Explore "The Living Mummy" by Ambrose Pratt on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
I awoke in the grey light of dawn, stiff with cold and aching in every limb. Arising, I left my hiding-place and went into the vestibule. The night porter sat on a stool in his little office toasting his toes before the stove and reading one of the morning papers. I stepped up to the door at once. Hearing my footsteps, he looked around. "Good-morning, Michael," I said, as well as my chattering teeth would let me. "Do you want all that fire?" I had forgotten that I was completely invisible. The fellow sprang to his feet with a start and stared at me aghast. "What's the matter with you?" I demanded, testily.
"Ere -- you keep off. I've done nothing to 'arm you!" he whined, and he backed before my advance against the wall of the office, the very picture of abject terror. His appearance recalled me to my senses. But it was too late to cry over spilt milk. I thought it better to make a confidant of the man if he would let me.