The Mummy 's Shroud is set in 1920 and tells the story of a team of archaeologists who come across the lost tomb of the boy Pharaoh Kah-To-Bey . The story begins with a flash back sequence to Ancient Egypt and we see the story of how Prem , a manservant of Kah-To-Bey , spirited away the boy when his father was killed in a palace coup and took him into the desert for protection . Unfortunately , the boy dies and is buried . The story then moves forward to 1920 and shows the expedition led by scientist Sir Basil Walden and business man Stanley Preston finding the tomb . They ignore the dire warning issued to them by Hasmid , a local Bedouin about the consequences for those that violate the tombs of Ancient Egypt and remove the bodies and the sacred shroud . Sir Basil is bitten by a snake just after finding the tomb . He recovers , but has a relapse after arriving back in Cairo . Preston takes advantage of this and commits him to an insane asylum , to take credit for finding the tomb and Prince 's mummy himself . Meanwhile , after being placed in the Cairo Museum , the mummy of Prem is revived when Hasmid chants the sacred oath on the shroud . The mummy then proceeds to go on a murderous rampage to kill off the members of the expedition , beginning with Sir Basil after he escapes from the asylum . One by one , those who assisted in removing the contents of the tomb to Cairo are eliminated by such grisly means as strangulation , being thrown out of windows , and having photographic acid thrown in their face .

What happens to Sir Basil Walden and Stanley Preston?

Allan crouched over his desk once more, pen in hand and mind blank. He contemplated a story, an outline he had laboriously constructed some time ago. He had filled his pen and raised it, the nib descending towards the paper, before the sound came: the gentle, persistent tapping of the gnarled, primeval willow touching the window with long, insistent fingers. His eyes awoke with a passionate, determined flame, though the only light came from the glutted moon. Allan filled page after page, the words escaping from his mind onto the paper. Where before they had marched in regiments, practiced in ranks and followed their leaders' commands, the words now escaped in their true forms, unhindered by any stricture. He continued long into the night, until the eldritch orb had sunk into the waiting hands of the willow, raised perpetually skyward. Arthur looked up from the results of a night's frenzied labors and looked Allan in the eye. "What is this?" he queried, indicating the pages he held in his left hand. "I decided that since I wasn't having much success with more traditional stories, I might see what sort of work I produced if I let my imagination go freely," Allan replied, somewhat less self-assured than he had been the previous night. "What in G-d's name could have possessed you to do such a thing," cried Arthur, nearly raising his voice. "After all I said the day before, why have you abandoned centuries of literary progress for some self-indulgent fantasy?" He shook the papers at Allan, raising them like a belt above the head of a disobedient son. "This is nothing but a glorified Grimm's tale, a miscarried child of Stoker, a creation less fit to be published than to be told around an open fire at the hovel of some peasant!" He spoke the last word with such heavy intonation that Allan shrank back before the physical wave of sound emanating from Arthur's throat. "Do you hate the modern system of literature? Do you personally despise the works the Enlightenment or the progress made since Shakespeare?" For a moment, Allan could hardly do more than shake his head. "No, of course not I " "Then why," Arthur barreled on, "do you disregard them all and return to this superstitious babble, this morbid, paganistic drivel?

What did Arthur ask Allan?

We were cornered in a sort of way already. But these butchers up the cavern had been surprised, they were probably scared, and they had no special weapons, only those little hatchets of theirs. And that way lay escape. Their sturdy little forms--ever so much shorter and thicker than the mooncalf herds--were scattered up the slope in a way that was eloquent of indecision. I had the moral advantage of a mad bull in a street. But for all that, there seemed a tremendous crowd of them. Very probably there was. Those Selenites down the cleft had certainly some infernally long spears. It might be they had other surprises for us.... But, confound it! if we charged up the cave we should let them up behind us, and if we didn't those little brutes up the cave would probably get reinforced. Heaven alone knew what tremendous engines of warfare--guns, bombs, terrestrial torpedoes--this unknown world below our feet, this vaster world of which we had only pricked the outer cuticle, might not presently send up to our destruction. It became clear the only thing to do was to charge! It became clearer as the legs of a number of fresh Selenites appeared running down the cavern towards us.
Who was guarding the way to escape?