteen per cent. he proposed to allow me—and he wound up as follows: "Your acceptance of my offer will commit you to nothing as regards our chat of this morning. My good friend, Sir Robert Ottley, put me up to this venture. He has the brightest opinion of your ability and he is sure your book will prove a success. I am going blind on his say so. Let me have an answer right away."

I thought a good deal over this precious epistle, but in the end I did not see why I should not make a little money. I knew very well that under ordinary circumstances it would be impossible for me to make £100, let alone a thousand, out of the Nile Monuments. But I felt little doubt that Mr. Coen had a plan to make even more—somehow or other. But I had done the man injustice—it was not money he was after. Reading the Times two mornings later I came upon the following announcement:

"A Patron of Learning"

"We are informed that Mr. Louis Coen, F. R. E. S., has induced the well-known Egyptologist, Dr. Hugh Pinsent, to commit the results of his recent archÆological researches on the Nile to the enduring care of the printer's ink. Mr. Coen has purchased the rights in advance for a large sum of the projected volume, which it is said will take the form of an exhaustive treatise on the Nile Monuments. It is not, however, Mr. Coen's object to direct his enterprise to his own financial benefit. It is his intention to produce a splendidly illustrated edition of the book for presentation to educational establishments all over the United Kingdom in the hope of thus fixing public attention upon the enormous historical importance of the work now being carried on by the Royal Egyptologist Society, of which Society Mr. Coen is a member, and a generous supporter. Mr. Coen is to be congratulated upon his latest effort in the interest of popular education. It will be remembered that last year he endowed a chair in the University of Newcome for study of the ancient Egyptian tongue; but it may be confidently expected that his exploitation of Dr. Pinsent's history will go much further in popularising a subject which is now practically confined to the ranks of leisured scholars."

It was not pleasant to think that I had been idiot enough to allow Mr. Coen to use me as a stepping-stone to notoriety. But it was too late to object. The thing was done. My consolation was a bigger banking account than I had had for years. Not even the fact that during the day I received a score of sarcastic congratulatory telegrams from members of the Society, could rob me of that satisfaction. But I sent in my resignation all the same. I felt that I had no right to belong to any institution run by Mr. Coen. I might meet him there—and if I did, a police court case of assault and battery would infallibly result.