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Title: She who sleeps
A romance of New York and the Nile

Author: Sax Rohmer

Release date: October 20, 2025 [eBook #77092]

Language: English

Original publication: Garden City: Doubleday, Doran & Company,
Inc., 1928

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/77092

Credits: an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHE WHO
SLEEPS ***

SHE WHO SLEEPS
A ROMANCE OF NEW YORK
AND THE NILE

BY
SAX ROHMER

1928
DOUBLEDAY, DORAN & COMPANY, INC.
GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK

[COPYRIGHT]
COPYRIGHT, 1928, BY DOUBLEDAY, DORAN &
COMPANY, INC. COPYRIGHT, 1928, BY LIBERTY
WEEKLY, INC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

FIRST EDITION

CONTENTS
I. A FLASH OF LIGHTNING
II. THE DIVIDING LINE
III. A WEEK LATER
IV. SHADED WINDOWS
V. BARRY IS HAUNTED
VI. DANBAZZAR
VII. ZALITHEA
VIII. SPECIAL OPINIONS
IX. EGYPT BOUND
X. CAIRO
XI. LUXOR
XII. THE CAMP IN THE DESERT
XIII. THE EXCAVATORS
XIV. THE HAUNTED VALLEY
XV. THE HAWWARA
XVI. THE HOLE IN THE WALL
XVII. MR. TAWWAB COMES TO TERMS
XVIII. THE LOTUS SARCOPHAGUS
XIX. THE VOICE IN THE VALLEY
XX. THE RITUAL
XXI. THE AWAKENING
XXII. A SUMMONS FROM THE PRINCESS
XXIII. AN ENGLISH LESSON
XXIV. THE RETURN TO LUXOR
XXV. SOCIAL AMENITIES
XXVI. IN NEW YORK
XXVII. ABOUT IT AND ABOUT
XXVIII. A DOOR CLOSES

XXIX. THE HIEROGLYPHIC LETTER
XXX. MARGUERITE DEVINA
XXXI. THE MEETING
XXXII. THE GREAT AHMES
XXXIII. A FLASH OF LIGHTNING

SHE WHO SLEEPS

CHAPTER I.
A FLASH OF LIGHTNING

Barry Cumberland pushed on through a growing darkness. There seemed
to be an unfamiliar quality in this darkness which he first noticed when,
quite mechanically, he stooped to switch on his headlights, and in doing so
saw the time by the clock in the car. He slowed down for a moment, on a
crossways, and stared into the west.
A great cloud, black as the pall of Avalon, was draped before the sinking
sun.
As he watched, it crept farther and farther up the dome of blue, like a
velvet curtain drawn by giant hands. Through a gap in the trees which had
closely beset the path for some distance now, Barry looked down into the
valley along which his route lay to the highroad and New York.
Three hundred feet below, perched apparently on the edge of a ravine, he
saw a house. Some rent in the curtain of the storm had allowed a ray like a
searchlight to break through and to shine upon a sort of turret which
crowned the building. Shrinking behind guardian walls and overhanging yet
lower depths, the effect was that of a drawing by Sidney Sime. Beyond, the
road zigzagged, disappeared into shadow, later to reappear in the form of a
bridge, until it finally became lost to sight before the plain was reached.
The moving curtain blotted out the light. Where a fairy castle had been,
eerily illuminated, came blackness. He looked ahead sharply, accelerated,
and knowing the violence of these sudden storms in the mountains, prayed

that his Rolls would deliver him from treacherous byways before the
blinding rain began.
He had only himself to blame if he should be stormbound. For no reason
that he could have defined he had left a cheery crowd at the club, with
never a word of farewell, urged by a sudden irrational impulse to reach
home in time for supper. Such abrupt changes of plan were characteristic of
Barry, annoying to his friends, but in no way destructive of his popularity.
A young man endowed with good looks, charm of manner, and John
Cumberland for a father is not dropped socially merely because nature has
designed him for a poet in a material age.
Through this ever-growing darkness he drove on; and although the route
was one which normally carried little traffic, it seemed that this evening not
a soul rode or walked upon the length of it. But loneliness dovetailed with
his mood. He welcomed it. And so, when a sharp bend leading to a long
descent set the storm behind him, he thought of it as a pursuer. He took the
slope in breakneck fashion. It was a race against the pursuing darkness.
Presently came a dangerous turning which he remembered. But he had
possessed the Rolls—a birthday present from his father—long enough for it
to have become a part of him, responsive almost to a thought, nearly to a
mood.
He checked where a ragged fence appeared suddenly ahead like a barrier
and negotiated a tortured figure S which brought him out above a sheer
drop. Beneath lay meadows where late corn showed speckled gold in the
crawling shadows. Down, the road led, and still down. A gallant ray from
the stifled sun alighted momentarily upon white walls of a building far
ahead. He was aware of a flowered porch, a window, a low roof.
Vaguely he recalled this little home. Something had drawn his attention
to it upon the outward journey from New York. Then it was blotted out like
a house of dreams; but he was losing nothing on the storm. The race grew
more and more real.
Some classic analogy cropped up in his mind; a fragment of half
forgotten studies which he could not identify. He became a mortal defying
the gods. But from this flight of imagination he came sharply back to earth.
The house by the roadside passed—and even now he was bearing down
upon it—what lay beyond?
Jim Sakers, his pilot on the outward run, now was many miles behind,
probably dancing; happily unconscious of the fact that his friend,

bareheaded, in dinner kit, was racing for New York, a victim of moods,
pursued by the storm.
There was a bridge, Barry remembered. They had passed a Studebaker on
it; very nice navigation, for the bridge was narrow. Yes! Here was the
bridge. The Rolls went booming across it at fifty-five. And now Barry
sighted his first pedestrian: an old man with a clean-shaven upper lip and a
tufty white beard. He wore blue overalls, a huge plaid cap which would
have suited Harry Lauder, and smoked a very short pipe. Pausing, he
stepped hurriedly aside as the bareheaded madman swept by in a cloud of
dust. His cap went up like a Scotch balloon.
Barry clenched his teeth. The shadow was gaining upon him. Oh! for a
long, straight turnpike where he could open up. But memory warned him
that there were many tortuous miles in which no such race track offered.
Now came a long sweeping curve which he recalled clearly, tree bordered
on the one side, and, on the other, outlining an upcrop of primitive
sandstone, where sparse vegetation and scattered rocks formed an isthmus
around which his route lay.
Here for a moment he could glance aside. The black curtain was still
gaining. The storm promised to win.
Into a cutting he plunged, high-banked, tree-topped, through the
blackness of which his headlights carved like a gleaming scimitar. Some
little animal shot across the blade of silver. He resigned himself to his
mood, wondering in what way he differed from his friends, what barrier it
was that would intrude at times between him and those enjoyments for
which others never lost zest.
In the games and amusements to which they devoted much of their lives
he took part; and most of the things that Barry Cumberland attempted he
did well. His sports record was good, but not excellent. He was happy in
athletic pursuits, but could never screw up any enthusiasm for pot hunting.
Cards frankly bored him. He danced well, except when abruptly,
unaccountably, his dancing mood left him and he experienced a sudden
longing for the silence of imaginary forests.
The girls about whom other men raved stirred him but slightly. They
were all too true to pattern. The thought of home life with any one of them
was definitely objectionable.
He took a sharp bend at dangerous speed, wondering if, during a long-
projected but never accomplished tour of Europe, he should meet a girl

having power to arouse that curious state of unrest which he had sometimes
noted in his friends and vaguely wished he could experience. No doubt he
was a visionary. He had often been told so. Perhaps the influence of his own
home might be to blame.
It was only reasonable to suppose that an establishment which is less a
residence than a museum of Ancient Egyptian antiquities, should contribute
something to the character of one born and reared in it. Those almond-eyed,
slender priestesses, so alluring, so aloof, had possibly played a part in
disabusing his mind of any romance in connection with the girls of that very
modern set to which he belonged. Since childhood they had looked down
upon him, from wall paintings, vases, bas-reliefs, those cloudily robed,
sinuous Egyptians, whose long eyes were wells of feminine secrets; who
had never smoked or tasted cocktails, but who lived in a mysterious world
which for some reason he identified with the deep notes of an organ.
Yes, it was their mystery that appealed to him. Mystery was what he
sought, but never found, among the women of his acquaintance.
The road became a high ledge, a thread encircling a bowl of shadow. The
gradient grew dangerously steep, and Barry checked speed almost
unconsciously.
His musing had carried him many miles. Startled, he became aware of
the fact that he could recall no point of the route from the spot where he had
passed that solitary pedestrian. But the black cloud had won; for a darkness
like night had fallen all around him. He must think what lay at the bottom
of this winding road, and how they had approached it. He seemed to
remember that there was a fork; that they had come out upon the valley side
by one of three ways. But by which of them?
He slowed down more and more as he reached the bottom of the slope,
which now turned sharply eastward out of the valley. He had been right.
Three roads opened before him. His decision was promptly made. He
swung into the middle route, confidently giving the Rolls her head again.
On he raced, along a smooth avenue, overshadowed, and so dark that
midnight might have come.
During that momentary check he had heard the booming of thunder,
away behind him in the west. The avenue began to curve south. It seemed to
be unfamiliarly narrow. More and more southerly it inclined, until at last
came a crossroad. He pulled up, hesitated, and knew definitely that he had
made a wrong choice. It was the north fork he should have taken. Therefore

he turned left into the crossing, presuming that it must bring him out upon
his proper route.
Going was very bad. The Rolls bumped and shook from stem to stern.
But he pursued his way and swore under his breath when he found that this
road also inclined to the south. But now, through an opening in the trees, he
saw yet another crossway. Left again he swung, pursued by louder rumbling
of thunder. Rain was beginning to fall.
Suddenly, his head lamps flooded a high wall. He wondered, but drove
on; when—blinding, awesome—the lightning came… and he saw Her!
There was a stone-faced house not twenty yards ahead, and on a balcony
high up before an open window she stood. She wore some kind of cloudy
robe—a jewelled girdle—the dress of a Theban priestess! One hand
upraised rested against the sash of the window, the other upon the curve of
her hip.
She had long dark eyes which seemed to be watching him, and her lips
were parted in a slight smile.…
“I am dreaming,” he said aloud. “An Egyptian princess!”
Save that it seemed to live, the beautiful figure was one of those out of a
dim past which had watched over him from childhood!
And now the wheel was wrenched from Barry’s grasp—he was aware of
a cry—a loud, splintering crash—a sickening blow on the skull—of no
more.…

CHAPTER II.
THE DIVIDING LINE

Very slowly Barry Cumberland opened his eyes—took one look straight
before him—and then shut them again quickly.
Something was wrong. He could swear he had been sitting but a moment
before with his back against the giant pillar of an Ancient Egyptian
building, staring at a window high up in a temple wall. In the moonlight he
had seen a beautiful priestess standing at this window; and he had been
waiting patiently—patiently—for a black cloud to pass, a cloud that had
suddenly obscured the moon and hidden the slender figure.
Yes, those were the facts, he felt fairly confident. He opened his eyes
again. He saw a small, very clean white room; and he was lying in a very
clean white bed. He seemed to be propped up in some way, and he
experienced great difficulty in moving his head, together with great
disinclination to do so because of a dull pain above his eyes.
There were some medicine bottles and cups upon a glass-topped table,
and there was a tall white screen of some very glossy material. The only
spot of colour in the room was a bowl filled with red roses, which also
stood upon the table. He wondered idly what was behind the screen, and
then closed his eyes once more.
There was some mistake. No doubt the explanation was simple enough,
but his brain seemed to be tired, physically tired. He found himself
incapable of grappling with the problem. In one respect, of course, he must
have been wrong: In regard to the Egyptian temple. He had never been in
Egypt. In his idea that he lay in this unfamiliar white room, no doubt he was
wrong, also; although the red roses were suspiciously like the handiwork of
his Aunt Micky.
Without Barry becoming aware of any movement, a cool hand was
presently laid upon his forehead.
For the third time he raised weary lids—and found himself looking into a
pair of kindly eyes, their kindliness magnified by the glasses which their
owner wore. A white-capped nurse was bending over him! She was entirely

dressed in white, too. Everything in the place seemed to be white, except
the roses, which were red, and the nurse’s eyes, which were blue.
“Ah!” she said, speaking in a low, soothing voice which yet had a note of
gaiety in it, “so you have decided to wake up.”
Barry Cumberland tried to say Yes, but only achieved a whisper. Great
heavens! He had never felt so cheap in his life! What was it all about?
“Don’t bother to talk,” the soothing voice went on. “When you have had
another little sleep you will feel ever so much better. I have brought you a
drink.”
She held a glass to his lips. He drank, looking into the kindly, smiling
eyes; and fell asleep again.
The next time he awoke, the nurse was sitting in a chair beside him,
reading. Presumably it was night, for a silk-shaded lamp was lighted upon
the table at her elbow.
Barry stirred slightly and turned in her direction. She looked up at once.
“Good-evening,” she said; “is there anything you want?”
“No, thank you.” His voice was very low, but at least he could make
himself understand. “Except—where am I?”
“In the first place, you are quite all right,” she replied in her gentle way.
“You were thrown out of your car, you know, and really had—a most lucky
escape. In the second place, you are in the Elizabeth Foundation Hospital.”
“Thrown out of my car?” Barry muttered. “Elizabeth? How did I get to
Elizabeth?”
The nurse looked at him doubtfully, stood up, and:
“I am not at all sure that you should be allowed to talk yet,” she said in a
tone of authority. “At any rate, it is time for your medicine.”
She measured out a dose from a graduated bottle on the table, and held it
to his lips. He drank, watching her, and vainly trying to grab at any one of a
thousand ideas that were dancing wildly through his brain. Yes, of course!
—there had been a crash! He remembered, now. He had been driving the
Rolls—when was it? Some time earlier in the evening, no doubt. And there
was something about Egypt. Had someone been talking to him about
Egypt? He could not capture this idea at all.
As the empty glass was set down:
“Please tell me,” he asked, and found that he had already more control of
his voice, “did I crash near here?”

“Some little distance away,” the nurse answered, resuming her seat and
smoothing a white apron with sensitive fingers.
Barry considered this reply for a long time. His brain was working with
unfamiliar and amazing slowness. Then:
“Was I alone?” he inquired.
“You were alone in the car—yes.”
“You are sure there was no lady with me?”
“Quite sure.”
“Then how do I come to be here?”
“You were brought here by someone who found you.”
“Do you mean a friend?” Barry asked.
And as he spoke an explanation came to him of that extraordinary
pressure about his skull for which he had hitherto been unable to account.
His head was tightly bandaged!
“I am afraid you are talking too much,” the nurse said with gentle
sternness. “It is contrary to Dr. Barton’s orders for me to allow you to talk.
But I will answer your question. The man who brought you was a stranger,
and his finding you a pure accident. And now please close your eyes and
stop thinking about it.”
Barry smiled, and, in regard to closing his eyes, obeyed. But he did not
stop thinking about it. He lay there endeavouring to capture those
maddeningly elusive ideas which scampered about his mind like so many
rabbits. Yes—he had crashed in the Rolls. He had been bound for New
York. He remembered so much, clearly. He could not remember why he
was bound for New York, nor from where; but New York had been his
objective. He opened his eyes.
“How was I dressed when I was brought in?” he inquired.
“You were wearing your dinner clothes,” the nurse replied distinctly,
raising her eyes from the book which she had resumed reading. “Please ask
no more questions, because I shall be unable to answer them. In ten minutes
I am going to turn the light out and leave you. So try to get to sleep.”
“Thank you,” said Barry, and continued his reflections.
He had been wearing his dinner clothes. Where on earth could he have
been coming from? He opened his eyes, another point having occurred to
him which might help to throw light upon the problem. But, slowly turning
his head aside and noting the firm little chin of the girl as she bent over her
book, he hesitated and did not ask the question. Nevertheless, he

determined to remain awake until he had the facts in order. With which idea
firmly in mind, he immediately fell asleep again.
When next he awakened, morning sunlight flooded the room, and he saw,
standing beside the white-capped nurse, a cheery-looking, gray-haired man,
having a very ruddy complexion.
“Good-morning, Mr. Cumberland,” said the cheery man in a cheery
voice.
“Good-morning,” Barry replied—and, in the act of speaking, knew that
he was himself again and that he had not been himself during those earlier
conversations with the nurse.
He raised his hand to his bandaged skull. It was singing and throbbing,
but that curious dull pain had gone.
“My name is Dr. Barton,” the other went on. “Feel better?”
“Rather!” said Barry. “What the deuce happened to me? Did I try to take
a high jump or something?”
“Not exactly,” Dr. Barton replied, sitting on a rail at the end of the bed
and addressing Barry over his shoulder. “You seem to have tried to climb a
tree.”
Barry grinned feebly.
“How’s the Rolls looking?” he inquired.
“That I can’t tell you,” was the reply. “I understand it has been towed to a
garage some miles from here.”
But, even as he listened to Dr. Barton’s answer, Barry’s mind had been
actively at work. A phantom that had been haunting him took human shape.
He recalled every circumstance that had led up to the accident. His smashed
car ceased to interest him. His own condition became a very trivial matter.
One thing, and one thing only, he wanted to know, and:
“I remember it all clearly,” he said. “I had lost my way. One point I must
clear up.”
“Well, get busy with it,” the genial doctor directed, “because we are
going to have you out of bed, presently, and see how you feel on your feet.”
“Splendid,” Barry replied. “What I want you to tell me is this: the exact
spot at which the crash took place.”
Dr. Barton shook his head.
“I haven’t the faintest idea!”
“What!” Barry exclaimed. “But whoever brought me here must have
known where he found me!”

“No doubt,” Dr. Barton admitted, “but he didn’t think it necessary to
mention the fact.”
“Perhaps you don’t understand,” Barry went on patiently, “that it’s rather
important. Could you possibly ring up this Good Samaritan and arrange for
me to see him?”
“We could—if we knew his number.”
“Didn’t he leave it?”
“He left nothing!” was the astonishing answer. “He drove you here in a
Studebaker—it was a Studebaker, wasn’t it, Nurse?” The nurse confirmed
his statement with a nod; and: “In a Studebaker,” Dr. Barton continued, “at
somewhere around ten o’clock. Dr. Perry was in charge and admitted you.
You looked like a serious case, you understand. You’re not, but you looked
like it. Who you were we found out from your cards, license, and what not.
Then this dark horse in the Studebaker faded out.”
“Faded out?” Barry echoed.
“Precisely!” Dr. Barton inclined his head in solemn fashion. “Faded out.
He didn’t leave so much as his best wishes.”
“Do you mean you have no means of tracing him?”
“None whatever,” the nurse assured him. “Dr. Perry told me he was a
rough-looking man. I was on duty that night. And no one was more
surprised than Dr. Perry when we learned that he had driven off.”
“You see, it looked suspicious,” Dr. Barton explained; “and we have been
manhandled by the police about it. I mean, there was nothing to show that
you had not been assaulted and robbed.”
Barry stared at the speaker unseeingly. He was thinking again.
“Whoever towed my car to the garage,” he mused aloud, “will tell me
where I was found—or where the car was found.”
“I am sorry,” Barton declared, “but he won’t! The garage telephoned here
the same night to say they had the car. We had a police officer on the
premises at the time.”
“Well?” said Barry eagerly.
“A man driving a Studebaker towed the car in,” Barton went on; “said it
was the property of Mr. Barry Cumberland and that Mr. Cumberland would
settle with them for repairing it. Then he faded out.”
“Leaving no name?”
“Leaving no name.”
“Was this last night?”

Dr. Barton glanced at the nurse, smiled, and then:
“It was on Wednesday night,” he returned. “You were semiconscious for
forty-eight hours! And now, stop talking. I’ve got my work to do. Stand by,
Nurse.”
“One moment!” Barry pleaded. “My father?”
“Your father has been in constant touch. We advised him at once. He is
downstairs now, waiting to see you.”

CHAPTER III.
A WEEK LATER

“She might have stepped down from that painting!” said Barry, pointing to
a reproduction of part of a wall of the great temple at Medinet Habu, above
the carven mantelpiece of the library.
His father nodded and smiled, but not unkindly. He was strangely like his
son, except that John Cumberland’s curly hair was gray and Barry’s curly
hair was brown.
At the present moment Barry did not look his best, owing to the fact that
a patch of the said curly hair was very neatly shaved and the corresponding
portion of his skull decorated with unattractive surgical dressing.
They both possessed fresh, healthy colouring and steadfast gray eyes.
Both were virile, real, and would have been unusually handsome except that
both had “the Cumberland nose,” which was quite frankly tip-tilted. But, in
spite of it, there were many girls in New York who invariably referred to
Barry Cumberland as good-looking. And indeed he was, as his father still
remained.
No two men could have seemed more strangely out of place in this
setting. John Cumberland might have passed for an old-fashioned English
squire; Barry was as typical a young man of to-day—sane, fit, keen—as one
could find anywhere in the English-speaking world. Yet this library more
closely resembled one of the Egyptian rooms at the British Museum than
the favourite haunt of a prosperous man of affairs.
Egypt—unaccountable though it appeared to his friends—was John
Cumberland’s hobby; a hobby in which he had sunk a not inconsiderable
fortune; in which he had sought, and ultimately found, it would seem,
consolation for the loss of Barry’s mother, who had died when Barry was
seven years old.
To-day the Cumberland Collection ranked as the second finest of its kind
in the United States. It was representative of Egyptian civilization in all its
phases—save that it contained no mummies. It was not confined to the
library, but overflowed into practically every room in the house. Yet

nowhere were there any mummies. This was a concession to Aunt Micky,
John Cumberland’s sister, who acted as the widower’s housekeeper and
hostess.
Whereas the loss of his wife had occasioned a wound to John
Cumberland’s heart that only time had healed, the loss by his sister of the
dissolute Count Colonna had left her a grateful if somewhat embittered
woman. The later years of her married life had been years of hidden misery,
during which she had realized to the full that, if she had married a title,
Colonna had married a dowry. Time, however, had sweetened her even as it
had healed her brother. She tasted the strange fruits of our modern orchard
with astonishment but without dyspepsia, nevertheless firmly declining to
remain under the same roof with a mummy.
“This girl on the balcony seems to have made a tremendous impression
upon you,” said John Cumberland, keenly watching his son across the
library table.
“I can never forget her,” Barry declared; for between these two was that
rare comradeship which makes secrets unnecessary. “I don’t mean that I
have fallen in love at first sight, or anything ridiculous like that! But I have
an intense curiosity to know who she is.”
“You are quite sure,” his father went on, carefully selecting a cigar, “that
the order of events was: the girl and the crash?—not the crash and the girl?
You see what I mean, Barry? You have always had an interest in these
things—” he waved his cigar vaguely in the direction of the library walls
—“which I suppose I have encouraged. You had it in mind to get back here
to supper, and so it is just possible——”
“I quite see what you mean,” Barry interrupted: “that the girl on the
balcony was the beginning of delirium after I had banged my head? Well, of
course, it’s impossible to explain how I know it, but you are wrong. I
certainly saw her. And what adds to my certainty is the curious behaviour of
the people who took care of me afterward.”
“You mean the man who brought you to the hospital and the one who
towed your car to the garage?”
“Why, certainly!” Barry replied. “As not a thing was stolen, either from
me personally or out of the Rolls, why should these people have
deliberately kept in the background?”
“I see your point,” said his father slowly; “but I rather think there was
only one man concerned.”

“I believe you are right,” Barry agreed; “and I believe that this man was
acting for the girl I saw at the window!”
John Cumberland looked up, fumbling for his lighter.
“Now,” he confessed, “I don’t entirely follow you.”
“I mean, Dad,” Barry explained excitedly, “that she must have seen me.
She was looking at me. If I saw her, she certainly saw me!”
John Cumberland lighted his cigar.
“Now I begin to follow,” he nodded. “You mean that she didn’t want you
to trace her?”
“Exactly!”
“You are sure she saw you? A flash of lightning such as you describe
would have a very blinding effect.”
“It did,” Barry admitted ruefully, “in my case! But the crash took place
less than twenty yards from the spot where she was standing.”
“Yes,” his father mused; “probably you are right. You think that she sent
this mysterious man with the Studebaker to your assistance, had you taken
to the hospital in Elizabeth, and then had the Rolls towed to a distant
garage, with the idea that you would be unable to find the spot later? Rather
a hazard. How was she to know that you were unfamiliar with the
neighbourhood?”
“She might have thought it worth a chance, at any rate.”
“But the object?” John Cumberland exclaimed. “What could be the
object? Was she very inadequately dressed? I mean was she likely to feel
ashamed of having been seen in such a condition?”
“Why, no,” said Barry reflectively. “She was very strangely dressed, and,
as far as that goes, scantily. But in these days that wouldn’t upset her.
There’s some mystery about it—of this I am certain. To-morrow I am going
exploring. I wish you could come.”
“Unfortunately I can’t,” was the reply. “I have two important
conferences. But if you go, let Hemingway drive you. You have had a devil
of a knock on the head, my boy, and you shouldn’t overtax yourself.”
Barry, however, had planned to go with Jim Sakers, who claimed to know
the country like the palm of his hand. And on the following morning the
two made an early start, beneath a cloudless sky which lent the towering
buildings of New York an unfamiliar ethereal quality.
Jim Sakers, in appearance and in temperament, was as different from
Barry Cumberland as a Gruyère cheese is different from an ivory Buddha.

He was dark and of a lovable ugliness; practical to a degree that his friend
sometimes found irritating; invariably good-humoured; and frankly ignorant
of everything that could not be dealt with on Wall Street. An enthusiastic
sportsman to whom the Arts were an awful mystery, he, withal, regarded the
moody Barry more tenderly than Horatio looked upon Hamlet.
Once extricated from the crossword puzzle of New York’s traffic and
clear of Hoboken’s shores, they began to make speed, Jim commenting
continuously upon sights by the way, as was his manner, Barry answering
only in monosyllables and being entirely wrapped up in his own thoughts.
Presently:
“When we get to the house,” he said, “I propose to call.”
“Cheers!” cried Jim. “I hope the Egyptian princess keeps a good cellar.
But what for?”
“To thank her for looking after me. I shall take it for granted that she
did.”
“Wait until we find the house,” Jim warned; “and then, wait until we get
in!”
Barry smiled lightly.
“Of course we shall find the house,” he asserted. “You know the way,
don’t you?”
“Absolutely,” Jim assured him, “as far as the forks. I simply couldn’t go
wrong. But from there onward, I am entirely in your hands. You say you
took the middle road?”
“Yes,” Barry nodded. “The middle one.”
He became lost in thought again, paying so little attention to his
companion’s cheery remarks that presently these ceased, as mile after mile
was left behind and New York seemed to become very remote, in the peace
of the countryside that they were traversing.
And now, undaunted, Jim began to sing, loudly.
“ ‘Dear one, the moon is waiting for the sunshine——’ ”
“Shut up!” Barry implored. “Don’t sing. Or, if you must sing, sing the
right words. It isn’t ‘the moon’—it’s ‘the world.’ ”
“Oh!” Jim stared. “I don’t believe it. But, anyway, I like ‘the moon’
better.”
“The tune is all wrong as well.”
“You’re too blamed particular!” said Jim.

Engaged in this argument they came sweeping down a long, straight
road, turned sharply to the right, and Jim pulled up.
“Behold!” he cried, and pointed.
Barry could not conceal his excitement.
“Gad!” he muttered. “It looks all different, now. But, yes, that’s the
road.”
“Middle one, boss?”
“Yes.”
“Very good, boss.”
Jim grinned cheerfully and swung around into the thoroughfare indicated.
“Tell me when to stop, boss!” he shouted. “ ‘Dear one, the moon …’ ”
He sang lustily, and inaccurately, for half a mile or more; until:
“Here we are! Left!” Barry shouted.
Jim obediently turned into the narrow way indicated by his companion,
raced along it, and then:
“What’s this?” he exclaimed, and pulled up sharply. A barrier confronted
them. “We’ve got into a private road! And it’s closed for repairs. Look!” He
pointed to the board which clearly stated this fact. “It’s been closed for a
long time, too, from the look of it. You’ve muddled the contract, you poor
nut!”
Barry sat staring blankly ahead. At last:
“Try back,” he suggested. “I can’t make this out.”
Jim grunted, backed out to a gap, turned, and retraced the path to the high
road. Slowing up:
“Now, boss,” he demanded, “what next? Where’s the princess?”
Barry, who had been sitting with knitted brows, looked up sharply.
“Jim,” he declared, “that was the right road—and it was open on the
night I drove along it!”
“We might park the bus and walk,” Jim suggested helpfully.
“No,” Barry replied; “I don’t feel fit enough. Besides——”
“Well?” Jim prompted.
“Why was the road closed? There’s a mystery here, Jim, and I shall never
solve it by blundering in like a bull at a fence.”
“Then what do we do now, boss?” Jim demanded.
“Go home!” was the reply.
“Right!” said Jim, and headed east for New York. “Once upon a time,” he
recited, in a loud singsong, “there was a princess …”

CHAPTER IV.
SHADED WINDOWS

In the days that followed, Barry Cumberland resigned himself to waiting.
He was soon practically fit again, however, and he made up his mind to
employ his first morning of freedom in a methodical search for the scene of
his accident.
Working from the nearest base where he could garage the convalescent
Rolls, he set out on foot; and in something less than half an hour had
reached the barricaded road. He had come alone. Jim Sakers’s open
scepticism upon the subject to which he usually alluded as “Barry’s
princess” had begun to jar upon the victim’s sensitiveness.
He made a slight detour through close-set trees and came out upon the
private road twenty yards beyond. There was nothing to show that anything
in the nature of repairs was taking place, and he proceeded confidently,
looking about him in quest of some landmark. He found none. But presently
an opening appeared on the left. Barry turned into it, pulled up, and
suppressed a cry of triumph.
Hitherto completely hidden by embracing woods, a house lay forty yards
back from the road. Its grounds were surrounded by a high wall, and its
construction was memorable because of a turret which crowned the easterly
wing of the building.
Barry stood watching it for a time, and groping for another memory
which the sight of the house provoked, but which nevertheless eluded him.
He realized from its situation that upon the southeast it must look sheerly
down into a valley. When, and where, before, had he seen such a house? Try
how he might he could not remember. Had he seen it in a dream? Surely he
had looked down upon it from a great height! But when? Had the vision
been prophetic—an omen? If so, an omen of what?
He advanced slowly. He bent, studying the road and the unkempt
shrubbery on his left. The track was altogether too deeply rutted to have
retained any imprint by which the passage of his own tires could be
identified.

But now, in the very shadow of the building, he pulled up sharply,
staring. There was a tree stump some four feet out from the wall, its bark
newly gashed in a rather peculiar manner. The undergrowth about here, too,
had an odd appearance. It was dying in patches.
Stepping back to the middle of the road, he looked up across the wall. He
found that he was staring directly at a window of the house beyond—a
window before which a small balcony projected!
He had made no mistake! Here it was—at this very spot—that he had
crashed! Dr. Barton had been nearer to the truth than he knew when he had
declared, “You seem to have tried to climb a tree.”
Exhilaration came. This provoking mystery was about to be solved.
Passing along the entire length of the wall without coming to any gate,
Barry reached the corner and looked across a sloping lawn beyond which
stone steps led down to a sunken garden. Far below lay the bowl of the
valley through which ran the high road to New York. A semicircular path
swept around before the long, low porch of the house, which, as he
immediately noted, appeared to be deserted. All visible windows were
shaded. There was no evidence of life whatever about the premises. His
hopes fell to zero.
Stepping onto the porch, which looked very dusty and unswept, he
pressed the bell and waited, lighting a cigarette.
There was no response; not even the barking of a dog. A second and a
third time he rang with equally negative results. The thing was growing
more and more extraordinary.
Since this road, now closed, clearly led to nowhere but the house, if he
had imagined that figure of a girl at the window, by whom had he been
taken to the hospital?
Baffled, but not beaten, he walked down the steps again. He had noted a
path which clearly led to a garden at the back—a garden concealed behind
that high wall against which he had crashed. He turned into it, passed under
the very window in which the girl had stood, and came out at the rear of this
house of mystery.
He paused in sight of the garden. Beside him was a door. It was partly
open—and from beyond came an unmistakable sound of clattering pots and
pans!
Barry raised his hand and rapped sharply. The sounds ceased. A minute
passed in silence. Barry rapped again, more loudly.

The door was suddenly opened—so suddenly, he realized, that the
woman who now stood before him must have crept forward to peep at the
intruder. He found himself confronted by a truly formidable female, built
for cargo rather than for speed. Her arms appeared to be wet to the elbows,
and were, in the words of Jim Sakers, to whom Barry later gave an account
of the interview, “as per specification. See ‘Village Blacksmith,’ page 1.”
Her muscular hands rested upon her hips. She was iron-jawed, and her
regard was a challenge.
“Good-morning,” he began. “My name is Barry Cumberland.”
The woman did not reply.
“I could get no answer to the bell,” he went on, “and came around in the
hope of finding someone at home.”
“There’s no one home but me.”
“Can you tell me when they will be back?”
“Who?”
“Well—particularly the lady. The lady whom I really came to thank for
her service——”
“Say it again.”
“The lady who witnessed an accident which took place outside this house
two weeks ago.”
The Amazon stared in silence, until:
“Forgive me,” said Barry patiently, “but did you hear what I said?”
“I heard.”
“Then why don’t you answer?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“But a lady does live here.”
“Does she?”
Barry was torn between laughter and indignation, but he feared an assault
might follow any manifestation of either; therefore:
“I think I told you that my name was Barry Cumberland?” he said in his
most amiable manner.
“You surely did.”
“You may have heard the name?”
“You said it twice.”
“Hang it all! At least you must know I mean no harm. I want to thank the
owner of the house for taking care of me when otherwise I might have died
on the roadside.”

“There’s no one home.”
“So you have told me! But surely I can communicate with him
somewhere? What is his name?”
“Brown.”
“But there are so many Browns! What is his first name?”
“John.”
Barry, stifling his rising anger, drew out a pocket case and pencil.
Solemnly he noted the name “John Brown”; then:
“And at what address can I write to Mr. Brown?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“I mean, is it anywhere in America, or has Mr. Brown gone to Europe?”
“I don’t know.”
Apparently by accident, a ten-dollar bill dropped from the case, and
Barry held it out insinuatingly. Thereupon, with suddenly dilated nostrils,
the formidable guardian of the empty mansion slammed the door in his
face! He distinctly heard a bolt being shot.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” said he.
There are some situations from which retirement in good order is the
only possible course; and Barry Cumberland recognized the fact that this
was one of them. Returning his wallet to his pocket, he began to retrace his
steps.
“What the devil does it mean?” he muttered.
Of the woman’s antagonism there could be no doubt, nor of her loyalty to
her employer. “John Brown!” Of course, it was a fabrication. She was lying,
deliberately. Her instructions plainly were to give no information—and she
had followed them to the letter.
The object of it all defied his imagination, but he was more than ever
certain that the girl at the window overlooking the garden had been real and
no figment of delirium.
As he walked slowly out to the road again, his mind was busy with
possible theories. He had learned much but little. Suspicion created by the
barred road was strengthened by what he had found at the house. For some
unfathomable reason, the girl at the window and those associated with her
were peculiarly anxious to avoid meeting him.
But the longer he considered the problem, the more hopeless it became.
He determined to consult the local real estate people, to endeavour to trace

the ownership of the place, and to identify this “John Brown” who was so
pointedly anxious to avoid him.

CHAPTER V.
BARRY IS HAUNTED

“In short,” said Jim, “the princess may be described as still at large?”
“Shut up about ‘the princess,’ ” Barry retorted. “At least I have found out
that the woman didn’t lie. The house actually belongs to someone called
John Brown.”
“Then, in private life, the—the lady—must be a Miss or a Mrs. Brown.
Not a romantic name. But what did the realty sportsman tell you about this
mysterious citizen Brown?”
“Very little. Said he had never seen him. And, for your enlightenment,
there is no Mrs. Brown and no Miss Brown.”
“Odder and odder. Have you thought that she may have been the daily
help bound for a fancy-dress orgy?”
“I have not.”
“Well, think about it. Sherlock Holmes would have thought about it at
once. Another theory. Mr. Brown may be a bootlegger! A third theory——”
“I don’t want to hear it!”
Jim Sakers looked at Barry reproachfully.
“You are not tackling this thing in the light of pure reason,” he protested.
“The proper method is to think of every possible solution, jot ’em all down,
and then pick out the right one.”
“Go to blazes!” said Barry.
He had begun to cultivate a sort of New Jersey complex, and was forever
driving out into the hills which had been the scene of his strange and
unfortunate experience.
One afternoon he drove as far as the club from which he had been
returning when the accident had occurred. He had no particular purpose in
view, beyond that of travelling over the now familiar route. The golf course
was thickly dotted with players, but none of his intimate set seemed to be in
the clubhouse or on the tennis courts. He smoked a reflective pipe on the
veranda, watching long drives and short drives from the first tee, and then
set out for home again.

Rain threatened; indeed, was only checked by a high wind. And at a point
in the descending road which seemed to be peculiarly familiar for some
reason, he pulled up and sat staring as one who has seen an apparition.
A long-dormant memory awoke.
Through a rift in the driving clouds sunlight poured suddenly upon a
building halfway down the slope beneath, surrounded by high walls and
having a curious turretlike structure at one corner!
Good heavens! It was the house—her house; and he had first seen it
under very similar conditions on the evening of his crash! The clouds swept
on, and shadow came where there had been light—just as had happened
before.
He had not dreamed it, after all. But, nevertheless, his first glimpse of the
building had been in the nature of an omen. Considering the fact that it lay a
mile or more back from the main road, his subsequently coming to disaster
under its very walls was at least an amazing coincidence.
Automatically he took out his case and lighted a cigarette, all the time
watching the mystery house nestling there far below in its enclosing
gardens. Once he glanced away. It was to see what prospect offered of
sunlight again flooding that part of the landscape. Even as he looked back,
the desired effect came about. Some quality in the atmosphere seemed to
bring out details very sharply; and the result was that effected by a reducing
glass. He saw the house as through the lens of a camera.
Smoke from his newly lighted cigarette rose before his eyes. Abruptly he
tossed the cigarette away, and watched—watched; eagerly, fixedly.
A tiny but clear-cut figure in the distance, a girl moved in the walled
garden!
She appeared to be gathering flowers.… The shadow of a cloud crept
across and across; until once more the picture was blotted out.
Barry’s heart gave a great leap. At crazy speed he swept down the valley
road, taking one keen bend on two tires. Of his going he afterward
remembered nothing. When, for the second time, he stepped upon the porch
of “John Brown’s” house, he recalled the remark of a girl he had once
overheard: “Barry Cumberland is picturesquely mad,” she had said.
“She was right,” he reflected and pressed the bell.
The place looked as it had looked before. All the windows were shaded.
There was dust on the porch. No one answered his repeated ringing.

In a state bordering upon stupefaction, he went to that side path which
led to the garden. He found only a barred gate, at which he stared in
unbelieving wonder. Beyond, he could see the door where he had held his
interview with the unrelenting caretaker. But all around was silence. To-day
there was no rattling of pots and pans.
Could it be, as his father had hinted, that imagination was playing tricks
with him? Had the vision at the window indeed been the outcome of an
injury, and was this phantom of the garden an aftermath of it—a second
illusion—a mirage? Back along the ill-kept road he walked to the barrier,
where, heedless of possible loss, he had left the Rolls.
What ailed him? Was he going mad? Was his interest in this house and its
occupants due to frustrated curiosity? If so, did this fully explain his waking
and sleeping dreams of a dark-eyed girl in a cloudy robe, watching him
from a high balcony?
Barry was taking Aunt Micky to dine that evening at a restaurant on
Forty-seventh Street, which legitimately enjoyed the reputation of owning a
good cellar. Jim Sakers was joining them, and bringing Jack Lorrimer. Jack
was Barry’s cousin. She was very pretty, having missed the Cumberland
nose. Following dinner, they were going to see the most improper play on
Broadway. The event was in honour of Aunt Micky, who occasionally
indulged in what she termed “a night of pure sin.”
Having dressed, Barry was sitting smoking in the library when she came
down. He had been studying the figure of a slender priestess from the
temple at Dendera.
“Well, young Cumberland,” came a deep female voice, “dreaming
again?”
Barry turned—he was seated on the edge of the library table—and smiled
at the speaker. Countess Colonna was a woman of medium height, sturdily
built, and deep-chested, as were all the Cumberlands. Her crisp gray hair
was closely bobbed; her unflinching steel-gray eyes looked out from under
thick, dark eyebrows to tell the world that a dissolute husband had not
crushed her spirit. She had been handsome in her youth. The Cumberland
nose in a woman was not unattractive.
Her dress was somewhat masculine, consisting of a smart dinner jacket
with white silk waistcoat—the latter cut moderately low—a short black
skirt, black silk stockings, and chic black shoes. That she had hitherto

refrained from wearing trousers Barry regarded as a concession, for which
he was duly grateful.
“Hello, Micky,” he said—“all set?”
“Surely,” his aunt replied, lighting a very large cigarette and replacing the
lighter in the pocket of her jacket. “I have always avoided your speak-easy,
young Cumberland, because I don’t want to be mixed up in a raid. But, as I
don’t care for whisky with dinner, I have fallen.”
“Splendid,” replied Barry, laughing. “We shall make you a complete
sinner yet.”
“I aim to be,” said Aunt Micky, “on my ‘night.’ The night over, there isn’t
a better citizen in the United States than Michael Colonna.”
“There isn’t a better sport in the world,” added Barry affectionately. “Pity
you never married again, Micky.”
“Don’t be a damn’ fool!” was the reply.
As they came down the steps to the street:
“Hello!” said Barry, “why have we got the big car?”
“John has taken the other,” his aunt replied.
She wore a French cape, red-lined, with which in the high wind she was
struggling valiantly.
“Where has he gone?” Barry asked, as Hemingway held open the door of
the car.
“He is dining with the man Danbazzar,” Aunt Micky answered, getting
in.
“That means he’s spending money,” Barry mused as he dropped down
upon the seat beside her. “What is it this time? A scarab or half the side of a
temple?”
“Can’t say.” His aunt shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t like Danbazzar.
Fascinating man, but don’t like him.”
“Oddly enough, I have never met him,” Barry said. “But I know he has
done business with Dad for years.”
Presently the car pulled up before an ordinary-looking chop house, and
Barry jumped out, helping Aunt Micky to alight. She stared in through the
open windows, beyond which rows of tables might be seen, some already
occupied; she glanced up at the signboard and looked into the narrow
doorway.
“Hardly Ritzy,” she commented.

“Not to look at,” Barry admitted. “But the wine is bon; so are the
liqueurs.”
“Ah, well,” his aunt mused, “sin leads our footsteps into strange
bypaths.”
They went in. Barry had reserved a table to which a very gentlemanly
Irishman conducted them.
“Haven’t my friends arrived, Pat?” Barry inquired.
“No, Mr. Cumberland. But you are a shade early.”
Barry glanced at his watch and then at the clock.
“You are right,” he agreed. “What about two special cocktails?”
“Precisely,” his aunt inquired, ignoring all offers of assistance and
throwing her cavalry cloak across the back of a chair—“precisely what is a
‘special cocktail’?”
“It is clearly indicated to-night,” Barry assured her.
“Then let it be brought,” said Aunt Micky.
The cocktails had just been served and Barry was studying the menu
when Jim appeared in the open doorway, staring from table to table in quest
of his party. Beside him stood a pretty girl wearing a very modern dance
frock, a fragment of silvery gauze. Barry stood up, waving, and Aunt Micky
shaded her eyes with her hand, a mannerism indicating disapproval. She
drew a deep breath as the new arrivals approached, Jack Lorrimer observed
of many observers.
“H’m,” she murmured—“silver currency coming in again. Young
Lorrimer has a dollar in front, a dollar behind and no change. Barry, the
girl’s nude!”
“Shut up, Micky!” said her embarrassed nephew. “Hello, Jack! Hello,
Jim! They are bringing your cocktails.”
When everyone was seated, Aunt Micky shaded her eyes again,
surveying Jack from shingled nut-brown hair downward to the table edge.
“Are you liking my frock,” the girl asked, “or hating it?”
“Neither,” was the reply. “I am looking for it.”
Jim applauded softly, and Jack turned to Barry for sympathy, leaning
forward so that two curly heads were very close together.
“Do you see anything wrong with me?” she pleaded.
Jim watched in tragic disapproval, then rested his hand upon Aunt
Micky’s shoulder.

“Look at them!” he said—“admired, self-satisfied—pink and white.
Micky, we brunettes must hang together!”
The dinner turned out a great success.
Aunt Micky followed a routine on these occasions: drinking red wine
because of its pleasing resemblance to blood, eating a prodigious quantity
of celery, taking the blue-plate item in the menu regardless of its
constitution, and winding up with rum omelette in flames, because it was
“so hellish.”
The notorious play bored her.
“I am going home to read in bed,” she declared, as they waited outside
the theatre for the car. “I shall read The Sorrows of Satan, by Marie
Corelli.”
They dropped her at the Cumberland town house, an old-fashioned
mansion in one of those sections of the big city where a few historic
families still linger. A tired-looking person was smoking a slightly used
cigar and supporting the iron post which decorated a neighbouring corner.
As the door closed and Barry came down to reënter the car, the weary man
saluted him.
“Bloated capitalist,” Jim murmured; “living in constant terror of the
honest but starving burglar. Your wretched treasures guarded night and day
by detectives——”
“Yes,” said Barry, laughing, and directing Hemingway through the tube.
“It seems funny to me. Because I can’t imagine the most hard-working
burglar staggering away with a couple of hundred-weights of granite sphinx
on his back.”
“I much prefer the detective’s life,” Jim continued irrepressibly. “The
detective’s life is the life for me. ‘All forms of shadowing undertaken.
Divorce and blackmail our specialties. Order your armed guards by
telephone. One to five thousand—in uniform—at a moment’s notice. Our
watchword: Shoot to Kill. Telegraphic address: Confidence, New
York’——”
“For the love of Mike,” Jack implored, “be quiet for five minutes!”
The car threaded its way through Fifth Avenue, and, at the very moment
of its turning into that thoroughfare sacred to prohibitive prices, a traffic
signal checked them. A French limousine shot past ahead, its occupants
clearly visible. They were two; and as the man was seated on the off-side,

Barry had never a glimpse of his features. But the girl wore a curious black
veil, of a fashion neither Oriental nor Spanish.
She had apparently just raised it, but dropped it again swiftly on seeing
another car so near. Yet she failed to veil quickly enough to prevent Barry
obtaining a glimpse of her face. He uttered a loud cry. To the astonishment
of his friends—even Jim was silenced—he wrenched open the door and
leaped out into the street!
He ran three or four paces and stood there like a madman, right in the
traffic fairway, glaring after the retreating car! Its number was
indistinguishable. He turned, staring back at Hemingway, who was
regarding him with deep concern.
“Am I really going mad?” he muttered.
The girl in the car was the girl of the balcony!

CHAPTER VI.
DANBAZZAR

The abstracted mood of Barry during the remainder of the evening was too
noticeable to pass without comment. His dance partner, Naomi, a girl friend
of Jack’s grew very petulant, until Jack was really sorry for her. This
wouldn’t have mattered, but Jack showed it. Whereupon Naomi became
furious.
Barry knew that he would not lack successors, however, for a lot of their
crowd were there, and Naomi was what Jim termed “a star looker.”
Accordingly he excused himself early on some imaginary pretext and
started for home. He had let Hemingway go, and he taxied back. He longed
for the solitude of his own room—for reflection.
He wanted to argue this thing out with himself once and for all. He
wanted to know if he had been purposely mystified by the occupants of the
hillside house, or whether he was succumbing to a delusion. This he must
determine, for his highly sensitive nature demanded it. The family physician
had warned him that the blow to his skull had been a severe one, and that he
must on no account overtax his brain for at least a year to come. Somewhat
belatedly he began to take this warning to heart.
Had it been a covert intimation that he was threatened with insanity?
The detective on duty at the corner saluted him again as he discharged
the taxi. Jim Sakers’s words returned to his mind while he fumbled for a
key. He remembered too that his father had advocated a long vacation
abroad.
What did this mean? Should he regard it as confirming his worst
theories? Or did his father suspect that there was some deep plot afoot?
Reared from childhood in an atmosphere of luxury, he had never hitherto
appreciated, in all its significance, the fact that he was the son of a
millionaire.
As he was passing the library he heard voices; one of them unmistakable,
the other deep, resonant—equally unfamiliar.

John Cumberland as a rule retired early, and Barry paused, wondering
whom this late visitor might be. Curious, he rapped and opened the door.
He looked down the long rectangular room. The Cumberland library was
one of the acknowledged “sights” of New York, but to Barry it was a
commonplace. It was lined with relics of that wonderful civilization which
flourished under the Pharaohs. Its very atmosphere was reminiscent of the
Nile land, of the indescribable smell of Egypt.
His father was seated in the big armchair, looking up at a wall painting
from Medinet Habu. Facing him, and seated on a corner of the library table
—a favourite perch of Barry’s—was a man of arresting appearance.
He was in dinner kit, but in lieu of the more regular black bow displayed
a stock. His hair, brushed back from a fine brow, was silver-gray; his head
leonine; the pale chiselled features were of Moorish severity. He wore a
short moustache and a small tuft beneath his lower lip, of that kind once
known as an imperial. He was built massively, imposingly. His eyes, which
at Barry’s entrance had turned in the direction of the door, were light brown
and, in their piercing regard, resembled the eyes of an animal. He stood up,
revealing his height, which Barry estimated to be more than six feet.
“Hello, Barry!” said John Cumberland. “Glad you looked in. I should
like you to meet Mr. Danbazzar.”
Danbazzar raised his hand in a slow, majestic movement, and:
“I am delighted to meet Mr. Barry Cumberland,” he replied, and his voice
possessed a deep organ note. “But you forget, Mr. Cumberland”—turning to
the elder man—“that I lay no claim to the title of Mister. I am Danbazzar;
neither Danbazzar Esquire, Sir Danbazzar, nor Lord Danbazzar; merely
Danbazzar.”
He came forward, extending his hand.
“Mr. Barry Cumberland, I hope you and I will be friends, as your father
and I have been for many years.”
Half attracted, half repelled, Barry took the extended hand—and
experienced a mighty grip, which greatly reassured him. He smiled.
“You can be sure of it, Mr.—I beg your pardon—Danbazzar,” he
returned. “I heard voices. That was why I came in.”
Danbazzar inclined his head graciously and placed a chair.
“Perhaps you would like to sit here?” he said. “We are discussing a
matter upon which I think your father would welcome your views.”
Barry sat down, and:

“Is that so, Dad?” he asked. “What’s the big argument?”
“There’s no argument, Barry,” was the reply; “there isn’t room for any.
It’s a proposition, and it’s up to me to say Yes or No.”
“Precisely,” Danbazzar murmured; and resumed his seat upon the corner
of the library table.
He had an odd trick of tensing and then relaxing his lips. He did it now,
looking from the older to the younger man. Then, from a box upon the
table, he selected a cigarette, lighted it, and reflectively blew a puff of
smoke toward the dancers and other ladies of Pharaoh’s golden court
displayed upon the wall above him.
Barry, his mind full of his own affairs, settled down rather reluctantly to
listen.
“I am afraid this is going to be right over my head,” he confessed. “But
it’s bound to be interesting, so fire away. What is it all about?”
Danbazzar waved his cigarette in the direction of John Cumberland, and
the latter, smiling, replied:
“It’s a deal in Egyptian antiquities, Barry, as no doubt you surmise. But
in a new kind of antiquity—different from any Danbazzar has ever offered
me before; different in every way.”
“You are right,” boomed the deep voice. “No such proposition has been
made to any living man, I should guess, since the days of Rameses the
Ninth.”
Danbazzar imparted a quality of awe to this extraordinary statement
which was not without its effect upon Barry. He found himself studying the
large, well-shaped hand holding a lighted cigarette and discovered a curious
fascination in a little scarab ring on the fourth finger. As one does upon
meeting a man of whom one has heard much, he endeavoured to sum up his
impressions of Danbazzar and to compare the result with what he had
hitherto learned about him.
He was reputed to be the agent of an individual or a syndicate in Egypt,
and it was rumoured that his activities had more than once attracted official
attention. Certainly, he had been the medium through which many rare
antiquities had reached collections of wealthy connoisseurs, and indeed,
more than one public institution. John Cumberland’s museum had been
enriched by not a few items obtained in this way. And since the export of
such antiques was contrary to the laws of the Egyptian government, and
their importation subject to a heavy tax by that of the United States, it was

only reasonable to suppose that Danbazzar was a smuggler. But he was
master of his subject, a fact to which the names of his patrons testified. His
nationality was unknown.
“It is some years since we have met,” John Cumberland pursued, “On the
last occasion, if I remember rightly, you brought me——”
He pointed to a very beautiful enamelled casket enclosed in a glass case.
“Correct,” Danbazzar nodded. “There are only two of that period in
existence, and the other is in the Louvre. I had the honour to supply it to
France, as I told you at the time of our deal.”
“Yes, I remember,” said John Cumberland. “And now, Barry—” turning
to his son—“I have been given first refusal of a proposition which, if it
matures, will win me a place among the real Egyptologists; let me in on the
ground floor, in fact.”
Danbazzar raised his hand, checking the speaker.
“One moment, Mr. Cumberland,” he interrupted, and turned to Barry,
fixing upon him a penetrating glance from his extraordinary eyes. “You
quite understand that what you are about to hear must not be mentioned in
any shape or form to anyone now outside this room?”
“Quite,” said Barry, almost startled by the intensity of the speaker’s gaze.
“You may rely upon me.”
He glanced at his father, and realized that he was labouring under the
influence of intense excitement. His voice, his colour, his movements
betrayed him.
Enthusiastic though John Cumberland had always been upon this subject,
Barry could never remember to have seen him quite so roused before. He
felt, suddenly, that he stood upon the verge of something momentous. The
shadow of Ancient Egypt at last was reaching out to touch him. He
experienced a momentary shrinking, followed by a thrill of anticipation,
communicated, possibly, from father to son.
“I have seen a papyrus to-night, Barry,” John Cumberland went on,
“which even my limited study of the subject”—he acknowledged with a
smile Danbazzar’s gesture of denial—“shows me to be unique. You shall
see it presently, if you wish—that is, with my friend’s consent.”
Consent was given in a gracious gesture.
“It may mean little to you, but it has meant much to me. I foresee that
reproductions of it will occupy a place in the library of every student of
Egyptology. It will be more sought after than the Papyrus Harris, or the

Papyrus Ebers. The discovery of the Rosetta Stone, itself, will almost be
dwarfed by the publication of the Danbazzar Papyrus——”
“Mr. Cumberland!” Danbazzar’s voice broke in imperiously. “You have
heard my proposition with all its conditions. If you accept them, the
papyrus shall be known as the ‘Cumberland Papyrus.’ Upon this I insist. It
is no more than your due. By your efforts its authenticity must be
established.”
“A minor point,” John Cumberland assured him. “My share will be that
of a backer. You are the discoverer.”
“Not of the sarcophagus,” was the reply. “This has yet to be discovered,
and can only be discovered by your help.”
“Tremendously thrilling!” said Barry, standing up restlessly and lighting
a fresh cigarette; “but, as I expected, right over my head. Does it mean a job
of exploration or something?”
“It does,” said his father, looking at him.
“Might I take a peep at this papyrus?”
Danbazzar bowed gravely, and from the other side of the library table
took up a large portfolio having double locks. He opened it carefully and
spread out a stained fragment, some three feet in length, part of which was
clearly missing and other parts of which were defaced by curious stains.
It bore rows of figures of a type quite familiar to Barry, but nevertheless
meaningless, and some of the colouring retained much of its original
freshness. It seemed to deal with the inevitable subject of burial, but upon
one figure, perfectly preserved, he fastened his gaze as if hypnotized. It was
that of a slender girl, more delicately drawn than any he ever remembered
to have seen. But that which held him enthralled was the resemblance, the
uncanny resemblance, of this figure to the girl of the balcony.
Allowing for the conventional methods of the ancient artist, it might have
been her portrait!
He heard Danbazzar speaking.
“My own translation is here,” he was saying, indicating a manuscript
which he held in his hand. “I have asked your father to have it checked by
any two authorities he may select. But the theory that I have based upon this
is the point that will interest you.”
“It will startle you out of your life!” John Cumberland interjected.
Barry looked up.
“What is the theory?” he asked, looking from face to face.

“The theory is,” Danbazzar replied, “that unless some unforeseen
accident occurs, or has already occurred, we shall shortly be in a position to
learn some of the secrets of Ancient Egypt from the lips of one who lived
there!”

CHAPTER VII.
ZALITHEA

“I should be glad,” said John Cumberland, “if you would just run over the
main facts again for Barry’s benefit.”
Danbazzar inclined his head in that courtly manner which was his and
glanced aside at the younger man.
“Quite so,” Barry agreed. His original purpose was forgotten, for here
apparently was an even deeper mystery than that which had been puzzling
him. “At the moment I simply don’t know what to make of it all, so please
start right at the beginning.”
Danbazzar took up a position before the mantelpiece. Barry could not
help thinking that the background suited the figure. The man had the
majestic presence of a Pharaoh.
“The facts,” he began, speaking slowly and impressively and
emphasizing his statements with graceful and unfamiliar gestures, “are of a
sort which you would be justified in doubting if you met them in a Sunday
newspaper. My reputation, though, gives them a greater value. But in spite
of a life devoted to these subjects, I’m not infallible, and I won’t consent to
go any further, as I have already told you, Mr. Cumberland”—turning in the
latter’s direction—“until two other opinions have been taken.”
“Your proposal is fair and reasonable,” was the reply; “and I have already
agreed to it.”
“Very well!” Danbazzar resumed. “The story starts from five years ago,
when I was paying one of my periodical visits to Egypt, and when I
discovered”—he pointed—“this papyrus. I won’t bore you with particulars
of how it came into my possession as Mr. John Cumberland has these
already. Nor can I account for its presence in the place where it was found.
Enough to say that I recognized it to be genuine and immediately set to
work to decipher it. I tried to restore, as far as possible, those parts which
had become defaced.
“A first glance had shown me that it was not the ordinary ritual buried
with most mummies. A very short study proved that is was unique—unique

in every way—and that it dated from the latter part of the reign of Seti the
First.”
“When did he reign?” Barry asked.
“Roughly, about thirteen hundred and sixty years before Christ!”
“Good heavens!” Barry stared again at the fragment with its amazing
freshness of colouring; “then this thing is something over three thousand
two hundred years old?”
“Precisely,” Danbazzar nodded. “In other words, it dates from a time
when the art of mummifying human bodies had reached a very high state of
perfection. One day, perhaps very soon, you will see the mummy of Seti
himself in the Cairo Museum. You will never forget the majesty of his
features preserved by that lost art for over three thousand years. I mention
the fact of the high development of the art of the mummy maker at this
period, because the contents of the papyrus show that this had been
achieved by long years of study, and that even more extraordinary results
were looked for by a certain group of students closely associated with
Pharaoh’s court.
“I found it to consist of two parts. The first, fortunately, almost complete,
the second, as you see, with a great part missing. How much is missing I
can’t even surmise, but I should say that from this point”—he bent forward
and laid a long finger upon the papyrus—“to the end where it is torn covers
a period of some two hundred and eighty years. It bears the names, or as we
should say, the signatures, of six generations of priests.
“The first and shorter part, written toward the end of Seti’s reign, if I’m
not mistaken, states that in accordance with the wishes of a certain learned
high priest of the Temple of Amen Ra at Thebes and with the consent of
Pharaoh, an attempt was made to prove that not only the physical frame but
human life itself could be preserved indefinitely under peculiar conditions.”
“What!” Barry exclaimed incredulously—“that a living person could be
mummified and remain alive?”
“This priest,” Danbazzar replied, “referred to in the papyrus—his name
would mean nothing to you—believed that he had perfected a process for
accomplishing this! It was all an outcome of that peculiar egotism which
belonged to the Ancient Egyptians. And in this way, no doubt, he interested
Pharaoh in his experiments.
“You get what I mean? The statues and records which had preserved for
posterity the principal events of earlier reigns weren’t good enough to tell

coming ages of the greatness of Seti the First! To his glory a living witness
should be left behind to testify to the ancient grandeur of Egypt. This is
stated at the beginning of the papyrus, which then goes on to relate that a
beautiful captive, attached to the person of the Queen, was selected for this
high honour.”
“High honour!” cried Barry. “You mean she was selected to be put to
death!”
Danbazzar smiled slightly.
“As it is stated that she was of great beauty and bodily perfection,” he
admitted, “it is just possible that an element of jealousy entered into this
selection. At any rate, for whatever reason, this girl was chosen, and she is
referred to in the writing as Zalithea, a Princess of Unu, taken captive in the
wars of Seti. As Egyptologists have never succeeded in identifying this
island of Unu, we can’t even guess at the nationality of Zalithea. But she
possibly came from the neighbourhood of Cyprus.
“Now—” he paused, raising his finger—“the nature of the process by
which this suspension of life was induced, and that by which it was to be
ended, or the subject awakened, is not mentioned. This papyrus”—he
lowered his finger and pointed again—“is no more than a brief statement of
the fact that, in accordance with the wishes of Pharaoh, Princess Zalithea
was selected for this high honour and laid in a certain tomb under the
guardianship of a group of priests appointed as custodians.
“Certain funds were set aside for the upkeep of the small temple attached
to the tomb, and one of the most extraordinary experiments ever attempted
by man had begun.”
“But,” Barry objected, “while I’m not in a position to dispute the
genuineness of this writing, it’s—well, what shall I say?—it’s really a
nightmare—the dream of a madman—who unfortunately had power enough
to carry it out and condemn this poor girl to a living death! Thank God we
live in an age of real civilization!”
His father caught his eye, and:
“Don’t judge until you have heard all the facts,” he said. “The civilization
of Ancient Egypt was more real, and higher, than you appreciate.”
“That is true,” Danbazzar resumed, unmoved by Barry’s criticism, “as the
second part of the papyrus bears out. This roughly covers the reigns of
seven kings. In the ages that have since gone by time has reduced the whole
of the papyrus to a more or less uniform colour. In fact, some of the earlier

colouring is brighter than the later, but here”—he stepped forward to the
table—“we move from somewhere around 1365 up to somewhere about
1200 B.C. It was the duty of the priests, to which they were sworn, to
examine the sleeping Zalithea at certain periods which I estimate to have
been fifty years apart.”
“You mean to awaken her?” Barry demanded.
“Surely!” said Danbazzar. “They were entrusted with a certain formula
by means of which, in the belief of its inventor, the sleeping woman could
be aroused from her trance. It was their duty at specific dates to record the
results. Here we have five such records, covering a period of some two
hundred and fifty years, as I estimate. Each, as you see, is confined within a
ruled space, and every one is undoubtedly the work of a different scribe and
possesses recognizable characteristics of the period in which it was written.
Each also bears what we may term the signature of the chief priest in office
at the time, and the accounts, while the wording varies slightly, all tally. The
last, or the last to be preserved, states as the others state, and is attested by
three witnesses, priests of the temple, that at this time the Princess Zalithea
was still living!”
“Good God!” Barry exclaimed. “It simply isn’t credible! Don’t
misunderstand me! I am not doubting your translation or the genuineness of
the thing! But there must be some mistake!”
“You are entitled to suppose so,” Danbazzar admitted. “It was because I
supposed so myself that I allowed several years to elapse before making the
proposition that I have made to-night to your father. During those years I
have not been idle. A trusted agent of mine in Egypt, working upon such
information as I could give him, had been searching—secretly, of course—
and twelve months ago his search was rewarded.”
“What was he searching for?” Barry asked.
“He was searching for the tomb of Zalithea! You see, it would be unlikely
to attract the attention of the ordinary excavator, its historical importance
being slight—except in relation to this papyrus.”
“Do you mean that he found it?” Barry demanded amazedly.
“He found it!” Danbazzar replied. “There is such a tomb!”
“Do you understand, Barry?” said John Cumberland excitedly. “Do you
understand what this may mean?”
Barry in bewilderment looked from his father to Danbazzar and then
stared down at the papyrus on the table.

“I worked on it all last winter,” Danbazzar went on quietly. “I opened a
way in—and I found myself checked by a great stone portcullis.”
“You mean,” said Barry dazedly, “you spent last winter in Egypt, actually
excavating?”
“Actually on the job! I got away with murder. I had no permit to dig. But
I’ve explained my system to your father. I’d hoped to go back this season;
but funds won’t allow. It’s going to be ruinously expensive to complete that
excavation. But the man who does complete it will make a name for
himself.”
“If,” John Cumberland went on, “she remained alive for three hundred
years, Barry, why not for three thousand?”
“But, Dad,” said Barry, “this is raving lunacy!”
“It seems so,” Danbazzar admitted gravely; “but five generations of
learned men whose names we have here testify to the fact. Are we to
assume that they were all liars? If so, with what object did they lie? I found
the tomb—unopened, untouched!”
But Barry’s attention had wandered again, and the words reached him but
vaguely. He was staring intently at the graceful figure in the papyrus which
aroused such strange memories. And now, turning to Danbazzar, and resting
his finger upon that part of the record:
“What does this mean?” he asked. “Is it a symbol?”
“No,” was the reply. “You will notice on the right of the figure what
looks like a cartouche. I have been unable to identify it, though. Translated,
it means, ‘She Who Sleeps but Who Will Awaken.’ For this reason I take the
figure to be a portrait of the Princess Zalithea.”

CHAPTER VIII.
SPECIAL OPINIONS

“The last time the man Danbazzar was about,” said Countess Colonna, “the
result was that a motor lorry and ten men arrived. The front doors were
taken off their hinges and a stone figure as big as the Statue of Liberty was
carried into the library.”
“I don’t think it will happen this time, Micky,” Barry assured her.
“I hope not,” was the reply. “I don’t like Danbazzar. I always imagine
him living in a harem.”
“I haven’t met the sportsman,” said Jim Sakers, “but I am going to crash
into the University Club to-night and look him over keenly. If I don’t
approve, Barry, I shan’t hesitate to advise you to drop him. On the other
hand, I may be favourably impressed. And as is only fair to him, if this
should prove to be the case, I shall relieve your mind at once and let you
know.”
“Thanks,” Barry replied. “I shall be in a frightfully unsettled state until I
have your opinion.”
“That’s quite natural,” Jim agreed; “but I promise not to keep you in
suspense.”
“It occurs to me, young Sakers,” Aunt Micky broke in, “that you and I
are being deliberately kept in the dark about this thing. Young Cumberland
here has a secret eye. It’s his left!”
Barry laughed.
“You hit the nail on the head, Micky,” he admitted. “Danbazzar has come
across with a proposal about which I have promised to say nothing. It’s a
very queer business—more than queer, in fact; but to-night I shall know
more about it. Dad has invited him to join us at the University Club with Dr.
Rittenburg of the Smithsonian, Horace Pain, the big Oriental man, and
Dad’s old friend, Dr. Blackwell of Yale.”
“What a wild party!” Jim commented. “I suppose you are going on to the
Earl Carroll Vanities after dinner?”

“On the contrary,” Barry assured him, “we are going on to Danbazzar’s
place.”
“You can’t delude me,” cried Jim scornfully. “I see Dr. Rittenburg and
Professor Blackwell dancing far into the small hours of the morning in
some small but costly cabaret. I can see you all, haggard-eyed, flushed with
wine, a really shocking Six, taking breakfast at Child’s on Fifth Avenue as
the morning sun peeps in upon the end of your debauch. Barry, I’m sorry,
but you are making the pace too fast.”
The dinner turned out more successful, however, than Jim had predicted.
Barry’s father had never before so taken him into his confidence in regard
to this hobby of his life, and under different circumstances he would
certainly have come prepared to be bored. As it chanced, the company
proved to be so amusing that he was amazed to find how quickly the time
passed.
Horace Pain, the celebrated Orientalist, was all that he had expected of
him; a dry, slow-spoken scholar, whose only enthusiasm was for his subject.
But Dr. Rittenburg proved to be a comedian who would have rejoiced Jim’s
heart. He was a round little man—a study in curves. His red face was round,
his bald head was round, and he wore very round glasses. He and Professor
Blackwell succeeded in keeping the party in a state of continuous laughter;
for Professor Blackwell, tall, gaunt, and saturnine, had a fund of wit, as
Barry knew, which seemed to be inexhaustible.
Danbazzar, too, was a delightful companion. There seemed to be few
spots in the world, civilized or uncivilized, that he had not visited, from the
headwaters of the Amazon to the monasteries of Thibet. The real purpose of
the meeting was not touched upon, however, until the party had adjourned
to the library of the club. Here, as they took their seats in an alcove, Barry
observed Jim. Faithful to his promise, he had “crashed in.”
With an exaggerated air of secrecy, based upon the Charlie Chaplin
tradition, he crept around the gallery above, turning his back swiftly
whenever one of the party looked up, and apparently searching for some
book which he always failed to find. Crouching low behind the rails, so that
only the top of his head and his eyes were visible, he peered down intently.
This amazing piece of pantomime was only interrupted by the decision of
the party to adjourn serious discussion to Danbazzar’s apartment.
But, as they quitted the club and got into John Cumberland’s big car
which waited outside, Jim Sakers, his face buried in an evening paper, hat

brim pulled down over scowling features, stood beside the steps watching
intently.
Danbazzar’s apartment, Barry had always been given to understand,
contained a number of literally priceless objects, every one unique and
irreplaceable, and any one of which he could have sold over and over again
for incredible sums. Used to the orderly neatness of his father’s collection,
he came prepared to find something similar, although probably on a smaller
scale.
The address proved to be situated amid some of the loudest noises of
New York. He had thought vaguely, before, that it was an odd spot to live
in. But he had not allowed for the fact that Danbazzar lived on the roof.
Here, like a priest of Bel, high above all the buildings surrounding him,
Danbazzar from a cloudy silence looked down upon teeming streets,
thousands of lighted windows, dwarfed sky signs.
His apartment was virtually a bungalow from the porch of which one
stepped into a sort of Japanese garden, with flowering vines and tortuous,
spiny cacti. A large pond was approached through a loggia and peopled by
golden carp. From little arbours around the wall one might look down upon
a muted New York. An Arab servant, who apparently knew not one word of
English, attended upon the guests; and presently they entered a large, low
room, in which the famed collection was housed.
Here, Barry had a shock. The value of the statuettes, vases, mummies,
caskets, items of jewellery, and other nameless relics of Egypt he could not
dispute. But instead of being formally lined up in wall cases and cabinets,
they were littered about the place in the utmost confusion.
A magnificently painted sarcophagus had been converted into a cupboard
to contain bottles of Scotch whisky, old brandy, champagne, and other
material comforts. Cigar butts disfigured the polished floor. There were
books and papers lying about anywhere and everywhere.
The effect was that of a second-hand dealer’s establishment in which
somebody had been trying to rope a steer. He was unable to conceal his
amazement, and:
“Did you ever see anything like it, Barry?” his father said, speaking in a
low voice.
“Never!” he confessed. “Are these things really valuable?”
“Valuable!” exclaimed Dr. Rittenburg, who stood near. “There is a
fortune in this room.”

Danbazzar cleared a space upon a large table and set out the papyrus.
“Now, gentlemen,” he said in his courtly manner, “let us get to the
business of the evening. I have given you, Dr. Rittenburg, and you, Mr.
Pain, an opportunity of examining and testing this piece of writing. I await
your opinion.”
“I have anticipated it,” said John Cumberland, in a voice that betrayed
suppressed excitement.
Horace Pain removed the cigar from between his teeth, cleared his throat,
and:
“I know Professor Rittenburg’s opinion,” he said, “and he knows mine.
The papyrus is undeniably genuine. It has points of resemblance to the
Turin Papyrus which I shall presently point out, as I have already pointed
them out to my friend Dr. Rittenburg. Respecting the claims of its writer, or
writers, I shall have nothing to say. This is outside my province. As, I take
it”—turning to John Cumberland—“it is outside yours? I mean, your
interest, like mine, is in the writing itself, not in what it states.”
“Partly,” John Cumberland replied, glancing swiftly in Danbazzar’s
direction.
“Well,” Pain went on, in his dry, hard voice, “I mean to say that a parallel
is the medical papyrus in Berlin. No one would think of making up a
prescription from it. You agree with me, Professor?”—turning in the
direction of Professor Blackwell.
“I agree with you entirely,” was the reply. “It contains among other things
a prescription for a hair restorer which, I will guarantee, would turn
Paderewski bald in a fortnight.”
“Exactly,” Dr. Rittenburg agreed. “I look upon this business of the
sleeping Princess as a sort of religious ritual, Cumberland, similar to the
worship of the Apis Bull—only kept up for political reasons to delude the
people, and to preserve the immortal name of Seti. Something of that kind.”
“Quite beside the point, gentlemen,” Danbazzar’s deep voice broke in.
“The fact that the papyrus is genuine and, in your opinion, dates from the
time of the Pharaoh mentioned in it is the thing of interest to Mr.
Cumberland and to myself.”
“Of this I am certain.”
Dr. Rittenburg nodded his round head vigorously.
“So am I,” Horace Pain admitted. “Of course, its publication will create a
profound sensation, and the museums of the world will outbid one another

to get it.”
“They will bid in vain,” Danbazzar replied. “Mr. John Cumberland has
acquired it.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Dr. Rittenburg. “But of course you will publish a
reproduction? Every student in the world is entitled to access to such a
discovery.”
John Cumberland smiled happily. No triumph that his business had
offered or could offer compared with the thrill of such a moment as this.
“In due course,” he said, “but not yet.”
Whereupon a debate arose concerning certain papyri, with the mere
names of which Barry was unacquainted, and their points of resemblance to
this one. Much excellent old brandy aided the debate. The two experts
disagreed fiercely; but at a late hour, Dr. Rittenburg and Horace Pain having
departed quite reconciled:
“Now,” said John Cumberland, “with Danbazzar’s consent, I shall
discuss this matter with you, Blackwell. Your province is rather
physiological than archæological. We have had expert opinion on the
papyrus itself, and now we should like to have your opinion upon the
feasibility of the claims made in it.”
The silent Arab replenished the guests’ glasses, except the Professor’s;
for Blackwell, who was already lost in thought, waved him aside. The
distinguished scientist was a tall man, though not so tall as Danbazzar, and
built bonily. He was clean-shaven, with a long strong nose; and from his
high brow, hair which was beginning to go gray was carelessly brushed
back. His clothes would have fitted someone else better than they fitted the
Professor, and he wore a low double collar with his dinner jacket, allowing
free play to an enormously developed Adam’s apple.
His eyes, behind the thick pebbles of his glasses, resembled two
interrogation marks.
“I never jump to conclusions,” he began, thoughtfully selecting a cigar
from a box which Danbazzar slid across the table in his direction.
The box was an Ancient Egyptian curiosity, but Professor Blackwell had
not even noticed the fact: his thoughts were elsewhere.
“Life,” he went on, “considered in the abstract, is the one thing of which
Science knows nothing. Adolf Weisman maintained that duration of life is
dependent upon adaptation to external conditions. We may take the case of

what is sometimes termed ‘mummy wheat.’ Personally, I cannot vouch for
these stories.”
“I can,” Danbazzar said gravely. “I myself have seen grains of wheat
taken from a tomb of the fourteenth dynasty cultivated.”
“Did they yield any crop?” the Professor inquired.
“No,” Danbazzar acknowledged. “They shot up a very tender green to a
height of six inches and then died.”
“Quite, quite,” murmured the Professor, “but the life principle was
present, you see—dormant, but present. There is the case of a toad
imprisoned in a rock cavity for several generations, vouched for by persons
of repute, and I once examined, in India, a fakir who claimed the power to
unhitch his spirit from his body. Under these conditions he presented every
appearance of death and existed without visible wasting for a long period
unsustained by food or drink of any kind. The question really is whether the
tissues could be preserved over so long a period as this”—nodding toward
the papyrus—“indicated.”
“If for three hundred years, why not for three thousand?” John
Cumberland demanded.
“Quite, quite,” the professor murmured; “but unfortunately this fact rests
upon what I may term ‘hearsay.’ The people who wrote it have been dead
for some little time, you must remember!”
There was a short silence, broken by Danbazzar.
“Have you ever seen the mummy of Seti the First?” he demanded in his
deep, impressive tone.
“Yes.” Professor Blackwell looked up slowly. “Curiously enough, I was
thinking about him. He, of course, dates from somewhere about the same
period as Princess Zalithea, and the preservation in this case is remarkable.
But the system of mummifying employed on Seti could not be employed on
a living person. It is very interesting, though—very interesting. A German
physiologist whom I met in Berlin recently—I forget his name, but he was a
knowledgeable man—was anxious to attempt some experiment of the kind,
in a small way, upon a hypnotized subject. The difficulty, of course, was to
find the subject.”
“Naturally!” said Barry, laughing.
The Professor glanced aside at him over his spectacles. And then:
“I pointed out to my German acquaintance,” he went on, “that normal
processes of decay would proceed under these conditions quite inevitably.

And if there is anything in the extraordinary claims made in this papyrus, I
can only assume that some formula must have been invented to check these
processes. Of course, it is frightfully empirical. One dare not raise such a
thing seriously before modern science. It would spell ruin.”
“Nevertheless,” said Danbazzar, “you are right—there was such a
formula.”
“Ah!” exclaimed John Cumberland, “if only we could recover it.”
“I have recovered it,” Danbazzar replied calmly.
“What!”
“I acquired it at the same time that I acquired this other papyrus. It is
locked in that safe over there.”
“That settles it,” said Cumberland, standing up. “My other plans are
made. What do you estimate it would cost, Danbazzar, to finance the
expedition?”
“Two hundred thousand dollars,” was the prompt reply.
“Be ready in a fortnight,” said Cumberland. “I must start then or
postpone the journey till next season.”

CHAPTER IX.
EGYPT BOUND

“Some people are so indecently lucky,” Jim Sakers protested. “It has been
my ambition from childhood to visit the interior of the Sphinx.”
“You poor nut!” said Barry. “The Sphinx is solid. You mean the interior
of the Pyramid!”
“Not so hasty,” Jim rebuked him, “not so hasty, my friend. My ambitions
are not the ambitions of an ordinary man. Any fool can visit the interior of
the Pyramid if he’s lucky enough to get to Egypt. Nothing so commonplace
as that appeals to me. I said, and I repeat, that it has always been my
ambition to visit the interior of the Sphinx. I hope I make myself clear.”
“You expose fresh views of your ghastly ignorance at every turn,” Barry
said. “If you can think clearly for two minutes, concentrate on what I’m
going to say. Everybody seems to think that I need a vacation, and Dad has
decided to pay a visit to Egypt and to spend the beginning of winter there.”
“Lucky, lucky man,” Jim murmured.
“He is keen for me to go with him,” Barry went on; “and as I have never
been out of America yet, the idea rather appeals——”
“Rather appeals!” Jim echoed. “Oh! the blasé youth of this generation! I
should cheer for an hour without stopping if my honoured parent could be
induced to get out of touch with Wall Street for a week-end!”
“In brief,” Barry pursued patiently, “the idea that I am trying to drive into
your thick skull is this: I am going to Egypt, and I am going next week.”
“This is dreadful,” Jim declared. “Think of the broken hearts in New
York. Besides, what about the Princess?”
“It is about the Princess,” Barry returned, “that I want to speak to you.
Several people, yourself included, have tried to convince me that I’m
suffering from a delusion where this girl is concerned. But I am just as
certain as ever that I have seen her, definitely twice, possibly three times.
What I want to ask you is this: Once in a while, when you are in that
neighbourhood, see if you can find anything out.”

“You mean,” Jim suggested, “drop in on Mr. Brown and say that I have
called about the electric light, or the installment due on the Ford, or
something of that kind?”
“Something of that kind,” Barry agreed. “Do it your own way—but just
keep a sharp lookout. And if you should pick up any information, send me a
cable. I can’t give you the route. When we get to some place up the Nile
where we are going to camp, I shall have to let you know.”
“Consider it done,” said Jim. “And now, I have a request to make. Bring
me back a large bottle filled with the sand of the unchanging desert. By
sprinkling this in my bathroom and walking about in bare feet, I shall be
able to imagine that I am a son of the mysterious East. Ho, there! Fatima,
my dark-eyed ship of the desert!”
“The expression ‘ship of the desert,’ ” Barry interrupted, “usually refers
to a camel!”
“I am talking about a camel,” Jim assured him. “The affection of the
Arab for his camel is an historical fact.”
“You are thinking about his horse!”
“I am not thinking about his horse!” Jim cried. “The Arab I am talking
about has no horse, he has a camel.”
And now: “What’s the row?” demanded a deep voice.
Aunt Micky intruded, carrying a large hatbox.
“Hello! Micky!” Barry exclaimed. “Been shopping again?”
“Yes,” was the reply; “it has just arrived. The best that Dobbs could do
for me.”
Opening the box, she produced a sun helmet of dazzling white, decorated
with a puggaree band in silver, violet, and maroon.
“Great shakes!” Jim exclaimed. “Is this for Barry?”
“It is,” Aunt Micky returned firmly. “It is most important that he should
not expose his skull to the rays of the sun. John always wears a helmet in
the East.”
“I know he does,” Barry admitted ruefully, contemplating this “creation,”
“but the one he wears is a decent sort of putty shade—and without ribbons.
However! Is it the right size?”
He tried it on.
“Really smart people,” Jim commented, “wear a feather—a small, neat
feather—stuck in the band just above the left ear. I am told that everyone

will be wearing them this season. Didn’t they tip you this at Dobbs’,
Micky?”
“They tipped me a lot of things,” Micky returned, lighting a cigarette,
“and there are lots of things I could tip you!”
“I know it,” he said; “my ignorance is appalling. But on one point Park
Avenue is agreed. I do know how to dress. Further, I don’t merely put on
my clothes—I wear them! Allow me, Barry.”
He raised his hands and settled the helmet at an angle over Barry’s right
ear, then took a step back to contemplate the result.
“Better,” he muttered, “better. That is the British Army rake. Of course
—” again grasping the helmet and tilting it forward—“there is the Rajah
rake, very popular in India, and also——”
He was about to take further liberties when Barry gave him a playful but
powerful punch in the chest.
“And also there is the complete limit,” he said, “and you reach it every
time, Jim.”
Taken all around, however, the period of preparation was an exciting one
for Barry. His father was an experienced traveller and, under his guidance,
Barry acquired all sorts of equipment for the journey. On the advice of
Danbazzar, most of the camp gear, the firearms, and the impedimenta of the
excavator, they were picking up in London. Danbazzar had prepared a
formidable list of these, and Barry discovered a great fascination in merely
reading it.
The papyrus had disappeared into Danbazzar’s great safe, and Barry
often wondered if his imagination had played him tricks in regard to the
portrait of Princess Zalithea. He had abandoned hope of ever seeing this girl
of dreams again; but Fate had one more curious experience in store for him,
and it came about in this way:
Professor Blackwell was leaving for Europe a week ahead of them, and
later joining the party in Egypt. Bound to strictest secrecy regarding the
nature of the expedition, his scientific curiosity had been greatly aroused,
and he had consented to be present at the opening of the tomb when that
time came.
The steamer sailed at midnight, and Professor Blackwell had dined at the
Cumberland home prior to joining her. Barry and his father went on board
with him, inspected his stateroom, ascertained that his baggage had arrived
safely, and then:

“There is no point in waiting,” said the Professor. “We don’t sail for
another twenty minutes or so, but it is my custom on these night sailings to
turn in. I leave unpacking until the morning. I hate all this fuss and bustle!”
“As you like, Blackwell,” said John Cumberland. “See you in Cairo—or,
if you have gone up the river, in Luxor. Hope you have a nice crossing.”
Barry and his father came down the gangway, turned to wave to the tall,
gaunt Professor at the top, and then made their way along the pier toward
the staircase. They reached the street level at practically the same moment
that the elevator started up.
Through the iron grille of the car a girl was looking out, apparently
directly at Barry.
He stopped dead, stared at the ascending elevator, and then, with no
explanation to his father, turned and fled back up the stairs like a man
demented!
His behaviour was so extraordinary that a Customs official intercepted
him at the top.
“Kindly stand aside!” Barry said breathlessly. “I have seen someone I
want to speak to—must speak to!”
“Go easy, go easy!” The man persistently intruded his burly form. “Wait
a minute! Who are you running away from?”
“I’m not running away from anybody!” cried Barry angrily. “Let me
pass! I want to go on board.”
“Go easy!” the man repeated. “You can’t go on board. The last visitors
are just coming ashore. In three minutes the gangway will be cleared——”
And then John Cumberland, even more breathless than Barry, arrived on
the scene.
“What’s the matter?” he asked; and, to the man: “It’s all right,” he
explained. “My name is John Cumberland. My son has seen someone he
thinks he knows.”
“You can guess who it is!” the latter returned. “And I’ve lost her again!”
Slipping past the mystified Customs officer, he raced out along the pier.
Beyond exciting amusement and astonishment among the onlookers, his
reward was nil. Of course! He was too late! And he was sure, absolutely
sure, that this time he had not been mistaken! Could it be that she had gone
on board the liner?—that she was leaving America—still unknown, elusive
to the end!

He was prevented from reaching the gangplank. The order “Clear away!”
was given as he ran up. Realizing the hopelessness of the thing, he turned
and went back to where his father waited. His manner was constrained.
As they drove home, John Cumberland was very sympathetic, but
secretly was glad to think that the journey to Egypt would prove a powerful
distraction, which he considered his son badly needed. He was growing
more and more anxious about this odd obsession of Barry’s.

We are no other than a moving row
Of magic shadow-shapes which come and go,
Round with the sun-illumined lantern held
In midnight by the Master of the Show.

The Master of the Show had many more queer tricks and illusions in
store. But neither Barry nor John Cumberland, being poor mortals, could
peep behind the scenes. The ensuing week passed like a feverish dream, so
magically does time dissolve on such occasions—and the night of their
departure for Egypt came.
A tremendous crowd of friends turned up to see them off, Aunt Micky
more iron-jawed than usual, and full of dark theories respecting missing
baggage (which was really safely on board, of course).
“Clean your teeth in Vichy water,” was her last injunction to Barry.
“Once you are out of England, all water is poison.”
Then came the final shouted farewells, Danbazzar, Barry, and John
Cumberland standing at the rail as the liner crept out of her dock. Much
cheering and waving of hats. Great excitement, to be followed by
depression. And over it all came a clarion cry from Jim Sakers, standing
bareheaded far below, a megaphone upraised.
“Don’t forget, Barry!” he bellowed—“a bottle of the Unchanging Desert!
I am an Arab brave and free!”

CHAPTER X.
CAIRO

From the balcony of Shepheard’s Hotel, Barry fascinatedly watched the life
in the street below. This was Cairo!—real yet less than his imaginings
concerning it.
Vendors of fly whisks, of scarabs incredibly old, of necklaces from the
tombs of queens, of red slippers, of all sorts of Birmingham ware,
clamoured in a group beneath him. They poked their offerings through the
railings at his feet. The instinct of these people was wonderful. His father
was never solicited in this way. One glance the sidewalk merchants would
give him, smile sadly and pass on. While of Danbazzar they seemed to be
positively afraid.
The passers-by absorbed his attention. He had learned to pick out the
residents from the tourists, to recognize the curious air of detachment, that
quiet fatalism which is the seal of Africa. He had also grown used to the
tarbûsh worn by the British officers. At first he had mistaken them all for
Turks. But he was not yet entirely reconciled to the presence of laden
camels and smart automobiles in the same street.
In some of the cars he had glimpses of veiled women, whose long dark
eyes provoked him. Whenever such a harem car went by he craned forward
eagerly, vaguely expecting to meet the glance of eyes that he knew.
During the journey, he had torn himself free in a measure from this
strange infatuation, but Egypt had revived his dreams.
He had dressed early this evening, and now, sipping a cocktail, sat
waiting for his father to join him. It was too hot yet for the big tourist
invasion, but the advance guard was already in possession. Guide books
were in evidence at several tables in his immediate neighbourhood. To
whatever government, Turkish, French, British, or Egyptian, the people
may from time to time acknowledge obedience, everybody knows that
Egypt really belongs to Thomas Cook & Son.
To-night, Danbazzar was expected back from Luxor, where he had been
to select a base of operations and to check the information furnished by his

agent. This agent, Hassan es-Sugra by name, had met him there four days
earlier and was returning with him to Cairo.
John Cumberland’s excitement had been intense all day, and Barry’s little
less. Never, until now, had Barry fully understood the hold that Egypt and
the things of Egypt had over his father. It was a complete, an absorbing
passion. The John Cumberland of New York was barely recognizable in this
keen, alert, bright-eyed man to whom the African air was an elixir of youth,
and who now crossed the terrace and joined him.
“Well, Barry,” said he, “has the spell of the Nile got hold of you yet?”
“It has, Dad,” Barry admitted, looking at the healthily tanned face of the
speaker; “I’m simply dying to start. I went again to-day to look at the
mummy of Seti; and even now I find it hard to believe that this man ruled
over Egypt, a civilized country, at a time when Europe was peopled by
savages, and when the American Continent was probably a mix-up of
mountains, forests, swamps, and rivers. That man was no savage, he was a
ruler of great power and intellect.”
“Certainly he was,” John Cumberland agreed, nodding to an
acquaintance coming up the steps. “We are very proud of our new wisdom,
Barry. I wonder how much of it is in advance of the old?”
“I hadn’t been altogether able to believe in your hopes of success,” Barry
went on, “but the figure of Seti is beginning to make me share them. There
he lies in the flesh for everyone to see. I looked at him yesterday for nearly
half an hour, and I realized that he had known, probably had many times
spoken to, the Princess Zalithea! Dad, I’m just crazy to be on the job! Isn’t
Danbazzar late?”
John Cumberland glanced at his watch; then:
“No,” he replied. “The train got in about ten minutes ago. He should be
here at any moment now.”
And even as he spoke an arabiyeh pulled up at the steps and Danbazzar
got out.
He wore a white drill suit, the coat cut tunic fashion and buttoning close
up to the neck. His light gray felt hat with its very wide brim awakened in
this Eastern scene memories of the West. His pale skin had assumed a deep,
even tan, and, with his aquiline features, he looked more truly of the Orient
than any of the Cairenes about him.
His gaze sought and found John Cumberland on the terrace, and he raised
his right hand in a slow, graceful gesture. A second traveller descended

from the carriage and followed Danbazzar up the steps.
This was an æsthetic-looking Egyptian, black-robed and white-turbaned,
slender, with small delicate features and the gentle eyes of a gazelle. He
carried an ebony cane and possessed a curious dignity, utterly unlike that of
Danbazzar, yet in its way equally impressive.
John Cumberland sprang up eagerly and extended his hand.
“Is everything all right?” he demanded.
“Everything is fine,” Danbazzar replied, and, turning, greeted Barry. “I
want you to meet our Chief of Staff, Hassan es-Sugra. What I don’t know
about the Valley of the Kings, Hassan can tell us.”
Hassan saluted profoundly, and Danbazzar now gave him permission to
be seated. Discreetly, he took a chair a little removed from the others and
waited to be addressed.
John Cumberland glanced around to make sure that he could not be
overheard; and:
“How many men have you got?” he asked.
“Hassan has engaged fifteen,” was the reply. “Most of them are already
in Luxor.”
“No suspicion has been aroused?”
“Absolutely none,” Danbazzar assured him. “So far, there hasn’t been a
single hitch.”
“I take it these men are living in Luxor at present?” Barry asked.
“Yes. In the native quarter, where most of them have friends; for they are
all excavators and used to the work.”
“We will have cocktails in my room,” said John Cumberland. “One never
knows who may overhear us.”
The party went upstairs to Cumberland’s suite, which overlooked the
romantic gardens of the hotel, and cocktails were ordered. Hassan es-Sugra
was a devout Moslem, one who had made the pilgrimage to Mecca. He
drank coffee, which, when the waiter presently appeared, he took with him
out on to the balcony, bowing deeply as he retired.
“That’s a mysterious fellow!” said Barry.
Danbazzar fixed the speaker with his piercing regard, and:
“You’re right,” he agreed. “He’s quite a lot of mystery. But he holds
some kind of position in the Moslem world that gives him complete control
of the natives. He’s the best man at the job in Egypt. He can get things done

that you or I couldn’t manage if we spent a million dollars. Yes, sir, Hassan
es-Sugra is worth his weight in gold, and he knows the game from A to Z.”
“Good!” commented John Cumberland. “I know the type and I believe
you. Wasn’t he with Flinders Petrie at one time?”
“The tomb?” asked Barry Cumberland eagerly. “It has not been
disturbed?”
Danbazzar stood up, and slowly crossing to a side table, dropped ash into
a tray. He turned and:
“It’s absolutely untouched,” he replied. “The entrance where I reclosed it
is almost hidden by sand. You can rest easy.” He paused impressively. “No
one has disturbed her.”
“Gad!” Barry brought his hand down upon his knee. “It sounds almost
too good to be true! But how did Hassan identify the tomb in the first place?
How was he sure? How can you be sure?”
“You can take it I made sure before I started,” Danbazzar answered
calmly, “but, anyway, Hassan never makes a mistake. You remember the
cartouche in the papyrus? It was not that of any Pharaoh or any member of
any known royal family. It was clearly meant to represent Princess
Zalithea.”
He stooped over the cane table at which John Cumberland and his son
were seated. With a pencil he roughly outlined upon a newspaper which lay
there a design of four figures.
“We’re agreed,” he said, glancing up, “that its meaning is: ‘She Who
Sleeps but Who Will Awake.’ Both Mr. Pain and Dr. Rittenburg have
checked this.”
“Well!” said Barry eagerly.
“Well!” Danbazzar replaced the pencil in a breast pocket of his tunic.
“This same inscription is cut in the rock before the entrance of the tomb!”
“I have sometimes wondered,” said John Cumberland, “why it has been
overlooked so long.”
Danbazzar stared at him for a moment, and then:
“Have you stopped to think,” he asked, “how many tombs there are in
that valley? Why should those few people with powers to excavate open an
obscure one? What’s more, the tomb is in an unfrequented spot, almost due
north of the Tombs of the Queens and on the edge of the western valley,
more than half a mile from the Tombs of the Kings. The nearest place
ordinary tourists ever visit is the tomb of Queen Nefertari and that of Seth

Ra, the wife of Seti the First. This was about where I figured to find it.
Seven miles farther west, and about a mile and a half north of the caravan
road from Farshût to Kûrna, Hassan has put up our men. There’s a small
Hawwara village there, and the Sheik is a good friend of mine.”
“When do we start?” cried Barry eagerly.
“I can see no reason,” Danbazzar replied, “why we shouldn’t leave for
Luxor in the morning. We shall be wise to take every advantage of the slack
season before the tourist rush begins.”
Barry watched the speaker fascinatedly. During his short stay in Cairo, he
had been out to visit the Sphinx, that long-cherished ambition of Jim’s; he
had penetrated to the interior of the Great Pyramid, and had wandered
through the fascinating bazaar streets of the Mûski. He had known the
whole indescribable atmosphere that creeps over the most modern and
garish hotel in Cairo when night drops its cloak upon Egypt. Now, it
seemed to him, watching Danbazzar, that of all the mysteries that the Nile
has known, this man was the greatest.
“And now, I suggest that we consult with Hassan,” Danbazzar went on.
He stood up, clapping his hands sharply. From the shadowy mystery of
the balcony, Hassan es-Sugra entered, a slim, impressive black figure. He
bowed low upon the threshold.

CHAPTER XI.
LUXOR

The Nile was high. Much of the Memnonia was impassable. The Colossi sat
lonely in the midst of a great lake, when Barry came to Luxor. In this way
he saw the City of the Sun under advantageous conditions.
The Winter Palace Hotel, whose impudent modernity aspires to dwarf the
majesty of the great temple, was in a comatose state. Its palatial suites
which later in the season would echo Wall Street quotations, its public
rooms where, anon, much talk would be heard about the situation in the
English coalfields and the cheery optimism of Mr. Baldwin, these were
empty. Empty was the dragomans’ bench before the entrance. No guttural
German voices were raised in argument against the soft music of Arabic
impostors, relative to the cost of donkeys from Kûrna to Dêr-el-Bâhari. The
tourist steamers were missing; yet Barry did not miss them.
Sighing wearily at the end of her summer sleep, the City of the Sun
looked wistfully down the Nile from which at any time now invasion might
be expected.
Barry had conceived something very like friendship for Hassan es-Sugra.
The man fascinated him. Delicate in form and features, soft-spoken and
mild-eyed, slow of movement and speech, invariably unruffled, Barry had
detected beneath the velvet surface an indomitable will, and something else.
On the evening of their arrival, leaving Danbazzar and John Cumberland
at the hotel poring over rough plans, Barry had set out with Hassan to view
the celebrated spectacle of Karnak by moonlight. The evening was
oppressively hot. The sky looked like a dome of lapis lazuli. The moon was
such a moon as gave birth to Isis; fronds of palms seemed to be carved out
of ebony; and the whiteness of the buildings was dazzling. Plaintive notes
of a reed pipe crept up from the river, with more distant throbbing of a
darabukkeh.
A great zest of life, an eagerness to inhale, as it were, the unfamiliar
perfume of this strange land, possessed Barry. He hurried as though bound
for his father’s New York office. But:

“Sir,” said Hassan, in his soft, caressing voice, “there is no need for
haste, and the evening is hot.”
Barry pulled up and glanced aside at his companion. The gaze of the
gazelle-like eyes met his own. Hassan smiled.
“Always,” the speaker went on hesitantly yet with perfect expression,
“always the gentlemen who come from America and from Europe are in so
great a hurry; particularly the gentlemen from America. Yet there is so
much time, and life in Egypt is very beautiful for those who will rest and
enjoy it.”
Barry laughed.
“No wonder you always look so cool,” he commented. “Now I come to
think of it, I have never seen you hurry.”
Hassan extended his slender brown hands, his ebony stick held lightly
between the first and second fingers of the left.
“What is there to hurry for?” he asked softly. “We are all going the same
way. Why should we try to pass one another? Everything that life has to
give us is ours to-night. Let us enjoy it, for to-night will never come again.”
Barry stared curiously at this survival of the Arabian philosophers, but
checked his eager steps and walked on sedately beside the dignified
Egyptian.
Spots of interest were pointed out by Hassan, and, as they moved through
the streets, it became apparent to Barry that his companion possessed many
acquaintances in Upper Egypt by whom he was held in high esteem.
A most notable demonstration of this came when they passed a café in
the native town. A number of men sat smoking outside. Five of them, on
sight of the approaching figure, sprang up and performed a graceful Arab
salute with the right hand. All were fine types, tall muscular fellows, and
different from the townsmen surrounding them. Hassan es-Sugra gravely
returned their salutation, but they remained standing until the café was
passed.
“Who were those men, Hassan?” Barry asked.
“They are some of our excavators, sir,” Hassan replied. “Most of them
are already at the camp: these are late arrivals who go to-morrow.”
Barry glanced curiously at the delicate, almost effeminate face of the
speaker, and he wondered, as he had wondered many times before, how
Hassan es-Sugra had inspired, and how he retained, the profound respect of
these men.

And so, pursuing their leisurely way, they presently found themselves on
the ancient road to Karnak, formerly bordered by Sphinxes throughout the
mile of its length. The silence now was broken only by the distant note of a
pipe, the faint throbbing of a drum. Barry grew silent, too, awed by the
sleeping past upon which he intruded. At that point where the road turned
left into the Avenue of the Rams he sighted the great shadowy ruins and
hastened his steps.
“It is fortunate, sir,” Hassan said, laying one slender hand upon Barry’s
arm to check this impetuous increase of pace, “that we have been able to
begin while the Nile was in flood.”
“Why is that?” Barry asked.
“Because,” Hassan replied, “the tomb, which is on high land, can only be
approached from above at this season and is cut off from those routes along
which people generally come. We are less likely to be disturbed.”
At the entrance to the Temple, the Ghafîr appeared, mysterious, out of a
bank of shadow. Barry, a law-abiding citizen, had been given to understand
that he must show his ticket here, but Hassan es-Sugra waved him aside,
saluted the guardian, was saluted deeply in return, and they entered the
great, silent building.
Again Barry found himself glancing curiously at the face of his
companion, delicately beautiful in the moonlight. He was learning a lesson
that anyone susceptible to truth learns in Egypt. He was learning to look
with less satisfaction upon the hurriedly grasped successes of modern life,
and to experience an unpleasant sense of inferiority in the company of this
dignified, placid, yet majestic Arab.
Those who are sent to govern in these lands must be of a type immune
from such impressions. Barry had too much poetry in his nature to be blind
to some strange spiritual calm possessed by Hassan es-Sugra (whom Aunt
Micky would have briefly classified as a heathen), the secret of which has
been lost during generations of feverish endeavour.
He found himself amid a forest of vast columns; statues looked down
upon him scornfully; and all about him upon painted walls were those
Pharaohs and gods whom the imagination of Pierre Loti has depicted as
eternally signalling to one another. Bats haunted high, shadowy places, and
the note of some night bird sounded eerily.
Hassan es-Sugra walked through the mysterious darkness as confidently
as Barry would have walked along Fifth Avenue, until they came to the

Great Hall, most awe-inspiring of all the Egyptian monuments. He seemed
to know every inch of the place. The hieroglyphics held no mystery for him.
Raising his stick he pointed to an inscription, translating slowly:

“I did the best I could for the Temple of Amen, as architect of
my Lord. I placed obelisks, their height reached to the world of
heaven. A propylon is before the same in sight of the city of
Thebes; and ponds and gardens of flourishing trees.…”

“Who made this inscription, Hassan?” Barry asked.
“He was the First Prophet of Amen,” was the reply, “in the reign of
Rameses the Second, who was the son of Seti the First.”
Barry did not reply. A new idea had possessed him; a new magic had
invested the building. Here, in this vast, wonderful temple-place, she must
have walked—the Princess Zalithea!—the beautiful, mysterious girl of the
past who was so like that other, who lived, who surely lived, in the present!
His blood tingled, impatience claimed him, and, suddenly turning to
Hassan:
“When do we begin to excavate?” he asked abruptly.
“I hope, sir, the day after to-morrow.”
“Good!” said Barry.
The magic of Egypt had got into his veins. He knew that whatever else
life might hold for him, wherever Fate should guide his steps, always until
the end he would hear it calling him—calling him back to the Nile.
Later that night in the almost deserted lounge of the hotel he got into
conversation with a very bored young man whose job was connected with
the Irrigation Department. In a less virulent case this young man could not
have failed to prove a perfect antidote.
“Dead-alive hole, this,” he declared, “out of the season. Did you stay
long in London?”
“A week,” Barry replied.
“Lucky man!” sighed the other. “I would cheerfully sell all Egypt, if it
belonged to me, for a week in London. See any new shows?”
“One or two.”
“Gad! I’d see one every evenin’! And after the show I’d go on to the Kit
Cat, first night; the Embassy, next night; Ciro’s, third night. And so forth.”

“Really?” said Barry. “That’s odd! The life in London or New York or
Paris seems to be much the same. I’ve been fed up with the usual round for
years!”
“I’ve never had a chance to get fed up,” the other declared plaintively. “I
went straight from Oxford to the war, straight from the war to hospital, and
straight from hospital to this blasted hole.”
“Don’t you get a vacation sometimes?”
“Sometimes is right,” said the other.
Barry laughed at his acquaintance’s pessimism and ordered another
drink. As the waiter brought it:
“You are not here for fun, are you?” the irrigation man inquired wearily;
“because there’s nothing funny about Luxor.”
“No,” said Barry guardedly. “My father and I are here on a job of work.”
“You are not goin’ to try to Americanize Egypt, are you?” the other
suggested.
“Not exactly,” Barry replied. “Dad has a scheme for exploiting the old
caravan road to the Dakhla Oasis.”
“What for?” drawled his acquaintance. “Nobody wants to go there!”
“They might,” Barry returned, “if the journey were easier.”
“Goin’ to build a hotel there?”
“I don’t quite know, but we are starting out to-morrow to prospect.”
“Good luck!” murmured the irrigation gentleman, raising his glass. “If
I’m still alive when you come back you might bring me a few dates. They
are the best dates in Egypt. I don’t think they grow anything else.”
Their chat was interrupted at this point by the sudden appearance of
Professor Blackwell, expected that evening from Assouan and evidently
newly arrived.
“Ah! Professor!” cried Barry, jumping up. “Glad to see you! Does Dad
know you are here?”
“No,” the Professor replied, dropping into an armchair. “I have only this
very moment come in.”
Barry introduced the Professor to the irrigation expert, who presently,
however, having offered to buy more drinks, withdrew to what he termed
his “fly trap,” nodding gloomily to Barry as he went.
“Don’t forget the dates,” were his parting words.
Going back to their rooms, Barry ushered in Professor Blackwell. John
Cumberland, who was seated at a table studying some maps, stood up

gladly to greet him. Danbazzar, his broad back to the room, was staring out
of the open window across the Nile to where, sharp in the moonlight, the
Libyan Hills were outlined against the sky. He turned, fixing his penetrating
regard upon the new arrivals; and:
“Hassan tells me,” Barry began eagerly, “that we start operations on
Thursday. Is that correct?”
“It’s surely correct,” came Danbazzar’s deep voice. “I don’t know who’s
been giving public recitations, but it looks like some of our plans have
leaked out. Yes, sir, we start on Thursday.”

CHAPTER XII.
THE CAMP IN THE DESERT

Barry now entered upon a period of existence widely different from any he
had known. Danbazzar’s camp was in the neck of a wâdi on the north of the
caravan route from Thebes to Farshût. Further north, and visible from the
tents, on the summit of a mountain stood an ancient watchtower, used in the
days of the Pharaohs by the tomb guard. All about were remains of stone
huts which had probably been the quarters of these guards. On the right,
above terraced, desolate hills covered with débris of abandoned
excavations, rose the stately mass of El Kurn, the Horn.
Here in this weird quarry to which no one ever penetrated, they had their
base of operations. The native excavators, in charge of a headman who
proved to be one of the group that had been seated outside the Luxor café,
had their quarters several miles distant, in a sort of tumbledown village
principally inhabited by dogs. Native life in the towns had offered novel
features, but the conditions prevailing in this desert village surpassed
anything Barry could have imagined. An entire absence of sanitary
arrangements was the outstanding novelty; next to which he never got used
to the spectacle of a considerable family, a number of dogs, chickens, and
sometimes a donkey, residing happily together in one apartment which
could have been covered by a full-sized dining table.
They reached camp at dusk, although they had crossed the river in the
morning, having travelled by a circuitous route over high ridges and
through gloomy passes, to find that a native cook had prepared dinner and
that Hassan es-Sugra, who had gone ahead, was waiting to receive them.
Before attacking the meal, Barry, tired though he was, climbed the side of
the wâdi and stood on the edge of a small plateau, looking out to the rosy
haze that marked the course of old, distant Nile. The unforgettable dusk of
Egypt was falling. Rocks showed like black smudges on a gray canvas, and
the sky was passing through an amazing transformation of delicate blue to
shell pink, which, by some natural magic, combined to form the violet
afterglow which is not the least of this country’s beauties.

From below came a faint clattering of cooking utensils, and a dog was
howling somewhere, probably in the village where the workmen were
quartered. The great adventure had begun. To-night he was to see for the
first time the tomb of Princess Zalithea!
He uttered a deep sigh, which was a sigh of contentment, and climbed
down the steep descent again to the camp.
They dined inside one of the tents, Danbazzar deeming it unwise to court
attention from any chance travellers upon the ridge above.
Barry stooped and entered the little canvas dwelling which was to be his
home for some time to come. It presented a spectacle, on that first night,
which was always to remain with him as an odd memory.
Plates of steaming tomato soup (Heinz tinned variety) were set upon the
small square table, which even boasted a white cloth. The cook, a big,
bearded fellow from the Fayyum, his magnificent teeth revealed in a
constant grin, was just placing loaves and a pitcher of water upon the
hospitable board.
Danbazzar, wearing a white shirt open at the neck, riding breeches, and
gaiters, seemed utterly appropriate in that setting. His pale skin had
assumed an even, dark tan, his magnificent composure was an unspoken
retort to Barry’s sudden idea that this was some solemn farce—a dream
from which he would presently awaken. John Cumberland, also coatless, sat
on the right of the table. He seized a loaf and began to carve it vigorously,
looking up as Barry entered.
It was hard to recognize the John Cumberland of New York in this sun-
baked adventurer, and the only member of the party who seemed out of
place was Professor Blackwell, who faced his friend across the table. He
wore a black alpaca jacket and had omitted to remove his sun helmet. He
was gazing in gloomy disapproval at a large beetle of the Scarabæus family
which appeared to be attracted by the odour of his soup.
“Well, Barry!” John Cumberland greeted him. “What do you think of our
new quarters?”
“First rate!” was the laughing reply, as Barry took the vacant chair. “If we
go on in this style we shan’t starve.”
Professor Blackwell bent toward him; and:
“There’s plenty of liquor,” he whispered in his ear, “but all these fellows
are strict Moslems, and we should lose their respect, so Danbazzar informs
me, if they knew we drank anything stronger than water.”

The soup dispatched:
“Stick your head out and tell Mahmoud we are ready for the chicken,”
said John Cumberland.
Barry nodded, stood up, and stepped outside the tent. The camp kitchen
had been established in a sort of cave in the side of the wâdi, suspiciously
like the entrance to a partially opened tomb. The glistening, smiling face of
Mahmoud, the cook, showed in the reflected light. He smiled as he cooked
and sang soft Arab love songs.
Before the entrance to this little tunnel, leaning upon his ebony cane,
Barry saw Hassan es-Sugra, reflectively studying the efforts of the chef. At
the same moment he detected a faint, sweet sound. From a great distance it
seemed to come—above and beyond—a rhythmic, silvery jingling. He had
just opened his mouth to shout “Mahmoud,” when Hassan turned toward
him and raised his hand in warning.
Night now had fallen, swiftly, blackly.
Ebon shadows lay in the wâdi; above, on crags and terraces of the
mountains, were gleaming high lights where the moon shone. The musical
sound went on uninterruptedly. Danbazzar’s precautions had been justified.
Spiritually transported to the realms of the Arabian Nights, Barry stood,
silent, listening. Camel bells! It was the sound of camel bells! High above
on the mountain ridge a caravan was passing on its way from Thebes to
Farshût.…
After dinner, pipes and cigars being lighted, they held a council of war,
seated around the table in the tent. At this council Hassan es-Sugra
attended.
“Although no precautions have been neglected,” said Danbazzar, “there
appears to be suspicion about the object of our journey in certain quarters. I
had an interview yesterday with the secretary of Mudîr of Luxor. We have
known each other for some years, and he gave me a big dose of advice
about the route beyond El Kharga.”
Danbazzar paused, tensing his lips so that his abbreviated beard stuck out
truculently, a peculiar mannerism which Barry had noted before. Then:
“The Mudîr’s secretary was most hospitable,” he went on, “and so
anxious for our comfort that I’m dead sure he knew I was lying. He knew
we had no more intention of visiting the oasis than he has.”
“But how could the truth have leaked out?” John Cumberland asked.

“What about these people in the village,” Barry suggested, “where the
men are quartered?”
Hassan es-Sugra extended his palms and softly intruded with a remark.
“They are of the Hawwara,” he explained, “or claim to be. They owe
allegiance to their own sheik, and he is my friend. No, it will be some of the
workmen, while in Luxor, who have been talking.”
“Then what can we do?” John Cumberland demanded.
“I could thrash two or three of the men,” Hassan suggested gently, “until
I found one to speak the truth.”
Barry stared in amazement at the æsthetic face of the speaker, thinking
that he jested; but no smile appeared. This was apparently a firm offer.
“No!” Danbazzar’s deep voice broke in. “It would do no good. If this
fellow Tawwab suspects anything——”
“Exactly,” said Professor Blackwell uneasily; “that is just what I am
wondering. If he suspects anything, what will he do? Inform the Inspector
of Antiquities?”
Danbazzar knocked ash from his cigar. The scarab ring upon his finger
twinkled in the lamplight. He stared fixed at the Professor; then:
“He is an Egyptian,” he replied. “What would he gain by that?”
“Ah!” John Cumberland exclaimed. “Gain! That’s the answer—
bakhshish!”
“Under the present government,” said Danbazzar gravely, “always!”
“Well!” Cumberland shrugged his shoulders. “I came prepared to pay! Is
it safe to start?”
“I was about to ask the same question,” declared Professor Blackwell,
raising his gaunt and ungainly form from the low camp chair in which he
was seated.
“Yes.”
Danbazzar spoke deliberately, and without betraying any of the
excitement which the Professor had been unable to conceal, which
obviously possessed John Cumberland, and to which Barry was a restless
prey. He turned to Hassan es-Sugra.
“Hassan,” he directed, “make sure that all’s clear.”
Hassan saluted deeply and went out of the tent.
“It’s a bit of a scramble,” Danbazzar warned. “Everybody in fibre shoes,
and don’t forget your flasks.”

Their preparations were complete when Hassan returned with the news
that the road was clear; whereupon, they set out.
The route they followed was merely a native path and not one of the
roads ordinarily used. For a goat or a barefooted Egyptian it was navigable
enough, but what with leaping over chasms of unknown depth and
scrambling up narrow funnels composed of crumbling rock, brittle as a
cracker, it was not all that might have been desired by a party of townsmen
out for an evening stroll.
At last they came out on the hummock of a hill, and below them,
magnificently outlined in shadow, lay the Valley of the Queens. Above
towered that strangely shaped mountain once sacred to the goddess Hathor.
Breathless, Barry leaned upon a block of stone, listening to a duet in hard
breathing contributed by his father and Professor Blackwell. Danbazzar’s
cigar glowed in the shadows of a neighbouring rock, and Hassan es-Sugra
exhibited no evidence of fatigue.
Awhile they paused there, and then set out again, Danbazzar and Hassan
leading, John Cumberland and the Professor following, Barry bringing up
the rear. Thus they went, except where broken formation of the ground
necessitated single file.
By what sailing marks the pilots traced their course was not apparent. But
through the desolation of this land of tombs they passed, the way twisting
and turning, their route being sometimes upward and sometimes downward,
until at last:
“Here it is!” said Danbazzar.
Barry’s weariness departed; his heart leaped.
They stood before a sheer rock face, its irregular surface pitted with
openings. Above a mound of drift, Hassan es-Sugra began to dig with his
stick, clearing sand and rubbish away. Barry watched him abstractedly: he
was fighting to conquer the reality.
Somewhere here, deep in the heart of this rock, she lay, the princess of
long ago! She whose picture, portrayed in the papyrus, was a vivid
representation of the girl he had seen on that balcony in faraway New
Jersey! Here! somewhere in this ancient mountain where she had lain for
thousands of years!
What was the link? What did it mean? Useless! His mind refused to
grapple with so monstrous a problem.

“See!” Hassan es-Sugra turned, extending his palms. “The cartouche,
sirs! As I found it a year ago!”
A ray from Danbazzar’s electric torch shone on to the rock. All bent
forward eagerly.
“Quite! Quite!” murmured Professor Blackwell. “Yes, it is the same,
unmistakably!”
Deeply carved in the surface, it was there for all to see—the curious sign
which translated, meant: “She Who Sleeps but Will Awaken.”

CHAPTER XIII.
THE EXCAVATORS

Nothing succeeds like impudence. The original plan had provided for work
at night only; but the flooded state of the Nile Valley was so discouraging to
tourists and interruption of labours in the remote spot where the tomb was
situated so unlikely that Danbazzar at the outset decided upon day shifts
and night shifts.
Now definitely launched upon this unlawful project, a sort of unholy joy
fired the party. It was even shared by Professor Blackwell.
The plan of operations was worthy of its inventor. The entrance to the
tomb lay in a fairly deep recess; and Danbazzar had constructed, in
convenient sections, a huge screen—practically a piece of scenery. The
material for this accounted for the presence of several strangely shaped
cases among their baggage for which Barry had hitherto been unable to
account.
Set in place before the entrance to the tomb, with top pieces and side
pieces, or wings, it was joined with sand and rubbish to the rubble of the
valley path. When lovingly finished by Danbazzar—seated upon a light
scaffold—with odd dabs of paint applied to a wet surface upon which sand
had been thrown, the result was magical. While it slightly altered the
conformation of the landscape, it was utterly impossible to detect the
presence of this screen even by the closest scrutiny. One would have had to
tap it to learn that it was of wood and canvas, and not of rock.
Access to the interior was gained by an ingenious door, low down at one
corner. This door was in reality a shallow box filled with rubble and cement
and opening upward. In the space between the screen and the rock there
was ample room for work, which was carried on by lantern light. With two
men always on duty, one at the high end of the valley and one at the low, to
give warning for operations to cease, detection was next to impossible,
short of treachery on the part of an employee.
On the morning that this screen was completed, Danbazzar, paint brush in
hand, stood surveying his work with the pride of an artist. He turned to

Barry, who stood beside him and:
“Some illusion, I think!” said he.
“It’s simply amazing!” cried John Cumberland.
“I worked behind that screen, sir,” said Danbazzar, “for three months,
and not a soul but my men ever knew I was there! The last month I spent
covering up what I’d found.”
“I take it,” said Cumberland, “we can soon demolish what you
reconstructed?”
“Pretty soon,” Danbazzar agreed. “But I had to make a sound job of it.”
“Anyway,” said Barry, “from now onward we are safe.”
“As you say—” Danbazzar bowed as one who acknowledges applause
and gave the signal for the scaffolding to be demolished—“the dangerous
part is over. Rain is the worst we have to fear now.”
He touched Hassan es-Sugra upon the shoulder.
“Hassan,” he directed, “let the first party begin at three o’clock. You have
my instructions. I shall be back at five.”
Hassan saluted, and leaving Mahmoud in charge of the clearing-up
operations, walked away, slow and stately, down the valley.
As it chanced, their belief in the artistic genius of Danbazzar was very
shortly to be put to the test; for, returning to the camp, where they intended
to remain during the heat of noon, they were met by a very courteous
Egyptian official.
John Cumberland started at sight of the figure wearing the tarbûsh, but
Danbazzar exhibited neither surprise nor alarm.
“Ah! Mr. Tawwab!” he cried genially. “It was real good of you to hunt us
up!”
Mr. Tawwab’s smile was noncommittal.
“The Mudîr felt anxious about you,” he explained; “and learning that you
had not yet started for the oasis, suggested that I should see you.”
“We are honoured and delighted,” Danbazzar declared. “Allow me to
make known to you Mr. John Cumberland and Professor Blackwell—Mr.
Barry Cumberland. This is Mr. Ahmed Tawwab, secretary to the Governor
of Luxor. Coffee, I believe, is prepared. You will join us, Mr. Tawwab?”
“Certainly.”
The Egyptian bowed, and they all entered the tent which served as dining
room, office, and council chamber.
Danbazzar entered last, behind Barry, and, in his ear:

“Mischief!” he whispered.
The boring ceremony of coffee and cigarettes, which is indispensable to
any piece of Arab business, having been duly performed:
“The Mudîr,” Mr. Tawwab explained, turning the gaze of his languorous
eyes upon Danbazzar, “learns from the Mudîr of Asyut, that a considerable
party of Hawwara Arabs, led by a sheik of the Hamman family and plainly
meaning mischief, has been reported from El Kharga, in the Great Oasis. It
is perhaps a political or a religious demonstration, but the Mudîr thought it
wise to advise you that there may be danger.”
“Convey my thanks to His Excellency,” said Danbazzar gravely. “We are
all most indebted.”
His deep voice was lowered to a sort of caressing purr; which, however,
resembled that of some large member of the cat family.
“But,” Mr. Tawwab pursued, rolling a cigarette between his flexible
fingers, “I understand that you are a fairly large party, and, of course, you
can make choice. He will be glad to learn, nevertheless, that his information
was correct, and that this warning has reached you before your setting out.”

Mr. Tawwab having presently departed:
“What does this mean, exactly?” John Cumberland demanded.
“It means, sir,” said Danbazzar grimly, “that our screen was only erected
in the nick of time! We shall be watched!”
“What!” exclaimed Professor Blackwell with alarm; “but we may be
arrested!”
Danbazzar turned his strange eyes in the speaker’s direction, studying
him silently for a moment; then:
“Before that time comes,” he replied, “we shall be invited to pay. But if
we can get through without paying, all the better.”
“Do you believe the story of the Arabs?” Barry asked.
“No,” Danbazzar answered promptly, “I don’t!” His fierce eyes grew
very reflective. “Nor do I believe that Ahmed Tawwab came from the
Mudîr at all.”
“I don’t follow,” said Barry. “What is your idea about it, then?”
“My idea is,” Danbazzar answered, “that Mr. Tawwab has discovered the
identity of your father and has simply called as an ordinary matter of
business. He has got wise that we’re here with some secret purpose, and

he’s going to make us pay. It was against grafting of this sort that I
budgeted when I mentioned the price for the expedition, Mr. Cumberland.”
Undeterred by these vague threats, operations were commenced that day.
A tiny opening, a mere crevice, had been left by Danbazzar in the reclosed
entrance, some ten feet above, and to the left of the inscription on the rock.
The first party set to work to enlarge this, and two guards were placed
where they could command all possible approaches. By nightfall, enough
had been done to show that this indeed was the entrance to a narrow,
sloping shaft, carefully closed at the top with stone blocks.
John Cumberland’s excitement became intense. Professor Blackwell
experienced much difficulty in persuading him to sleep. Throughout the
afternoon and the evening not a soul had appeared in sight of the
excavation, and the first day promised well for the enterprise. Barry only
deserted the job when a night shift of excavators came on duty, walking
back, tired but mentally exhilarated, to the camp with Hassan es-Sugra.
As they pursued their way through moonlight and shadow down to the
little wâdi, Barry glanced many times at his silent companion. The wonder
of it all swept over him—the insanity of their dreams; the almost incredible
fact that less than a month before he had been leading a rather empty life in
New York.
Now, he was walking through a vast cemetery peopled with kings and
queens, princes, princesses, councillors, of a glorious civilization which the
desert had reclaimed long ages before the name of America was known to
men!
The stillness seemed to become oppressive. Not even the bark of a dog
could be heard. And to-night no camel bells jingled on the ancient caravan
road. Barry spoke at random.
“How long, Hassan,” he asked, “should it take to reach the tomb?”
“It is doubtful, sir,” was the reply. “Perhaps, if the stones are not too hard
to be broken, only a few days, for we have many men at work. Perhaps
longer; and then, we do not know if the passage is clear beyond the first
portcullis. Sometimes there are two; sometimes three. And, at the bottom of
the shaft, the entrance to the funeral chamber will have to be broken.”
“But the way in from the top? The part you closed up again last year?”
“That should be easy, sir. Perhaps by to-morrow. But there is still all the
shaft.”
“Is that a long job?”

“Always,” Hassan replied, “it is a question of the conditions. Sometimes
the air is so bad that men cannot work in these tombs.”
“A question of Kismet, eh?” said Barry.
“Kismet, yes!” Hassan es-Sugra smiled in his sweetly grave way. “If it is
written that we succeed, we shall succeed. If not”—he shrugged his
shoulders—“no matter!”
Dog tired, Barry undressed and threw himself upon his camp bed. He
shared the tent with Professor Blackwell, and his last waking recollection
was of the sonorous snores of that weary scientist.
He seemed scarcely to have closed his eyes before he was awakened by a
stray beam of morning sunlight. Someone had raised the flap of the tent. He
opened his eyes. Professor Blackwell was still sleeping peacefully; but the
bearded, grinning face of Mahmoud appeared in the opening.
Mahmoud had a little English; and:
“Sir!” he said. “I come to tell you. They make a small opening—too
small for me. But this morning Hassan es-Sugra goes through!”
“What!” Barry was out of bed in one bound. “You mean he has gone into
the tomb?”
“He goes in, Effendim, and comes out again!”
“Where is he?”
“He is there, in the valley.”
“What!” came a harsh, sleepy voice.
Professor Blackwell turned over on his elbow.
“They’ve reopened the tomb, Professor!” Barry cried excitedly. “They’ve
reopened the tomb!”
“Impossible!” the Professor muttered, sitting upright. “I never heard of
such a thing!”
“But Hassan es-Sugra has been in! Mahmoud has told me so!”
“Oh, yes!” said the Professor, fumbling under his pillow for his glasses.
“Quite! Quite! Of course I was forgetting that it had been opened before.”
Mahmoud departed, grinning broadly, as Barry made a grab for his
clothes.
John Cumberland and Danbazzar were not in camp; and, having hastily
disposed of hot coffee and biscuits, Barry and the Professor started for the
excavation.
They had actually come out onto the plateau looking down upon the
valley, when both pulled up dead, exchanging a swift, significant glance.

Unmistakable upon the still desert air, the note of a police whistle
reached them! The guards were armed with these, but this was the first time
there had been occasion to use them.
“Damnation!” Barry muttered. “Who can it be? Come on, Professor, let’s
hurry!”
To the great discomfiture of the older man, they performed the remainder
of the journey at a fairly rapid trot. And, coming out of a narrow ravine
which opened some twenty yards above the site of the excavation, they
almost literally ran into Mr. Tawwab!
He was standing not more than a dozen paces from Danbazzar’s screen,
smoking a cigarette and looking about him curiously.

CHAPTER XIV.
THE HAUNTED VALLEY

Prone upon a high crag Danbazzar lay, watching a horseman making his
way down the slope of a distant valley and heading in the direction of the
Nile. At last:
“He’s gone!” he said, and looked back over his shoulder.
John Cumberland heaved a great sigh of relief and, standing, stretched
his cramped limbs. One long last look Danbazzar took at the receding
figure, and then the two climbed down to the path below where Professor
Blackwell and Barry awaited them.
“Do you think I got away with it?” the latter asked.
“No!” Danbazzar said promptly—“not entirely. Your explanation that we
had gone out for jackal was good.”
“Excellent, in my opinion!” Professor Blackwell murmured. “You are
really an accomplished liar, Barry.”
“Well,” Barry explained, laughing, “I knew we shouldn’t find you in the
camp, and some sort of explanation had to be offered. I spoke loudly
enough for you to hear me behind the screen, so that if he insisted upon
staying till you returned, your story would correspond with mine.”
“Unfortunately,” said John Cumberland, “he must have heard the
whistle.”
“He did!” declared the Professor—“although he never once mentioned
it.”
“That is why I know he didn’t believe you,” Danbazzar added. “I shall go
into Luxor on Monday and talk business to Mr. Tawwab.” He turned to
Barry. “You haven’t heard the good news yet! Can you imagine that I was
forced to stop work last year within a matter of hours of breaking through
that portcullis?”
“What do you mean?” Barry cried.
“They cleared the entrance,” his father replied excitedly, “which
Danbazzar had reclosed, without difficulty. You see, Barry, we are provided

with the very best and latest gear. They set about the portcullis, and Hassan
found a flaw in the rock itself beside this otherwise immovable stone door.”
“Why didn’t we find it last year!” boomed Danbazzar. “I figured that
portcullis was a long, tough job!”
“They worked on it all night,” John Cumberland went on, “enlarging it
——”
“Have you actually been in!” cried Barry.
“No,” was the reply; “the opening isn’t big enough. But Danbazzar and I
were looking along the passage when we heard the whistle!”
“Hassan has been down,” said Danbazzar. “There’s an obstruction twenty
feet below, but he reports the air is fairly good.”
“But what’s the obstruction?” Barry asked.
“I fear another portcullis,” said Danbazzar. “But the roof of the shaft
seems to have collapsed at this point, or partly collapsed, and Hassan is
uncertain whether there’s another portcullis or not. It may be a month’s
work, or our job may be nearly finished. Remembering the purpose for
which it was constructed, I look for a simple tomb. I should be surprised to
find wells or dummy passages.”
“Could I possibly get through?”
Danbazzar looked him over briefly; and:
“No!” he replied, “but we have dropped a light into the shaft and you can
look down. The men are at work again now.”
Excitement rose to fever pitch. Constant relays of skilled excavators
could not work fast enough for John Cumberland or for Barry. By nightfall,
the hole beside the mighty stone door which closed the passage had been
appreciably enlarged. But whereas their first success had been due
principally to a flaw in the rock tunnel itself, progress beyond this stage was
a matter of patient drilling and chipping.
Danbazzar’s optimism was shown to have been excessive. Hours went by
in constant work; blazing days and nights of ceaseless toil; but still the great
portcullis defied them. Hassan es-Sugra, with the smallest men of the party,
had attacked the lower obstruction. But conditions were bad. Both air and
proper light were lacking. Since they could not be relieved, their progress
was necessarily slow. And, meanwhile, the main gang chipped and chipped
patiently at the rock tunnel surrounding the stone door.
By Monday success seemed to be in sight; and as Danbazzar set out for
Luxor to interview Mr. Tawwab, he gave orders touching the work on the

lower passage. And so, this day, which it was written should be a
memorable one, wore on.
When the wonderful curtain of dusk was drawn over the valley,
Danbazzar had not returned from his interview with Mr. Tawwab. Barry
pictured him patiently drinking numberless cups of coffee and smoking
scores of cigarettes.
Mahmoud had been out for quail in the morning, and the savoury odour
of his cooking increased the appetite of the party, already keen enough at
the end of an arduous and exciting day. Having performed their somewhat
limited ablutions, they assembled in the tent over a surreptitious cocktail,
perforce without ice.
“It seems to me,” said John Cumberland, “that this thing has developed
into a race. The man Tawwab is out for blackmail. That’s clear.”
“Can we keep him off until we succeed, or will he hold us up?”
murmured Professor Blackwell. “Success might come almost any day. What
is beyond that further obstruction no one can pretend to guess. But as to
what it is, from my scanty observations—for the light was very bad—I have
formed a theory.”
“What’s your theory, Blackwell?” John Cumberland asked.
“It is this,” the Professor continued: “That first portcullis blocking the
passage was built to be raised—I am sure of it.”
“I believe you are right,” said Barry; “and it worked in deep grooves.”
“Quite! Quite!” The Professor nodded. “By what means such a vast lump
of rock was lifted, I leave to the greater knowledge of Danbazzar to explain.
I am no Egyptologist. But I think the obstruction twenty feet down, from
what I can see of it, is, or was, a second portcullis. The broken pieces look
of about the same thickness as that at the top.”
“But why should the second be broken and not the first?” Barry
demanded.
“Which brings me to my theory,” the Professor continued. “I think the
second portcullis, at some time when it was raised, fell and was shattered.”
“By Jove!” John Cumberland exclaimed. “You may be right!”
“I am almost sure I am,” the Professor said. “I think I can see one of the
deep grooves it worked in. If this is so, it should be fairly easy to clear the
débris, and, unless there is a third portcullis, intact, why should we not then
find ourselves in the actual burial chamber?”
“It’s possible,” his friend admitted. “Let’s hope you’re right.”

“There are no inscriptions to be seen on the walls of the passage,” Barry
remarked.
“No,” said the Professor; “but I understand that this is usual. Am I right,
Cumberland?”
“Quite right. But we may look for something very unusual in the
chamber itself.”
They were all feverishly restless, but as their presence at the excavation
merely interfered with the work, for this restlessness there was no proper
outlet.
Dinner concluded, and Mahmoud having cleared the table, the Professor
and John Cumberland, shirt sleeves rolled up and cigars lighted, settled
down to poker. Barry, pipe in mouth, sauntered out into the wâdi, vaguely
wondering why Danbazzar had not returned.
Without consciously intending to do so, he found himself following the
familiar path, to which he no longer required a guide. On he went and
down, until he came to that little ravine which opened into the valley just
above the tomb. In the nick of time he remembered the usual routine and
clapped his hands sharply three times.
Had he forgotten, the result would have been a blast of a police whistle
and the suspension of operations!
The ingeniously screened working lay in deep shadow. He could see
neither of the guards, but, standing there, silent, he could hear vaguely, deep
in the heart of the rock, a sound of regular muffled blows. He was tempted
to open the sand trap and to penetrate to the scene of activity, but overcame
the impulse and turned right, walking up the valley to where it came out on
the shoulder of a hill. Here, squatting under a curious mass of rock roughly
resembling a giant skull, was one of the guards, who stood up as Barry
approached.
“Lêltak sa’ îda!” said the man, saluting him.
Barry echoed the words, to which he was now becoming accustomed,
and passed on. The guard reseated himself under the rock.
He determined to walk up as far as the ancient caravan road which
crossed the crest above, a spot from which, Danbazzar had informed him,
the view by moonlight was remarkable. He had counted, however, without
the natural difficulties of the route. The path which he had intended to
follow disappeared into midnight gullies and twined about upstanding

crags. The shadowy places might be full of pitfalls. Barry paused, looking
up at the ridge sharply outlined against the clear blue of the sky.
Perhaps, after all, discretion was the better part of valour. He might quite
easily break his neck if he attempted this climb in the darkness. He stood
there for a while looking about him, and knocking out his pipe upon the
heel of his bass-soled shoe.
These slopes above and below he knew to be literally honeycombed. This
weird place, almost unreal in its colouring under the moon, was no more
than a vast necropolis. A month before, with New York’s life pulsing around
him, the thought of this desolation and of being lonely amid it would have
been appalling. Yet so adaptable is human nature that already he was
growing accustomed to these haunted solitudes.
He began to refill his pipe. Upon a ridge fifty yards away, sharply
outlined in the moonlight, a slinking shape appeared for a moment and as
quickly disappeared. A jackal! Only the night before one had visited
Mahmoud’s pantry, had succeeded in some mysterious fashion in opening
the door, and had absconded with a cold chicken, a portion of a tin of
sardines, and a piece of cheese. Another, even more original in his tastes,
had stolen one of Professor Blackwell’s slippers.
Barry determined to return to the camp by a circuitous route which he
knew, and which would bring him out at the lower end of the wâdi. Having
satisfactorily lighted his briar, he set out, now walking more briskly and
wondering if the night shift at work in the tomb of Zalithea had succeeded
in penetrating to the second portcullis.
Danbazzar, an old hand at the business, had arranged a sort of bonus
system which was a constant urge to the men, and effectively abolished any
possibility of slacking. If the shift which changed at twelve o’clock or that
which changed at four should be in a position to report that their immediate
objective had been gained, they were instructed to awaken Danbazzar, or in
his absence John Cumberland.
Barry, stepping out briskly upon the comparatively clear path which he
had chosen, conjured up a vision of the chamber in which, if their hopes
should be realized, they would find Zalithea.
Prior to their final departure from Luxor he had visited several
characteristic tombs under the guidance of Hassan es-Sugra. He imagined
that the chamber of the sleeping princess would be different from any of
these. His impatience was so great that he could scarcely contain himself.

He doubted if even his father’s enthusiasm was greater than his own.
Danbazzar, whatever he felt, revealed little. Hassan es-Sugra seemed to be
removed from all human emotions.
Coming to the lowest point in his descent, about half a mile below the
excavation, he paused, looking about him.
By moonlight the place was different. But he recalled that it did not
matter which of the several paths to the left he took, since any of them
would ultimately bring him to his destination, and if one should prove
impassable he could always return. Crossing a flat-topped mound, he
descended the slope beyond and saw beneath him a rugged bowl dotted
with minor ruins, probably of those stone huts which occurred in the Valley
of the Kings. He stood looking down. It might be wise to avoid this valley,
which no doubt contained pitfalls and across which he would have to climb
rather than walk.
Then, as he hesitated, suddenly he saw something—something that
caused him to shrink back, to inhale sharply—to wish he were not alone.
A figure was moving in the deep shadows of the hollow—a figure
definitely horrible in such a place at that hour. It presented the appearance
of a tall, gaunt man! There was a faint light, too, a fitful, elfin light which
rose and fell—rose and fell—among the ruins!
All the old confidence with which Barry had walked through this place of
the dead now deserted him. He recognized that he was afraid—and was
ashamed of the recognition. But he retraced his steps swiftly, never pausing
or glancing back until he had regained the main path.
Then, from behind him, far behind him, came a sound.…
Someone or something was climbing up from the bowl of the little
valley!
In the profound silence of that place the noise was clearly audible. A
jackal was out of the question; for no four-footed creature is more silent
than a jackal in its comings and goings. He stood still, listening intently.
Footsteps!—unmistakably those of a man and not of any four-footed beast!
Immediately facing him where he stood was an irregular mound of rock
and sand, outlined on the right by the silver of the moon, but a place of
ebony shadows on the left. He crossed into the shadow and waited. Nearer
and nearer came the approaching footsteps. Whoever was coming up from
the valley of the ruined huts was about to enter that narrow gully through
which Barry had walked!

Half a dozen reasonable explanations presented themselves, but his mind
rejected them one after another. Eeriness touched him with a cold finger. He
watched the vague slash in a wall of darkness, which, from his present
position, represented the entrance to the gully. Now, the one who
approached was coming along it. In another moment he would be out. Three
more paces must bring him into the light.
Barry’s heart was beating rapidly. He was afraid—and did not know of
what he was afraid.
And now he realized that the one who walked had cleared the gap,
although he could not yet see any movement in the shadow. A second—two
seconds—three seconds elapsed… and a man came out into the moonlight.
It was Danbazzar!

CHAPTER XV.
THE HAWWARA

Automatically Danbazzar’s hand dropped to his hip, the first intimation
Barry had of the fact that he carried arms; then:
“All right!” cried Barry, and stepped out of the shadow, conscious of an
almost ridiculous sense of relief.
But, for a moment, Danbazzar did not move.
“What are you doing here!” he demanded—for it was less a question than
a demand.
Barry experienced a momentary vague resentment.
“If it comes to that,” he replied, “what are you doing here?”
Danbazzar smiled and came forward, shrugging his broad shoulders and
dismissing the matter with a slow, graceful wave of his hand.
“I believe,” said he, “that we have both got the ‘jumps.’ I am here
because my donkey boy refused to come beyond the end of the valley at
this time of night. And as we have no accommodation for a donkey, I let
him return to Kurna. As a matter of fact, I helped him start!”
“I see,” said Barry, meeting the fixed stare of those strange eyes. “For my
part, I was taking a walk because I couldn’t sleep. But weren’t you
prowling about in the hollow down yonder?”
“I was,” Danbazzar replied gravely. “I had an idea that someone was
hiding there, watching me—and I won’t be spied upon.”
“That’s odd!” said Barry; “because I had a notion I saw someone there
about five minutes ago.”
“Is that so? What was your impression—a tall thin man?”
“Yes,” Barry nodded, “unpleasantly like an unwrapped mummy!”
“Humph!” Danbazzar lighted a cigarette. “Very queer! Evidently you’re
not aware of the fact that that little hollow is supposed by the Arabs to be
haunted!”
Side by side they proceeded up the slope, Danbazzar heading confidently
for the camp. He seemed to know these desolate hills as he knew every
street and every alley in Cairo. For Danbazzar, Egypt had few secrets.

“However,” said Barry, “if we really saw anybody, it was probably some
harmless eccentric who lives alone in one of the ruins.”
“It may have been,” Danbazzar murmured, “or it may not! What news of
the tomb?”
“They are still enlarging the opening, but except for Hassan and the
younger Said, no one has been through yet.”
“I’m very anxious,” Danbazzar declared.
“You can’t be more anxious than I am!” cried Barry.
“Possibly not,” the other admitted, “but my anxiety may be different
from yours. I have spent several hours to-day with Mr. Tawwab.”
“Yes,” Barry prompted eagerly—“what do you think he knows?”
“I don’t think he knows anything. He’s just guessing. But he takes it for
granted that we’re digging somewhere—for something. We’re going to be
watched, or intimidated, or both!”
“Intimidated!” Barry echoed.
“Exactly!” Danbazzar nodded in his slow, grave fashion. “I practically
made Tawwab an offer in the roundabout ceremonious fashion which alone
they understand. He intimated with equal circumlocution that he didn’t
think the price high enough. I told him in a complimentary speech of fifteen
minutes to go to the devil. He pressed on me several cups of coffee and
nasty musk-scented cigarettes. Then he gave me to understand in the course
of twenty minutes or more that I had his official permission to go to hell
likewise. We parted perfectly good friends, though. It was a question of
terms. But I think he holds the winning card.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well!” Danbazzar shook his leonine head. “Mr. Tawwab reverted to the
story of these Hawwara Arabs reported from El Kharga. I thought it was
just plain lying when he spoke of it at first, but as he came back on the
matter to-day I knew there was more in it. He informed me, with deep
regret, that a party of the Hawwara had been reported on the caravan road
some five miles south of Araki.”
Coming from moonlight into shadow at that moment, Barry met the
glance of the speaker’s eyes.
“Do you mean,” he asked, “that they are coming in this direction?”
“That’s what Tawwab implied,” Danbazzar admitted. “They must have
come from the Farshût road, and now they’re heading our way. He
professed to be much concerned about our safety, pointing out that at this

season our camp was a very lonely one. It’s true enough that, after leaving
Kurna, except for a few scattered houses we’re pretty well isolated.”
“But what do you think he was driving at?” said Barry. “These Arabs are
surely peaceable enough?”
“As a rule they are,” was the reply, “but a wave of fanaticism will
sometimes pass through a tribe, or a section of a tribe, and then they go
Mad Hatter. However, I certainly know why Tawwab kept coming back to
it.”
“Why?”
“To drive the price up! He was good enough to mention that his relations
with the sheik who seems to be at the head of this mysterious movement
have always been of a most cordial character.”
“The devil take it!” Barry muttered. “Why can’t he mind his own
business!”
“Well,” Danbazzar smiled, “departmentally speaking, this is his business!
If he handled it properly we should find ourselves under arrest to-morrow!
No!”—he shrugged his broad shoulders—“Mr. Tawwab holds the cards.
We’ll play as long as we can play, after which we must pay.”
A beam of light shining out across the bottom of the wâdi and the
unmistakable rattle of poker chips signified that John Cumberland and the
Professor were still at their game. The appearance of Danbazzar, however,
broke it up, and, eagerly listened to by the party, he gave a detailed account
of his visit to Luxor.
“I can’t imagine any reason for the Arabs coming in this direction,” said
John Cumberland, when Mr. Tawwab’s warning had been repeated to the
party.
“There can be only one reason,” Danbazzar returned gravely.
“What is it?”
“This camp!”
He tensed his lips in a grim manner, reaching across for the bottle of
Martell Three Stars, his favourite beverage in moments of reflection.
“Of course,” Professor Blackwell broke in, “they may assume that we
have large sums of money in our possession.”
“They would assume rightly!” Barry remarked. “Can you count on the
men, Danbazzar?”
“On the excavators?” the latter inquired, pouring out a drink and turning
his eyes toward the speaker. “On every man of them.”

“We haven’t arms enough to go round,” John Cumberland murmured.
“Oh! it’s unthinkable, anyway.”
“All the same,” said Barry, “I suggest we mount guard in future—here as
well as at the tomb. And as it’s too late to make any other arrangements to-
night, I think we ought to take watches ourselves. What do you say, Dad?”
“I agree,” John Cumberland replied quietly. His face was very grave.
“This is something I had not counted upon.”
Professor Blackwell raised his gaunt form, ducking his head to avoid
contact with the sloping roof of the tent.
“I appoint myself first guard,” he announced. “I’ll take the Lee-Enfield.”
“As you like,” said Danbazzar.
With the heel of his riding boot he pushed a long wooden chest in the
Professor’s direction.
Stooping, Blackwell unlocked the box. It contained a moderately
extensive collection of arms. And he selected a rifle of the British service
pattern. The Professor was an old campaigner; and, having charged the
magazine with care, he lighted a fresh cigar, and, nodding to the others,
strolled outside the tent. His footsteps might be heard receding along the
wâdi.
“For many reasons, I hope we break through in the next three days,”
Danbazzar went on, ending a short, uncomfortable silence.
He nodded his massive head in the direction of his own tent, which lay to
the south.
“It took years to collect the ingredients mentioned in the formula. Some
of them are perishable. One oil I got from Persia six months ago is already
changing colour under the influence of climate. Besides, if these things
were destroyed, God knows when I’d assemble them again.”
“But you have the case well hidden,” said John Cumberland.
“It’s buried in the sand under the floor of my tent, but I don’t feel too
happy about it, all the same.”
“The papyrus!” cried Barry eagerly—“you have that with you?”
“Not on your life!” Danbazzar returned. “No, sir, I have a photograph of
it, and one of the formula as well. The originals are in the vault of my New
York bank.”
“Yes,” John Cumberland nodded, turning to Barry. “I thought I had
mentioned this to you.”
“No, Dad; I imagined we had them with us.”

“And now,” said Danbazzar, standing up, “I’m going along to look at the
work. If that second portcullis is broken, there’s no reason why we
shouldn’t be down to the mummy chamber to-morrow. We’re reaping the
benefit of what I did last year. It would be better if you both remained in
camp till I return. We shall have to follow some rule of this kind for the
present.”
He took a small repeater from his pocket and dropped it in the arms
chest, taking in its place a heavy revolver. When he had gone, John
Cumberland looked at his son rather blankly.
“I hope and believe, Barry,” said he, “that this thing is a big bluff. If it
isn’t, I shall feel inclined to withdraw.”
“Withdraw!” cried Barry. “You surely wouldn’t do that!”
“I’m not thinking of the danger,” the older man went on quietly, “but of
the impossible position we should find ourselves in if we definitely came to
blows with these Arabs. The whole plan would be exposed. I can’t afford to
take that risk, even if Danbazzar can.”
“You are thinking of the Egyptian authorities?” suggested Barry slowly.
“I am.” His father nodded. “Imagine the disgrace if we were arrested!
No. If it comes to shooting, this party must break up. We could only hope to
return at some future time, when the district was more settled.”
“I never heard of such a thing,” Barry declared. “Of course, I know
nothing of the country. It’s most unusual, isn’t it?”
“Most unusual,” John Cumberland agreed. “I confess I can’t understand
it. But I don’t like it.”
In short, Mr. Tawwab’s conversation with Danbazzar had created an
unpleasant feeling of tension.
“I’ll take the next watch, Dad,” said Barry; “you might as well turn in. If
nothing happens, we shall have a busy day before us to-morrow.”
John Cumberland hesitated for a moment, and then stood up.
“You are right,” he agreed; “I will. Good-night!”
“Good-night, Dad.”
For a few minutes afterward he could hear his father talking to Professor
Blackwell at the top end of the wâdi. Then came silence again. He lighted a
cigarette and helped himself to a nightcap, reflecting that he might as well
have two or three hours’ sleep, although the novelty and excitement of the
situation were by no means conducive to easy slumber.

Presently, however, he got up and walked in the direction of his own tent.
Outlined against the sky beyond he could see the gaunt figure of Professor
Blackwell, rifle on shoulder; and:
“Is all well, Professor?” he called.
“All’s well!” cried the Professor, his voice echoing eerily from wall to
wall of the wâdi.
Barry turned in fully dressed, and lay on his bed for some time listening,
although he did not know for what he listened. Somewhere in the distance a
jackal howled—a second—a third—a fourth—a fifth: a regiment of jackals.
Then silence fell. Once he heard a distant voice. Finally he fell asleep.…
He dreamed he was standing in the tomb of Zalithea. He was alone, and
had reached the place by no visible entrance. On his right, against the wall
was a wonderful gold sarcophagus. He found himself in a dreadful, pent-up
condition. He was utterly panic-stricken. His heart was beating like a
hammer. For the lid of this sarcophagus, which was hinged, was slowly,
slowly, very slowly opening!
Then he saw a hand appear, and in the semi-darkness of the painted tomb
chamber a light shone out from the interior of the sarcophagus. It grew
brighter and brighter. The hand grasping the lid was a gaunt, long-fingered
hand. He did not know what to expect. He was in that curious state in which
one realizes that one is dreaming, yet is horrified by the incidents of the
dream.
The lid had opened nearly wide enough to reveal the occupant, when
Barry shook off the horror of the nightmare which had him in its clutch and
sat suddenly upright.
A sharp sound had awakened him. He was bathed in cold perspiration.
And, as he leaped from his bed to the sandy floor, this sound was still
echoing in the hills around. He knew, in the very moment of awakening,
what it had been.
The crack of a rifle! And now, here was an explanation of his half-waking
dream.
Professor Blackwell was holding the tent flap aside. Outlined against
reflected moonlight he bent, looking in. Barry heard dim voices.
“What is it?” he demanded hoarsely.
“Ssh!” the Professor warned. “The Arabs!”

CHAPTER XVI.
THE HOLE IN THE WALL

The position of the moon had cast the greater part of the wâdi into deep
shadow. There was a gap in the irregular wall nearly opposite to Barry’s tent
through which a certain amount of light came, but right and left of it lay
ebony darkness.
As he came out and joined Professor Blackwell:
“There’s a party of Arabs up on the caravan road!” said the latter in a low,
urgent voice.
“Where is my father?” Barry whispered.
“Here I am, Barry!” came a reply out of the darkness. “Speak softly.
Voices carry for miles in this place.”
Barry groped his way in the direction of the speaker.
“Is Danbazzar here?” he asked.
“I’m right here!” Danbazzar answered in a harsh whisper; then, speaking
more softly: “Who fired that shot?” he demanded.
“I don’t know,” Professor Blackwell returned. “It came from high up in
the mountains. It must have been one of the Arabs.”
“I wonder!” murmured John Cumberland. “I make the time half after
two. The second shift comes on at four. So that no one is likely to have been
moving—unless one of the watchmen may have seen something.”
“Sssh-ssh!” came a warning. “Look!”
High on the ridge above them, like some spirited ebony statue, the figure
of a horseman appeared, a magnificent silhouette against the deepening blue
of the sky! A moment he remained there. Then—no sound reaching their
ears—he disappeared magically, as he had come!
“I want someone to go up to the excavation.” It was Danbazzar speaking
in a suppressed undertone. “Shall I go and leave you in charge, Mr.
Cumberland, or——”
“I’ll go!” Barry volunteered promptly. “You may be wanted here.”
“It’s just possible,” Danbazzar went on, “that something may have gone
wrong there. It is also possible they mayn’t know the Arabs are here. Order

everybody to stay under cover except the guards. All work to be suspended
till further instructions. Got it clear?”
“All set,” Barry replied promptly.
“Be careful, my boy,” said John Cumberland; “and don’t forget the
signal, or our own men may attack you, if they are on the qui vive.”
A big muscular hand grasped his.
“Here,” said Danbazzar, “take this.”
He found a service revolver thrust into his fingers. Thereupon he set off,
rejoicing in the adventure yet wishing that Jim Sakers could have been there
to share it with him. He moved with great caution. In this desert stillness,
the slightest sound was audible for miles.…
At some points in the journey, the wâdi left behind, that ridge along
which the caravan road ran was visible; at other points it became lost to
view. But always Barry slunk in the shadows, sometimes dropping prone
and wriggling for several yards, in order that he might take advantage of
some narrow belt of shadow; ever conscious, when the dangerous ridge was
in sight, of the possibility of being seen, or worse—of being shot.
Yet the very shadows that befriended him held their own terrors. Some
spies of the fanatical Arabs might lurk there. But without sight of the band,
and having heard no sound to indicate the presence of any living thing on
the plateau above, he came to that midnight gully which opened out
immediately above the tomb.
Peering from the end of it, he clapped his hands very softly.
An answering signal came from the top of the slope. He surmised that the
guard at the lower end was out of hearing. Mentally reviewing what he
knew of the course of the caravan road, he determined that from no point
upon it was this valley visible.
He surveyed the rocky face of the mountain before him, his glance
travelling along uninterrupted by any oddity due to Danbazzar’s screen—
that miracle of camouflage. He crossed and hurried to the trap, pausing a
moment before he raised it.
Very softly he clapped his hands again. An answering signal came from
beyond the canvas.
Gently he lifted the shallow box of sand, turned, and groped with his foot
for the first of the wooden steps below. Finding this, he stood upon it,
ducked his head, and lowered the trap. He took three steps, walking
backward, then turned, and stared up a little incline.

Above him, a lantern was set upon a heap of débris in the yawning
entrance to the tomb. And where dim light shone upward upon his ascetic
face stood Hassan es-Sugra, smiling with gentle melancholy. No sound
came from the depths of the tunnel.
“Hassan!” said Barry. “The Hawwara Arabs are here!”
Hassan bowed gravely and extended his hand to help Barry up the slope.
“I know, sir,” he replied. “We heard the shot, and I ordered everyone to
be silent.”
“Did they fire at one of the watchmen?” Barry asked, scrambling up
beside the speaker.
Hassan shook his head slowly.
“No,” he said, “I do not know why the shot was fired, but everything was
stopped until news came from outside.”
His gentle eyes, which were so like the eyes of a gazelle, held a curious
light. Later Barry determined that it had been an indication of excitement.
Now, squatting about among the débris of the excavation in the curious
artificial cave created by the screen, he saw a group of workmen. Some
chewed, one of them was smoking, and they all regarded him with glances
in which only smiling curiosity could be read.
He stared down into the haunted depths of the shaft, and then back again
to Hassan es-Sugra.
“It was written that we should succeed,” said Hassan.
“What?” Barry demanded, conscious of a new tingling in his veins.
“It was the work done last year,” Hassan continued calmly, “which made
it possible. If we had known, sir, with a little more time and trouble we
could have completed. The second portcullis is broken. I cannot say how it
was broken. But we have made a way through.”
“Well!” Barry cried. “What’s below?”
“A small square chamber,” Hassan replied, “without any decorations. On
the right is a doorway. It has been closed with square blocks and cemented
up. We have removed one of these blocks without great difficulty. When the
warning came I had just shone the light of a torch through the opening, sir,
which the workmen had made.”
“Yes!”
Barry grasped his arm hard.
“It is the burial chamber,” Hassan went on calmly. “A great granite
sarcophagus is there, untouched.”

Almost too excited for speech, Barry pointed, and Hassan, gravely
inclining his head, took from beneath his robe a pocket torch.
Stooping, he led the way down the shaft.
At the side of the first portcullis was an irregular opening wide enough
for a man to squeeze through. Hassan went first and then so directed the
light of his torch as to assist Barry to follow.
“Now, sir,” he said, as the latter joined him in the lower part of the
tunnel, “be careful here. The roof has fallen. It is this, I think, that broke the
second door.”
Bending forward, and at one point going on all fours, the two pressed on.
Presently, climbing through a gap not more than eighteen inches high, over
a mass of broken granite which seemed to have fallen from a deep cavity in
the roof, Barry suddenly remembered Professor Blackwell’s theory about
the second portcullis.
The heat in the lower part of the shaft was oppressive, but having
proceeded for another twenty feet the descent ceased. They found
themselves in a small, square chamber hewn out of living rock, some three
paces across, and perhaps nine feet high.
At first glance the wall upon the right resembled that in front and that
upon the left; but the trained eye of Hassan es-Sugra had almost
immediately detected the trick. It was plaster covering square blocks—in
part at least. This plaster had been chipped away—it was several inches in
thickness—over a space of a square yard or so. Beams of wood and all sorts
of excavators’ implements lay about the apartment. And, presumably by
means of these, one of the blocks had been forced into the chamber beyond.
The effect was that of a small square window in a very thick wall.
“Take the torch, please,” said Hassan, “and shine it through and a little to
the left.”
He passed the torch to Barry. And the latter was surprised to find that his
hand was shaking slightly. Hassan es-Sugra smiled.
“Triumph is sometimes terrible, as well as defeat,” he said.
Barry grasped the light and thrust it forward into the opening. A beam
shone out before him, upon a rose sandstone sarcophagus! The covering
was accurately in place. Clearly no human hand had touched it for
centuries.
He experienced a curious choking sensation. He turned the light slowly,
so that the beam moved along the top of the sarcophagus lid and beyond,

upon the wall of the chamber.
The wall was brilliantly and beautifully painted. Immediately before him,
slightly to the right of the sarcophagus, the disk of white light came to rest.
Barry could feel his heart thumping against the rough stone upon which he
rested. He was staring at a symbol in high relief, exquisitely coloured. It
was that which meant: “She Who Sleeps but Who Will Awaken.”

CHAPTER XVII.
MR. TAWWAB COMES TO TERMS

“In my opinion,” said Professor Blackwell, “the whole thing might be
described as a demonstration.”
John Cumberland nodded.
“I agree with you,” said he.
“You are right,” Danbazzar confirmed, “and we’ll have proof of it in the
next few hours.”
“In what form?” Barry asked.
“A visit from Mr. Ahmed Tawwab!”
Danbazzar tensed his lips, looking fiercely from face to face. The anxious
night was ended, and in the light of early morning this was a somewhat
haggard company. Danbazzar with Hassan es-Sugra had been up onto the
crest and had explored the Farshût caravan road for some five miles
northwest of the camp, but had found no trace of the Arabs. It was possible
that they were still somewhere in the vicinity, but Danbazzar considered
this unlikely.
“We’ll drive right on!” he boomed. “I wouldn’t check now for a million
dollars! The work below can’t be heard in the valley, and all we have to
watch for is that we’re not seen coming or going.”
“Mahmoud tells me that two or three of the men are nervous,” said Barry.
“What about?” his father inquired—“the Arabs?”
“Yes.”
“They’d better keep their nerves out of sight!” roared Danbazzar’s great
voice. “If Hassan sees any signs of nerves he’ll knock stars out of them!”
“A most surprising character,” Professor Blackwell murmured.
“He’s the most efficient headman, sir,” Danbazzar assured him, “at this
kind of work that ever came out of Egypt. We’re surely lucky to have him.”
“Quite!” said the Professor. “I quite agree.”
Mahmoud, grinning cheerfully, appeared with steaming coffee, and as the
sun crept up into the sky the vapours of the night disappeared. Triumph was

in sight. The discovery of the granite sarcophagus, alone, in John
Cumberland’s opinion justified the expedition.
“Even if it were empty,” said he, “its existence confirms the authenticity
of the papyrus.”
“It won’t be empty,” Danbazzar asserted confidently. “That lid has never
been moved since a Rameses reigned in these parts. When early tomb
robbers have been at work, it’s generally found smashed. Certainly they
would never have taken the trouble to put it back again.”
“There is another possibility,” Professor Blackwell interrupted. “I believe
it was Dr. Rittenburg who mentioned it: the possibility that the story of
Princess Zalithea was merely a sort of religious ceremonial. I am disposed
to share his theory. I seem to recall that no bull has ever been found in the
Apis mausoleum. The sarcophagi are all empty.”
John Cumberland, behind the speaker’s back, pulled a wry face.
“True enough, Blackwell,” he admitted; “but then the lids had all been
moved!”
“Quite, quite!” the Professor said. “The parallel is not exact, I agree.”
“There’s no damned parallel at all!” boomed Danbazzar. “Inside this
granite sarcophagus there’s a wooden sarcophagus, and in that there’s a
mummy!”
“How long will it take to remove the other blocks?” Barry asked
excitedly.
“We ought to be in to-night!” was the reply. “It’s an easy job. That
doorway was only temporarily walled up—as we might have expected.”
“And what about lifting the lid?”
“We have a set of jacks for the purpose, Barry,” his father replied. “They
are in the cases that were shipped from Birmingham to Port Said. It is this
sort of heavy gear that makes our position so dangerous. If Mr. Tawwab
saw those jacks, for instance——”
“Quite!” said Professor Blackwell, and poured out another cup of coffee,
to which he added a finger of rum.
Danbazzar had brought some mail across from Luxor, including a cable
for Barry from Jim Sakers, which had infuriated the former to the very
limits of endurance. It was conceived as follows:

Called on Mr. Brown yesterday afternoon. Door was opened by
Princess. Recognized description. Height five eight. Age fifty-

two. Weight thirteen ten. She carried a rolling pin at beginning of
interview and threw it at end of same. Congratulations.
Jim.

There was also a letter from Aunt Micky touching briefly upon the
principal causes of dysentery in hot climates and emphasizing the claims of
Vichy water as a dentifrice. There was much home chat about mutual
friends, and then a brief postscript which read:

Avoid Nile boils. I had one on my honeymoon.

Barry hurried back to the excavation, his father accompanying him.
Danbazzar had a number of arrangements to make in regard to the transport
of necessary implements to the tomb, and it was considered desirable that
one representative of the party should remain in camp. Therefore Professor
Blackwell remained.
And so it happened that late in the afternoon, while the Professor sat in
the shade before his tent, studying through a magnifying glass a number of
small bones from the arm of a mummy, neatly arranged upon a sheet of
white paper, he started suddenly and looked up from his task.
The cause of his disturbance was a distant shot. It came from somewhere
between the camp and Kurna, and ordinarily it would not have aroused
especial interest. This morning it had a particular meaning.
Professor Blackwell placed the specimens inside the tent, and, standing
up, clapped his hands sharply. An Arab appeared from the kitchen. In the
absence of Mahmoud, who was a specialist in the kind of work now going
forward in the tomb of Zalithea, this man was preparing the midday meal.
But he had other duties; and, as he saluted the Professor:
“Danbazzar Effendi!” said the latter, and pointed southwest.
The Arab saluted again and set off at a steady trot along the wâdi.
Professor Blackwell peered into the kitchen. He found nothing more
formidable going forward than the slow stewing of a sort of vegetable
ragout; and so he contentedly lighted his pipe, which had gone out.
Already the morning was uncomfortably hot, and Professor Blackwell’s
costume must have occasioned some little comment had he seen fit to wear
it before a class of students at Columbia. It consisted of canvas shoes,
B.V.D’s and a sun helmet. The more exposed parts of his person presented a

glistening appearance, occasioned by the presence of a certain pungent oil
with which he anointed himself against the onset of mosquitoes and sand
flies.
About half an hour later Danbazzar appeared, followed by the Arab
messenger. His was a picturesque and attractive figure. His great height and
breadth of shoulder appeared to best advantage in such attire as he wore
now: A very clean white shirt with sleeves rolled up above the elbow, the
low pointed collar unbuttoned, white breeches, and tan riding boots. He
wore also a soft felt hat, wide brimmed, light gray in colour, and he held a
cigar between his small, strong-looking teeth.
“You got the signal?” he asked abruptly.
Professor Blackwell nodded.
“Half an hour ago,” he replied.
“Then we can expect him almost any time,” said Danbazzar.
“Have you got everything ready to be moved up to the tomb?” the
Professor asked.
“Yes.” Danbazzar nodded. “I’m only waiting to get the measure of
Tawwab. Then I’ll shoot it all along.”
They were apparently deep in conversation and quite unaware of the
presence of any stranger, when presently Ahmed Tawwab strolled into the
wâdi. He was smoking a cigarette and looking about him, as one who
lounges in Bond Street, or idly glances at the notices in the lobby of his
club.
Danbazzar suddenly saw him, and:
“Why! Mr. Tawwab!” he exclaimed, and jumped up. “Look, Professor,
who’s here!”
“Surely, Mr. Tawwab?” the Professor murmured. “How fortunate you
find us at home!”
Mr. Tawwab agreed that Fate had indeed been very kind, coffee was
prepared, and a perfectly meaningless conversation began. After a long
time:
“Mr. Cumberland and your other young friend will be returning shortly?”
Mr. Tawwab inquired.
“Probably in an hour or so,” Danbazzar assured him. “They are visiting
one of the more interesting tombs.”
“Ah! the tombs—Yes. I thought they might be shooting.”
“Shooting?” Danbazzar echoed. “No, I don’t think so; not this morning.”

“I thought I heard a shot,” Mr. Tawwab explained, “down on the edge of
the swampy ground, to the left of the road. You know the spot I mean?”
“Quite!” murmured Professor Blackwell. “Quite! It might have been one
of our fellows after quail.”
“Sure it might,” Danbazzar agreed. “We’re devils for poultry in this
camp.”
“You are wise, however, in delaying your departure,” said the Egyptian.
“How is that?” Professor Blackwell asked politely.
“Well,” Mr. Tawwab extended his palms apologetically, “it is not to our
credit to say so, but the whole of the country west of the Nile, from here
across to Farshût or even further north, is in a somewhat disturbed
condition. In fact”—he sighed reflectively—“the Mudîr, I am sure, would
feel more happy if you would return to Luxor.”
“That would cheer him up, would it?” said Danbazzar.
“It would be most agreeable to him,” Mr. Tawwab assured the speaker.
“Much as we are indebted for the offer,” said Danbazzar gravely, “I fear
that to return to Luxor would interfere with our plans.”
“We should never forgive ourselves,” Mr. Tawwab murmured, “if you
were molested in any way. Even if you were not harmed personally, your
property might be destroyed, or stolen. I dislike to think of it.”
“So do I,” Professor Blackwell declared.
“We know rather more about the nature of the disturbance,” Tawwab
pursued evenly, “than when you called upon us. It is a matter concerning
the collection of certain revenues. Concessions demanded by the Sheik
Ishmail we are not, as a matter of fact, prepared to grant. But, oddly
enough, the negotiations have been left practically in my hands, as I know
the Sheik Ishmail quite intimately.”
“I rather thought you did,” said Danbazzar, with a large, amiable smile.
He exchanged a significant glance with Professor Blackwell, and the
latter, by a prearranged plan, stood up glancing at his wrist watch.
“I have a few notes to make on the subject of those mummy bones,” he
murmured, “and there’s only just time before lunch. Perhaps, Mr. Tawwab,
you will excuse me for a few minutes?”
Mr. Tawwab also stood up and bowed most ceremoniously as the
Professor departed to his own tent. This haven reached, Blackwell produced
the paper of small bones again, and ostentatiously spread them upon a table
before his door.

The interview between Danbazzar and Mr. Tawwab occupied an
inordinately long time. Two relays of coffee were requisitioned, and at
intervals Danbazzar’s great voice was raised in a manner rather
unparliamentary. But as the debate was throughout conducted in Arabic,
Professor Blackwell could only assume that the question was one of terms.
It was ultimately settled amicably, however, Mr. Tawwab expressing his
profound regret that he could not wait for the return of Messrs. John and
Barry Cumberland. But important official business demanded his speedy
reappearance in Luxor.
As Danbazzar walked beside him along the wâdi, one large hand laid
caressingly on his shoulder, the contrast between his slight Egyptian figure
and the great bulk of his companion was notable. Professor Blackwell
derived an odd impression that Danbazzar would have loved to twist Mr.
Tawwab’s neck.
Having escorted him to where a servant waited with two horses,
Danbazzar threw a stump of cigar upon the sand and selected a fresh one
from several which he kept loose in the breast pocket of his white shirt. He
bit off the end and spat it out reflectively, standing, a huge, picturesque
figure, staring after the horsemen.
When presently he rejoined Professor Blackwell:
“How much?” the latter asked, standing up to greet him.
“Ten thousand piastres for the first week,” Danbazzar replied calmly, and
critically surveyed the end of his lighted cigar, which he extracted from
between his teeth apparently for no other purpose; “twenty thousand
piastres for the second week; forty thousand piastres if we stay over into a
third, and so on. In other words, if we stayed for three months we’d need to
send an SOS to Mr. Rockefeller! That’s our rent, and we’ve got to pay it!”
“Quite, quite!” the Professor murmured. “Five hundred dollars for the
first week, a thousand dollars for the second, and two thousand dollars for
the third, or any part of the third, during which we remain here. Is that the
figure?”
“You said it.”
“And suppose John Cumberland declines to submit to this extortion?”
“Let’s suppose.” Danbazzar dropped down upon a small packing case
which sometimes served as a chair. “In the first place, we’d be raided to-
night by some scurvy bunch of Arabs in the pay of Tawwab. If we came out
smiling, from to-morrow onward we’d be watched so closely the game

wouldn’t be worth the candle. He would then threaten official interference.
And if we kept right on smiling, there’d be another raid—and they’d take
our shirts! They’d also take our excavation and every damn thing they could
find in it! The real shape of our job in the valley shown up, Mr. Tawwab
would next suggest, say a hundred thousand piastres to let us go home to
America. Alternative—send us to Cairo for trial! Professor”—he extended
his palms in an extravagant imitation of Ahmed Tawwab’s favourite gesture
—“he has walked away with my check on the National Bank of Egypt for
ten thousand piastres. We’ve got a clear week.”
“Do you think he will stick to his bargain?”
“Certainly not!” roared Danbazzar, and brought his hand down with a
resounding bang on the side of the box, so that it emitted a drumlike note.
“If we were ready to move in three days, it would make no difference. He’d
want at least another fifty thousand piastres to let us leave Luxor.”
“It is expensive,” the Professor murmured.
“It would be,” Danbazzar returned, “if we paid it.”

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE LOTUS SARCOPHAGUS

The sun was casting its last shafts of gold across the fringe of the Libyan
Desert when Barry Cumberland stepped over the threshold and entered the
tomb of Zalithea. He had pleaded for this privilege, and it had been granted
to him. Danbazzar and John Cumberland followed, Professor Blackwell
hard upon their heels; and Hassan es-Sugra, smiling in gentle triumph,
brought up the rear.
Sweat-grimed workmen crowded the outer chamber.…
No inscription of any kind appeared upon the sides or lid of the great
granite sarcophagus, but the walls were very beautifully painted. The
atmosphere was so oppressive as to be almost insupportable.
There was something awesome in this sudden silence which had
succeeded upon clamour. Danbazzar was the first to break it.
“The name of Princess Zalithea,” he said, his deep voice oddly hushed,
“occurs, as you can see, in several places.” He directed the ray of his torch
from point to point. “Much of the decorations—such as the procession of
boats, the Sem-priest in his mystic trance, the funeral offerings, and so forth
—are quite conventional in character. You will notice, though, that the
Lotus constantly occurs, as well as the Ankh, emblem of eternal life.” He
shone the light all around. “There are other important points, too,” he
mused, “which we can look into later. Be very careful. Touch nothing.”
Barry, wholly absorbed in his own peculiar reflections, was passing
around the sarcophagus; feeling its surface with his fingers; peering into the
tiny crevices between the lid and the lip. Meanwhile, Danbazzar and John
Cumberland were bending almost reverently over a strangely shaped, squat
table on which were salvers, bowls, curious-looking phials, and a number of
tall, slender lamps.
“Observe,” said Danbazzar, a note of triumph in his deep voice: “these
are not the usual funerary offerings!”
Professor Blackwell’s long bony fingers were extended toward one of the
phials, but:

“No, no! Blackwell!” cried John Cumberland excitedly. “Don’t touch it!
Touch nothing! It may crumble!”
The Professor withdrew his greedy hand reluctantly.
“And I wonder what that casket contains?” he murmured.
The casket to which he referred, an exquisitely carved object, stood by
itself upon a sort of pedestal, some little distance from the table and beside
a long, low couch, the legs carved to represent the feet of a leopard.
Danbazzar almost imperiously waved him to silence. Then, turning his back
to the sarcophagus, the table, and the pedestal, he addressed them as a
speaker addresses an audience.
“The casket, gentlemen,” he said, “as well as the bowls and bottles,
contains the ingredients mentioned in the formula! I have seen enough
already to tell me my preparations are complete. Presently, Professor”—he
turned to Professor Blackwell—“maybe you can assist me in checking
these; but the task of preserving many of the fragments is going to be a
delicate one. We mustn’t forget they’re three thousand years old.”
“It is almost more than I can believe!” declared John Cumberland
rapturously.
Barry, one hand resting upon the sarcophagus, faced him, and:
“Dad,” he said, “it’s altogether more than I can believe!”
“What?” Danbazzar demanded. “That here before us, perished but
recognizable, lie the ingredients of the formula as they were prepared by the
last priest to wake Zalithea, for the use of his successor?”
“No,” Barry replied: “that’s hard enough—but what I cannot believe is
that the woman who is the centre of this incredible story lies here, in this
sarcophagus!”
“Personally, my mind is open!” Professor Blackwell asserted, glancing
around him. “There is no other entrance to this chamber?”
“None whatever,” Danbazzar confirmed.
“Therefore,” the Professor went on, shaking perspiration from his high
brow, “we are the first explorers, since this amazing ritual came to an end
for reasons which, probably, we shall never know.” He glanced aside at the
sarcophagus. “It’s uncanny,” he murmured, “the thought that inside those
walls of granite—— But, no! I stick to my opinion!”
“How long will it take to raise the lid?” Barry interrupted.
John Cumberland, hot, tired, met his son’s glance with one fired by no
less enthusiasm.

“With the aid of the apparatus which we have with us, Barry,” he
answered, “not long. You agree, Danbazzar?”
The latter, who was less excited than the others—always excepting
Hassan es-Sugra—bowed in his old-world manner.
“We’ll have that lid off in an hour!” he declared. “But before we start
there are quite a lot of precautions we have to take.…”
Two hours later the gear for lifting the great granite lid was brought from
its hiding place; and everything was put in order for the operation, the result
of which would prove or disprove Dr. Rittenburg’s theory (now shared by
Professor Blackwell) that Princess Zalithea was a myth; that no such person
had ever existed; that the tradition was a priestly invention designed to
impress the vulgar mind.
Ever distrustful of Ahmed Tawwab, guards armed with rifles had been
placed at selected spots northwest of the camp along the caravan road to
Farshût; these reinforcing the ordinary guards in the valley.
The wildest excitement prevailed among the party. Apparently, as well as
Barry could make out, apart from the problematical contents of the
sarcophagus, the objects found in the tomb were in many ways unique.
There was an exquisitely embossed bowl, which, he learned, was of pure
gold. The figures upon it were apparently different from any found hitherto.
Professor Blackwell succeeded in identifying seven of the substances
found, in the vials and the casket, as identical with those mentioned in the
formula possessed by Danbazzar. One or two defied speculation, or the
Professor’s knowledge, until Danbazzar enlightened him as to their nature.
Whereupon he recognized them, but raised his voice in doubt respecting the
possibility of obtaining these at the present day.
“I have obtained them!” Danbazzar assured him. “When the time comes,
you shall see them. Oh! I’ve been busy, Professor. Where the Ancient
Egyptians got these things God only knows! They can’t have had a colony
in Russia in those days.”
“Russia!” the Professor echoed.
“I said Russia,” Danbazzar affirmed. “One of the ingredients—the one
we have been arguing about—I ultimately got from Russia!”
“You refer to the substance which you tell me is of mammalian origin?”
“Precisely.”
“Mammals have been found in Africa,” the Professor murmured.…

And so in the atmosphere of excited debate and unceasing toil the day
wore on.
Hassan es-Sugra never left the tomb. It would have been impossible for
any workman to remove a grain of dust from it and escape the scrutiny of
those gazelle-like eyes. Barry’s enthusiasm was such that the tedious
methods employed by Danbazzar for raising the lid of the sarcophagus
tortured him to the borders of frenzy. At one point:
“Why all these precautions?” he cried. “It would need a steam hammer to
crack that lid!”
“Surely it would,” Danbazzar returned gravely. “What’s the big point?”
“The point is,” said Barry, “that you are making a perfectly preposterous
fuss about lifting it—as though it would matter very much if we dropped
it!”
“I see!” Danbazzar spoke softly, regarding the younger man through half-
closed eyes. “If you were lying in a stone chest next to hermetically sealed,
and somebody dropped half a ton of granite on top of it”—his voice
suddenly rose, booming around the enclosed chamber—“where in hell do
you think you’d be?”
“Good Lord!” Barry was startled. “Of course! You are quite right!”
“You’d be dead of concussion!” Danbazzar shouted. “Thundering
concussion! This is my business—and I’ll do it my own way!”
He was formidable in his sudden anger, and Barry realized that he had
committed an unforgivable faux pas—that of criticizing an artist in the
practice of his profession.…
The coming of dusk found the raising gear in place to Danbazzar’s
satisfaction, at which point he cleared the tomb, leaving Hassan es-Sugra on
guard in the outer chamber.
“The eight o’clock shift will start the lifting,” he pronounced. “We all
want dinner, so we’ll all have it.”
John Cumberland, sweat-grimed but happy, looked up from the task
which he had been performing side by side with the Arab workmen. Barry
leaned up against the rugged masonry beside the opening and mopped his
forehead with a very dirty handkerchief.
“It’s torture to quit,” he declared honestly, “but you are right, Danbazzar.
I am dead tired. Aren’t you, Dad?”
“I am!” his father admitted. “I would give a big price for a real hot bath
before dinner!”

“It would be most acceptable,” declared Professor Blackwell.
“Association with these very worthy natives adds to one’s knowledge of
humanity but results in so many fleas!”
They returned to camp in the wâdi, taking turns in the portable bath
supervised by the grinning Mahmoud. This was a rare luxury, for water had
to be brought a great distance, and inadequate though these baths might be,
they were keenly appreciated by the party.
All brought keen appetites to dinner, which was well up to Mahmoud’s
standard. Having reached coffee (into which they were forced to pour their
cognac, lest Mahmoud should see the bottle which they kept concealed in
the sand, or, worse, smell the glasses):
“To-night,” said Danbazzar, selecting a cigar, “the lid of the sarcophagus
will be raised.”
“What then?” cried Barry.
“There’ll be an inner sarcophagus,” was the reply, “probably of sycamore
and elaborately painted. Our next task will be to raise that, which won’t be
difficult. Nor will the opening of the wooden lid; but—” he paused,
carefully lighted his cigar and rolled it between his fingers for a moment
—“I’m going to give orders, and in these orders you are included, Mr.
Cumberland.”
“I am at your service,” said John Cumberland. “You know more of this
business than I do.”
“Very well,” Danbazzar went on. “The raising of the second lid will be
easy. But it won’t be raised until I say the word.”
“Why?” cried Barry.
Danbazzar turned to him.
“Because,” he answered, “the raising of that lid will be the first critical
moment. We don’t know what we shall find. We don’t care to think what we
shall find. But we have to suppose that there is a woman there—in what we
might describe as a trance. Now”—he performed a slow, impressive gesture
—“according to the formula, as you’ll remember, Mr. Cumberland, there
must be no delay between the opening of the sarcophagus and the beginning
of the ceremony for waking the sleeper.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Professor Blackwell. “Is this some strange
dream?”
“It may be,” Danbazzar admitted, “but we have to suppose that it isn’t.
Also, we have to suppose, or rather to remember, that the Princess Zalithea,

if she’s there and still living, last saw this world in the days of the Pharaohs!
—according to my calculations, about the time of Rameses the Ninth. Let’s
put ourselves in her place. If we aren’t all crazy—if those old priests
weren’t all crazy—she will suddenly find herself surrounded by a group of
wild-eyed devils—I include myself—wearing fantastic clothes and
speaking a barbaric language! Now this can’t be. Think a minute!”
“I follow you entirely,” said Professor Blackwell. “Quite! Quite! And I
see what you are about to propose.”
“Good for you, Professor!” Danbazzar nodded appreciatively. “We’ve got
to dress the part, and I came prepared for it.”
“What!” Barry exclaimed.
“Yes, sir,” Danbazzar went on; “when we take that lid off, we have got to
be dressed like Ancient Egyptians!—and we have got to be silent! Leave
the talking to me. I have the outfit. Does everybody agree?”
Everybody agreed.…
They did not linger long over their coffee, but hurried back to the
excavation.
Guards were posted as on the previous night. Excitement ran higher than
ever. They worked, and the Arabs worked, under the direction of Hassan es-
Sugra, like men whose lives depended upon their speedy success.
But the eight o’clock shift had returned to quarters and the twelve
o’clock shift were near to their time of departure, before the great lid was
raised high enough to enable them to explore the interior of the granite
coffin.
Not one of the party was wholly master of himself. Barry experienced an
unfamiliar desire either to laugh or to cry. But, composure regained, light
was directed into the interior.…
It contained a magnificent wooden sarcophagus, highly gilded and
painted. The lid, which was in relief, represented the figure of the occupant
—a girl, clad in a gauzy robe, her hands clasped upon her bosom and
holding a Lotus flower. The Ankh—symbol of life—was at her head and
her feet. The presentment was wonderful—uncanny.
Barry’s mood changed. He felt suddenly sick. He believed that he was
likely to swoon.
The eyes, the hair, the full lips, the slender, cloudily clad figure! This was
madness! He stood upright, his hand on his brow. Perspiration was dripping
into his eyes.

It was she! It was the girl of his dreams! More, far more than a
coincidence, this was a miracle—or a delusion!

CHAPTER XIX.
THE VOICE IN THE VALLEY

The hours that followed were feverish hours. They were marked by at least
one strange event.
Barry’s excitement grew so intense that the mere idea of sleep was out of
the question. If he had had his way, the wonderful painted lid would have
been torn off and the occupant revealed within a very few minutes of its
discovery. But Danbazzar sternly took command. The tomb was cleared; the
triumphant workmen were sent off to their quarters; all operations were
suspended until morning. And on this point Danbazzar proved adamant.
In view of the advanced state of the work, and of what interference at this
critical step would mean, he determined to supplant the ordinary guards. It
was arranged that John Cumberland and Barry should take a dog-watch
(two hours) at the high and low ends of the valley; then Hassan and
Danbazzar; and finally Professor Blackwell and Mahmoud. All would be
armed.
“It’ll take me right through the first spell,” said Danbazzar, “and most of
the third, to collect up the stuff I want to get along. Maybe I’ll make more
than one journey each time, and Hassan can help.”
“Don’t forget the signal!” Professor Blackwell warned. “We are all tuned
up above concert pitch!”
And so, beneath a glorious moon that painted the Valleys of the Kings
and Queens with silvern mystery, Barry and his father began the first watch.
Wholly animated now by the spirit of adventure, they tossed for positions—
and Barry got the low end.
Shouldering his rifle, he marched down the slope; and, his post reached,
gave himself over to reflection. The first idea to claim his mind was a
grotesque one. Here were a group of eminently respectable Americans
mounting armed guard over a tomb that belonged to the Egyptian
government! True, they had evidence pointing to the possibility that it
contained a living woman; but to pretend that they were in any sense
actuated by the motives of a rescue party would be sheer hypocrisy.

The spot, if somewhat inaccessible, was nevertheless open to the public.
He experienced momentarily the sensations of one who claims a certain
mound in Central Park and posts sentinels over it.
Then, swiftly, his thoughts changed. Zalithea! To no living soul had he
breathed his conviction that Zalithea—if she really lay under that painted
cover—had already appeared to him, perhaps in visions, but apparently in
the flesh! He knew that he had not spoken of this because he had not dared.
Even now he was afraid to think of the painted figure, afraid to face the
question: What does it all mean?
He tried to banish these ideas. They definitely disturbed him. And the
morrow would show—what?
Resting his rifle against a rock, he filled and started a pipe. The flame of
the little gold lighter—a parting present from Jim Sakers—made grotesque
shadows. He remembered that at this point he was no great distance from
the haunted valley where he had seen the mummylike figure moving.
The thought was unnerving. He imagined that gaunt, half-human shape
creeping toward him, secretly, through the darkness. In the little hollow
were ruins of those huts which had been built in a remote age for the
accommodation of the tomb guards.
If the spirit of such a guard could revisit that spot, how bitter—and how
just—would be his resentment!
He toyed with this idea. And, largely because of an unpleasant tingling of
his scalp which he was brave enough to admit to himself betokened
approaching panic, he argued that the case presented peculiar and
extenuating features. Here was no violation of the mighty dead. On the
contrary, they were carrying on the labours of the priests who had begun
this amazing experiment. They were attempting to make possible that
dream of Pharaoh in which he had seen men of a future age listening to a
story of his grandeur from the lips of one who had witnessed it!
From this convincing argument he derived much comfort. The
supernatural dread which had threatened to claim him receded like a real
presence—only to return suddenly, magnified a hundredfold.
Coming unmistakably from the direction of the haunted hollow, a sound
broke the profound silence of the night—a woman’s voice!
Utterly unexpected, wholly incomprehensible, it seemed to make Barry’s
heart stand still. No word reached him; merely the silvery tones. From a

great distance it came—and ceased abruptly—almost as though the speaker
had been silenced.
A woman—in that place—at that hour! The idea simply wasn’t
admissible. Yet he had heard her voice! His hands closed like a vise upon
the rifle. He gripped his pipe between his teeth desperately. Compromise
with himself was no longer possible. For this was no trick of his
imagination. Beyond shadow of doubt he had heard a thing admitting of no
reasonable explanation; and he was definitely, dreadfully scared.
Intently he listened, but could hear only a drumming in his ears. The
tinkle of a camel bell up on the caravan road would have been as balm to
his fevered mind; for it would have offered a possible solution of the
mystery. But nothing stirred.
He longed to join his father, to tell him of the phenomenon. But he knew
that he must not desert his post. Nor could he conscientiously convince
himself that there was justification for blowing the whistle he carried—a
signal that would summon John Cumberland.
And so he stood there, holding grimly onto his slipping courage—while
minute after minute passed in profound silence, that great, deep silence of
the desert which can almost be heard.
Hours seemed to elapse in this way. But, when Barry glanced at the
luminous dial of his wrist watch, he learned that he had been on guard for
less than half the allotted span. In the act of consulting the watch, his heart
gave a great leap.
Another sound had broken the stillness.
Then he heaved a sigh of relief. It was the signal, higher up the valley.
Someone had clapped his hands three times. Immediately, John
Cumberland’s voice came:
“Who’s there?”
“Danbazzar,” Barry heard.
After this, words became indistinguishable; but a human link had been
established; he no longer felt alone with the shadows. And his dread slipped
from him like a discarded garment.
He wondered, practically, if he should report the occurrence. He decided
to wait until he was relieved by the next watch.
So the second hour of his duty wore on, uneventfully, and at last came
the familiar signal again. Some conversation there was; then an interval of
silence. Finally, he heard the voices of John Cumberland and Danbazzar

drawing nearer as they walked down the slope. Coming around the last
bend:
“Two more loads will do it,” Danbazzar was saying. “I’ll bring them up
while Blackwell and Mahmoud are on watch. Then everything will be
safely planted by daylight.” As they came into view: “Hullo, there!”
Danbazzar called. “All clear?”
“Yes,” said Barry, “except that I heard a most extraordinary thing about
an hour ago.”
“What?” Danbazzar demanded sharply.
He bent forward, so that even in the darkness of the wâdi Barry could see
the gleam of his fierce eyes.
“A woman’s voice!”
“Eh!” John Cumberland exclaimed. “You must have been dreaming,
Barry!”
“I wasn’t dreaming, Dad.”
“Where did it come from?” Danbazzar asked rapidly. “Which direction?”
Barry pointed.
“Down there—where we saw the mummy man.”
“Good heavens!” said his father—“the haunted valley!”
He was acquainted with the story of the apparition seen by Danbazzar
and Barry, and had even explored the hollow by daylight, but had found no
evidence of human habitation.
“Strange,” Danbazzar muttered, in his deep voice. “Did she seem to be
speaking English?”
“I couldn’t say. No words were distinguishable.”
“Was it a young voice?” John Cumberland asked.
“Yes.”
Danbazzar and John Cumberland exchanged swift glances. Then:
“Is it possible,” asked the latter, “that some camping party has crossed?”
“No!” Danbazzar spoke confidently. “I’d have had news of it from
Hassan. He knows everything that’s arranged in Luxor. And there’s no
dahabîyeh up either. I can’t account for it.”
He stared hard at Barry.
“I heard it,” the latter repeated.
“I don’t doubt you heard something,” Danbazzar admitted. “But I’m just
wondering what it was. There are night birds that have a note not unlike a

woman’s voice. Some small animals, too, when a jackal gets them, squeal
like hares. And the cry of a hare is very human. Did you know that?”
“I knew it,” Barry replied, “although I never heard one. But this was no
animal or bird. It was a woman a long way off, but unmistakably a woman.”
The mystery unsolved, they presently parted; Danbazzar taking over the
watch, and John Cumberland and Barry returning to camp. They exchanged
greetings with Hassan es-Sugra, posted at the head of the valley, and then,
silent for the most part, tramped on to the tents.
Professor Blackwell was very much awake. In fact, he had got Mahmoud
to prepare coffee for them. Sandwiches consisting of Huntley and Palmer’s
biscuits, native butter, and bottled prawns were also in readiness.
“Highly indigestible,” the Professor admitted. “But one or two extra
nightmares count for little upon such an expedition.”
The phenomenon of the mysterious voice was discussed at length.
“I vote for some kind of nighthawk,” John Cumberland finally declared.
“It was no nighthawk,” Barry assured him.
“H’m!” murmured Professor Blackwell. “I am consistently unfortunate at
games of chance. But I venture to hope that on my watch I may draw the
upper end of the valley and Mahmoud the lower!”
How this fell out, and what Danbazzar and Hassan had to report, Barry
did not learn. Determined though he had been not to close his eyes until the
night was ended, tired nature prevailed. Not even the prawns and coffee
could keep him awake. He found himself nodding over his pipe. John
Cumberland was deep in slumber in a chair, and Professor Blackwell’s
snores rang out sonorously upon the desert silence.
Barry aroused himself, and:
“It’s no good, Dad!” he said.
John Cumberland started into wakefulness. The Professor snored on.
“We must turn in,” Barry continued. “We are both dead beat!”
“You’re right, my boy,” his father agreed. “But who’s going to wake
Blackwell when the time comes?”
Barry pointed, laughing sleepily.
A cheap alarum clock, set for fifteen minutes ahead of the Professor’s
watch with Mahmoud, stood only six inches from the sleeper’s head!
“The scientific mind,” murmured John Cumberland—“always
methodical. Good-night, Barry. I’m for bed.”
“Good-night,” said Barry.

Five minutes later he was fast asleep.
No dreams visited him to-night. He slept the sleep of utter weariness. A
gunshot would not have awakened him. And the sun was high above the
valleys where those who ruled Egypt in the golden past slept even more
soundly than he, when a booming voice ended his slumbers.
“Turn out!”
Barry opened his eyes. Danbazzar stood looking into the tent. This
extraordinary man, from his leonine head with its well-brushed gray hair
down to his polished riding boots, was spruce as though the dust of deserts
positively avoided him.
“We open the sarcophagus in an hour!”

CHAPTER XX.
THE RITUAL

Barry looked around the square, rock-hewn chamber communicating with
the tomb, and wondered why he felt no inclination to laugh. Had Jim Sakers
formed one of the party, his mood might have been different; but, in the
company of his father, Danbazzar, and Professor Blackwell, he found
himself touched by awe.
They wore robes, sandals, and curious linen skullcaps which entirely
concealed their hair. Danbazzar, so arrayed, presented an impressive
picture. He did not look like an Egyptian priest, but he might have been a
Pharaoh disguised as one, except for his moustache. The others, save for
their deeply tanned skin, could by no stretch of the imagination have been
mistaken for anything but American citizens masquerading.
Professor Blackwell, oddly enough, was more convincing than the rest.
Without his spectacles, although he could see little, he had a distinctly
hieratic appearance.
Hassan es-Sugra was not present. With Mahmoud he mounted guard in
the valley, above.
A richly embroidered curtain hung in the now demolished doorway of the
tomb chamber. The heat was almost insupportable; and the smell of some
kind of incense which was burning on the other side of the curtain added to
the oppressiveness of the atmosphere. This was Kyphi, mentioned in the
“Papyrus Ebers,” and, according to Danbazzar, only twice hitherto prepared
in modern times.
Danbazzar gave his final instructions.
“To the best of my knowledge,” he said, “everything is ready. One
essential oil—you know the one I mean, Professor—has changed colour
since I had it distilled. I can only hope that its special properties, whatever
they are, remain the same.”
“It has no special properties that I am aware of,” the Professor
murmured.

“We shall see,” the deep voice went on. “The seven lamps are ready to be
lighted. You know when to light them and which lamps each of you must
light. The last one, I light. The two unguents are in the bowls. You”—
turning his piercing regard upon Barry—“will put the taper to the liquid in
the perfume burner when I give the signal.
“The wine for the final draught, you”—indicating John Cumberland
—“will pour into the cup onto the powder at the last moment—when she
opens her eyes. I consider the wine to be the most doubtful item. It’s
Madeira wine, over a hundred and fifty years old, but I’m not sure of it all
the same.”
“That contained in the flagon found here was undoubtedly a similar
vintage,” Professor Blackwell said. “It was a grape wine. My microscope
has convinced me of this.”
“We can only hope you’re right,” said Danbazzar. “And now—the most
important point of all. The sarcophagus I’ve had lifted out onto a sloping
trestle. The implements for raising the lid are ready. The couch, described in
the formula, is still serviceable, if we take great care. Directly the lid is off,
she must be taken out of the sarcophagus and laid on the couch. I’ll do it.
From that moment on, no one must speak! No one must make a sound! Just
do your jobs. And, for God’s sake, don’t bungle!”
He held the curtain aside, and the party filed into the tomb.
It presented a picture that time could never efface from the minds of
those who saw it. Dimly lighted by an ancient lamp set upon a pedestal, the
air was misty with clouds of incense arising from a tripod placed on the
right of the doorway.
The lotus sarcophagus rested, slanting, near to the great granite box
which had contained it for generations. Upon a low table were two bowls
containing some kind of ointment; a metal perfume burner; a jewelled cup
in which was some gray, powdery substance; a stoppered flagon; and a
curiously shaped lamp. The table was set close to the head of a long,
narrow, gilded couch, having legs carved to represent those of an animal,
and found in the tomb.
Six other lamps were placed at intervals around the walls.
Danbazzar pointed to a bundle of tapers. They were made of some
inflammable resinous substance.
“The moment I lift her out,” he directed, “light those tapers at the brazier.
The wrappings I look to find perished, and I shall set to work right away.

Say all you want to say before I get the lid off. I shall work fast, even if I do
damage. Once the thing is open—not a word from anybody.”
He stooped over the sarcophagus, with its startling presentment of the
occupant. His shadow, gigantic, moved upon painted walls and ceiling. A
sound of wrenching, cracking wood broke the oppressive silence.…
Barry clenched his teeth hard. He glanced at his father. Even through the
tan one could see that John Cumberland had grown pale. Professor
Blackwell’s gaunt features glistened with perspiration. Barry wondered—as
though newly faced with the problem—what he should do if the
sarcophagus really proved to contain a woman! A sudden unaccountable
conviction had come to him that it was empty.
The heat in the tomb seemed to be growing greater every moment.…
John Cumberland stepped forward, in response to a signal from
Danbazzar. Together, they raised the painted lid and rested it upright against
the nearest wall.
Through a mist that was not wholly due to the incense, Barry saw the
figure of a woman lying in the sarcophagus!
The figure was swathed in saffron-coloured wrappings. The arms and
hands were enwrapped also. But within a sort of aperture where the face
should have been appeared a thin gold mask. He experienced a sense of
suspended animation. He seemed to watch that rigid figure through a vast
period of time. Then, casting an imperious glance around him, and raising a
finger significantly to his lips, Danbazzar stooped.
Lifting the mummylike form, he placed it on the couch.
With a pair of surgical scissors he began to cut through the wrappings.…
A hand touched Barry’s arm. He started wildly.
Professor Blackwell, his features strangely haggard, handed him a taper
and pointed to the tripod.
Barry, by dint of a stupendous effort, regained control of himself. He
remembered that it was his duty to light the first two lamps.
This duty he performed blindly. A sound of tearing linen seemed to fill
the chamber. The perfume of the oil in the lamps began to mingle with that
of the Kyphi.…
John Cumberland lighted two more lamps.
Barry turned and looked. Like lilies blooming in corruption, he saw two
slender, exquisite arms peeping out from the torn and powdered
wrappings… bare, creamy shoulders gleamed in the lamplight.

Danbazzar gently detached the gold mask and removed the turbanlike
swathings which confined a mass of short, wavy dark hair.
A pale, exquisite face was revealed, delicate as a Greek cameo. Long,
curling black lashes rested on the youthfully rounded cheeks. The pouting
lips seemed to smile.…
In on the hush of it burst a loud, harsh cry:
“My God!”
Even as he met a furious glance of Danbazzar’s blazing, wild animal
eyes, Barry did not realize that it was he who had cried out. But instantly
came recognition of the fact.
He clapped his palm over his mouth, literally choking back the words he
had been about to utter. John Cumberland had his hand raised in warning—
a hand that shook wildly. Professor Blackwell lighted the last pair of lamps.
His face looked waxen—ghastly.
Danbazzar, icily calm again, proceeded to carry out the singular formula.
A wave of embarrassment swept over Barry, making his very scalp tingle.
He turned aside.
But his heart was leaping—leaping…
Danbazzar lighted the seventh lamp—and glared at Barry.
Barry plunged a taper into the brazier and applied the little tongue of
flame to an oily liquid in the perfume burner. It ignited at once. Danbazzar,
bending over the girl blew the aromatic smoke gently over her face.
At which moment, Professor Blackwell staggered toward the curtained
doorway. John Cumberland, his face masklike, waved to Barry to assist the
Professor. Danbazzar never even glanced aside, as Barry threw a supporting
arm around the tottering man and helped him to gain the outer chamber.
There:
“Air!” he whispered. “I must have air.”
The task of getting him along the sloping passage was no easy one; for
Professor Blackwell was heavily built. Especially it was difficult at the
point where the roof had collapsed, since here he must negotiate an opening
only about eighteen inches high.
But it was done at last. The Professor sank down in that little artificial
cave created by the screen, and shakily produced his flask.
“Go back,” he said in a low voice—“go back. You will want to see if
——”

“I couldn’t think of it,” Barry returned. “Not until you feel better. Was it
the heat down there, Professor?”
Professor Blackwell returned his flask to his pocket. Some trace of
normal colour was showing again in his cheeks. From a hiding place
beneath his priest’s robe he produced his spectacles and set them in place.
He made a very grotesque picture. Then:
“Not entirely,” he replied. “That was not without its effect, of course. But
I confess that my threatened collapse was not entirely due to it. Your
training, Barry, has not followed the same lines as mine. You are not only a
younger man, but you are plastic minded. The sight of a person defying the
law of gravity without mechanical aid, for instance, would not appall you?”
“It would certainly interest me.”
“Quite, quite. There’s the difference. It would horrify me! And to-day I
have witnessed a thing that has knocked the keystone out of the structure
upon which my professional life rests. Those scientific principles to which,
as a sane man, I have adhered unquestioningly throughout my career have
been ruthlessly destroyed. Either modern physiology is fit only for the scrap
heap or the claims of so-called occultists are worthy of close examination.”
“You think she is really alive?” asked Barry eagerly.
“Think!” retorted the Professor. “I know she is! Whether the madhouse
treatment now being employed by Danbazzar will terminate her miraculous
trance or not I cannot say. But, quite definitely, she is alive! Go back, Barry.
I dare not!”
Eagerly Barry obeyed. He returned to the scene of the poor Professor’s
seizure in a quarter of the time it had taken to come out. Softly raising the
curtain he entered the chamber, all but intolerable, now, because of the
clouds of incense.
He found his father and Danbazzar bending over Zalithea, their
expressions tense. The slender curves which it had seemed desecration to
uncover were hidden beneath a fine Egyptian shawl, but it revealed the
delicate lines of her slim, still body.
Barry feasted his eyes on that pale face. Zalithea! Speculation was ended.
Doubt was done with. By some unsuspected gift of prevision, of
clairvoyance—call it what he might—he had been enabled to see her,
though she lay deep in this rocky tomb, long before he had ever set foot on
the black soil of Egypt! It was, therefore, predestined. As Hassan would
have said, “It is written.” For this he had been born. Because of this wonder

which was to come, he had never found his ideal woman but had dreamed
of dark mysterious eyes which one day would beckon to him.…
A faint sigh broke the deathly stillness. Princess Zalithea raised her
drooping lashes—and looked long and wonderingly into the faces bending
over her. Then, without otherwise stirring, she turned her dark, beautiful
eyes in Barry’s direction.
Danbazzar, that man of steel, gripped John Cumberland’s shoulder and
indicated the stoppered flagon. Cumberland, making a visible effort to
steady his hand, poured the old wine into the goblet.
Never removing that fixed, childlike look of inquiry from Barry, the girl
allowed Danbazzar very gently to lift her up. He held the draught to her lips
and spoke a few words in a language entirely unfamiliar to the others.
Zalithea glanced swiftly up at him and swallowed the drugged wine.
Then once more she looked at Barry, smiled like a tired child, and lay
back, closing her eyes.
Danbazzar pointed to the doorway. As John Cumberland and Barry
tiptoed out, he extinguished the seven lamps, joining them in the outer
chamber.
“She is now sleeping normally,” he whispered. “She should wake in eight
or nine hours’ time—and resume life!”
He reeled, clutched at Barry, and:
“Get me out,” he said hoarsely. “I’m through.”

CHAPTER XXI.
THE AWAKENING

Perhaps, in his heart of hearts, no one of the party—excepting Danbazzar—
had ever really counted on success. Certainly, in their wildest imaginings,
they had not schooled their minds to acceptance of the miracle; had not
realized what success would mean.
Slowly, and by different mental processes, realization came in turn to
John Cumberland and to Barry, as it had come, instantly, insupportably, to
the scientific mind of Professor Blackwell. A girl who had lived during the
reign of Seti I—a girl barely out of her teens—was living now. She must be,
according to ordinary human computation, fully three thousand two
hundred years old; but, according to all the laws of modern physiology, she
was still no more than nineteen or twenty!
To the Professor, the problem presented was one of scientific faith.
Acceptance meant destruction of his life’s labour, the tearing up of every
textbook written on the subject; it assailed the very throne of reason itself.
Rejection, with Zalithea living, meant closing his eyes to the truth. For a
long time he remained alone in his tent and could not be induced to see her.
John Cumberland’s problem was a legal one. To whom did Zalithea
belong? Since she antedated any government of which documentary trace
remained, surely not to the authorities at Cairo? The thought that a false
step might result in her loss was terrifying.
But, if these two found their ideas chaotic, how infinitely more so were
those of Barry. At one moment he was raised to a poetic heaven. In the next
he found himself plunged in an inferno of such torturing doubts that he
longed for the power to run away from himself.
Upon the realization of his shadowy ideal, the proof that the unknown
might become known, had followed, what? A knowledge that he must either
fly from Zalithea or learn to love her—and that she was, to all intents and
purposes, a supernatural being!
Such were the early reactions of these three to a phenomenon—and a
phenomenon in the form of an unusually lovely girl—which struck deep at

the roots of human credulity; which forced them to accept the inacceptable,
to remain sane though face to face with madness.
Danbazzar alone attacked the problem with confidence. A large Bell tent
was set up at the lower end of the wâdi, and furnished, though simply, in
Ancient Egyptian fashion. The necessary materials he had brought with him
and Hassan es-Sugra supervised the work. His optimistic foresight had not
stopped here. A messenger who had been dispatched to Luxor at dawn
returned before midday with an elderly Arab woman.
“She has been standing by over a week,” said Danbazzar. “Hassan
engaged her. She’s a trained servant and was seven years in the harem of the
last Khedive. Remember!” he warned. “Hassan doesn’t know what we
found in the sarcophagus! Nobody outside of this party knows. Zalithea is
the sick daughter of a friend of mine in El Kasr who has come down for
treatment by Professor Blackwell. That’s the story, and we’ve got to stick to
it. The sarcophagus was empty.”
Accordingly Safîyeh was installed, with her few belongings, in the new
tent. A covered litter was extemporized and Hassan dispatched on a mission
to Kurna.
Danbazzar, following two hours of profound sleep, had become his
capable self again. Three visits he had made to the tomb, and reported that
Zalithea slumbered soundly. John Cumberland’s anxiety was intense. He
had urged the immediate removal of the girl from that nearly unbreathable
atmosphere but had been overruled.
“We’ll stick to the formula,” said Danbazzar truculently, “with or without
your permission. She has to stay there eight hours. After that we have
nothing to go upon.”
They carried the litter up to the tomb, setting it close to the screen.
Professor Blackwell mounted guard at the top of the valley and Barry at the
bottom. They wore their ordinary working kit; but John Cumberland and
Danbazzar had arranged to put on the Ancient Egyptian dresses under cover
of the screen before awakening the sleeper.
That Danbazzar could make himself understood in the long dead
language known to Zalithea had been already proved. It was one further
item of evidence showing his knowledge of Egyptology to be masterful.
“I know very few words,” he admitted, “and until to-day I couldn’t tell if
my pronunciation was understandable. Others have claimed to know how to
speak the language. But no living man for a thousand-odd years back has

been able to prove it! I shall have to try to talk to her. She is sure to be
frightened. I expect she’ll be as weak as a kitten. And it’s going to be no
easy job to carry her up past that broken door.”
“Let me help!” said John Cumberland eagerly.
Danbazzar shook his head.
“Just stand by with the litter,” he directed. “The fewer strange faces she
sees the better. I can manage alone.”
But the wonder of Egypt’s sunset was stealing over the Valleys before the
litter was borne down the wâdi to the tent and a slight, muffled figure
tenderly carried inside.
Barry was wild to see her. Danbazzar would not consent.
“She’s frightened to death,” he said, “poor little girl. When she saw old
Safîyeh she just fell into her arms and hid her face against her.”
Professor Blackwell looked up. They were seated in the big tent.
“I have been endeavouring to do as you requested,” he said. “But to
prescribe any routine or diet for such a patient is quite beyond my powers. I
have somewhat recovered from the first shock, however, and I am prepared
to give her an examination at any time that may be convenient.”
“When she has bathed and recovered from the journey,” Danbazzar
replied, “I should like you to see her. I think I have made her understand
that the High Priest is coming.”
“The High Priest!” exclaimed Professor Blackwell.
“Well, you must remember,” said Danbazzar, “the priests were the
doctors in her time. And I figured out that someone must have looked her
over on the other occasions.”
Professor Blackwell clutched his high brow.
“I was about to say something insane,” he murmured. “I was going to ask
if she seems to remember her last awakening. It suddenly occurred to me
that this took place roughly three thousand years ago!”
“Yet she does seem to remember it,” Danbazzar declared.
“What!” cried John Cumberland. “You have gathered this?”
Danbazzar inclined his head in that graceful manner which was his.
“I’m not certain,” he confessed. “But I think so. I realize I only know
enough of her language to act as a link. From this we must build up and
teach her English as though she were a child. Her difficulties are going to
be worse than those of an ordinary foreigner. We shall never be able to find
any analogies! The objects, the customs—all are different.”

Hassan es-Sugra, it appeared, had been prepared for the coming of the
mythical sheik’s daughter. He expressed no surprise on his return from
Kurna, nor did he inquire what had become of her escort.
He had been making certain mysterious arrangements for transporting the
tomb furniture to some place of safety. Work was to be resumed on the shaft
next morning, with the object of widening it sufficiently to allow of the
removal of the sarcophagus, and the unusual wall paintings were to be
photographed before the tomb was reclosed.
Meanwhile, Professor Blackwell had completed a professional
examination of his strange and beautiful patient. He returned to the tent
where the other members of the party awaited him, in an indescribably
puzzled frame of mind. Removing his skullcap, he lighted a cigar and
fortified himself with a peg of whisky from one of the bottles buried in the
sand.
“Amazing!” he declared; “quite, quite amazing! Her pulse, respiration,
and temperature are absolutely normal! Her flesh is firm and healthy. Her
hair is vigorous; her teeth are perfect. I could swear that her nails were
manicured yesterday!”
“They were last manicured around 1360 B.C.!” said Danbazzar.
“There is a small scar under the hair just above the right ear which
suggests that the theory—now generally accepted, I believe—that surgery
was practised by the ancients is not without foundation. She is in
extraordinarily good spirits. I twice caught her laughing at me!”
No one seemed very surprised, but:
“What about diet?” asked John Cumberland. “Surely she should be
treated as an invalid?”
“Frankly,” the Professor returned, “I see no reason whatever to treat her
as an invalid. Apart from the fact that she seems to be rather tired, I can
detect no abnormal conditions of any kind. She addressed me several times
during the interview, but her remarks were naturally unintelligible. They
seemed to afford her considerable amusement, nevertheless. And the old
woman from Luxor must have gathered something of their gist. She, also,
appeared to be highly entertained.”
“Safîyeh can’t possibly have understood one word,” said Danbazzar
quickly. “Arabic is the only language she speaks, except for a smattering of
English; and we have told her that Zalithea talks Kabyle.”

“Which,” added John Cumberland, “judging from her style of beauty, she
certainly never did!”
“We’ll know one day!” said Danbazzar.
“You don’t think there’s any danger,” Barry broke in, “of—of——”
He fumbled for words, and:
“Of her crumbling to dust, or something of that sort?” the Professor
concluded for him. “Your frame of mind, Barry, is gradually beginning to
resemble my own! Frankly, I cannot answer your question. According to my
personal observation, the young lady is as healthy as she is beautiful.
According to my training and beliefs, she ought to have been dead for three
thousand-odd years!”
“What amazes me,” Barry declared, “is her cheerfulness! Just think.
Everyone she ever knew is long forgotten. She found herself in a tomb,
buried alive, this morning. Yet this evening you say she is laughing!”
“Her laughter may have been hysterical,” murmured the Professor,
pulling up his robe for greater comfort, and revealing the fact that beneath
he wore a pair of very soiled gray flannel trousers rolled up some six inches
above his sandals. “No doubt a visit from a High Priest is somewhat awe-
inspiring.”
At the end of further discussion, a dinner menu for Zalithea was decided
upon, and Mahmoud given the necessary orders. A new spirit of restlessness
had descended upon the party. If they had solved their first great problem,
another faced them.
Barry, having prepared for the evening meal, climbed the side of the wâdi
to that spot from which on the night of their arrival he had watched the sun
setting. It was not so long ago. It seemed an age. He knew that something
had happened in the interval which marked the end of one phase of his life,
the beginning of another.
Now that he had actually seen Zalithea, that vague dread which had
sometimes troubled him when he had found himself thinking of the girl on
the balcony had gone. Yet, he asked himself to-night, did not his recognition
of this girl increase rather than solve the mystery?
Since it could not possibly have been Zalithea he had seen on that
balcony in New Jersey, then in the garden of Mr. Brown’s house, and later
on Fifth Avenue, it must have been her living double!—this or, as others
had suspected, a delusion. But why should he have suffered this delusion,

not once, but many times, immediately prior to the night that the papyrus
came into his father’s possession?
Surely he was justified in believing that only some form of telepathy or
clairvoyance could explain it… and that this explanation presupposed a
mysterious bond of sympathy between himself and the girl he was destined
to meet?
The Ancient Egyptians, he understood, believed in reincarnation. Since
their wisdom was so great in such matters, as the extended life of Zalithea
proved, quite possibly they were right. She had slept, miraculously, living
on; but he had died, in the ordinary way, and was now reborn—in the
ordinary way!
He recalled, was ever recalling, how she had looked at him in the
moment of opening her long, dark eyes. Death had effaced physical
memory in his own case; only subconscious memory remained. But
Zalithea, never having died, remembered! They had met before, in those
remote days—and she remembered him!
It was an idea that first delighted and then terrified Barry. He had
imagined, on that night in his father’s library, that the shadow of Ancient
Egypt was creeping out to touch him.
He had been right!
What this inexplicable discovery might mean to John Cumberland, to
Danbazzar, to Professor Blackwell, he could only dimly foresee. But what
did it mean to him?
This he could not foresee at all.
And then, as he began mechanically to climb down to the camp, the
sound of a distant voice reached his ears. It was a laughing voice… and he
knew that he had heard it before!

CHAPTER XXII.
A SUMMONS FROM THE PRINCESS

“I have reached a decision,” declared Professor Blackwell, “upon a point
that has been worrying me.”
Dinner dispatched, they sat around the table in council, pipes and cigars
going. Safîyeh had reported that her charge had found the soup, the fried
chicken, the Château y’Quem—of which they had only three bottles—and
the peaches entirely to her satisfaction.
“What point?” asked John Cumberland.
“Distinctly,” the Professor resumed, “distinctly she is the property of the
Department of Antiquities.”
“What’s that!” cried Barry. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“He’s talking sense,” Danbazzar’s deep voice broke in. “There are no two
ways about it. She is.”
“Are you all mad?” said Barry. “You behave as though the Department of
Antiquities were an orphanage!”
“Or a harem agency,” prompted the Professor. “Yet the fact remains that
they and no one else have a legal claim upon her person. We are no more
entitled to remove her from the country, alive, than we should have been
entitled to do so had we found her in what I may term a normal state. I
mean dead. She is as much the property of the Department as the
sarcophagus she lay in.”
“I must agree with you,” John Cumberland admitted. “Our difficulties are
enormous. The more I think about them the bigger they get. For instance—
since none of us dare testify that he was present at the discovery, how can
we ever give an account of it to the world?”
“We can’t!” said the Professor. “Distinctly and definitely, I for one should
not consent under any circumstances to lend my name to a statement on the
subject. In the first place, assuming I were safely out of the country before
the issue of such a report, criminal proceedings would undoubtedly be taken
by the Egyptian government! This applies to all of us!”
Some moments of uncomfortable silence followed, then:

“The fact is,” Danbazzar stated, “the greatest find in Egyptology since
the game began has got to blush unseen. I hadn’t thought of it. I’ll say so
honestly. None of us had thought of it. But there it is all the same. The
testimony of this bunch would carry a lot of weight in America. I don’t say
we’d go unchallenged. But we’d be taken seriously. We’re not going to get
the chance. We started working in the dark. We’ve got to go on that way.”
“I wish, now,” said John Cumberland regretfully, “that I had curbed my
impatience and formally applied for a permit to excavate.”
“You’d never have got it!” Danbazzar assured him. “You might as well
apply for a pass-out check to heaven! And once you’d applied and been
turned down, to come here as we’ve done would have been to ask for
trouble. No, sir, I’d worked on it from that angle before I put up my
proposition.”
“Then where do we stand?” cried Barry in bewilderment. “What have we
gained if our discoveries can’t be published?”
Danbazzar regarded him fixedly across the table.
“We have gained knowledge,” he replied, “that has been lost for
thousands of years. With what we know, and what Zalithea can tell us when
we teach her English, we’re going to revolutionize archæology, physiology,
and psychology—to say nothing of chemistry!”
“It appears to me,” murmured Professor Blackwell, “that this tent
contains the nucleus of a sort of New Rosicrucian order. We are bound
together by a living secret which none of us dare divulge. Our present
access of knowledge is very great. What we shall learn in the future from
this phenomenal girl is also sure to be valuable. But of what use any of it is
going to be to the world during our lifetime I confess I fail to see.”
Evidently nobody was very clear on the point, for not a suggestion was
forthcoming; but:
“In one sense,” said John Cumberland, “our course is unavoidable. We
are committed to go on. Until we have got clear and reclosed the tomb, we
aren’t safe! Personally, I’m satisfied. Our very highest hopes have been
realized. We have triumphed! That’s good enough for me. Let the future
take care of itself. My present big worry is the girl.”
“Explain what you mean, Dad,” said Barry.
“I will,” his father agreed. “In the first place, as soon as we can make her
understand how much the world has changed, we have got to get over to
Luxor. Difficulty number one: How do we explain her to the folks in

Luxor? Assuming we manage this and arrive in Cairo, how in the name of
Mike do we get her a passport that will be accepted in New York?”
“Passport?” murmured the Professor. “Quite—quite. The point had not
occurred to me. Of course, a certain difficulty is bound to arise in regard to
a minor whose legal guardians have been dead for three thousand years.”
He scratched his head furiously. “There are times when I doubt my own
sanity,” he declared.
Danbazzar flicked a cone of ash from his cigar. In the lamplight a queer
green spark moved on the face of the scarab in his ring.
“Leave the story to me,” he said. “The stuff, I can get away. It’s part of
my business. The girl we’ll smuggle out nearly as easily. We’ve got to lie
like bond salesmen, but we’ll get her away.”
“Fried chicken,” murmured the Professor.
“What’s that, Blackwell?” John Cumberland asked.
“I was reflecting,” the Professor explained, “upon the fact that a princess
who doubtless has dined in the palace of the Pharaoh Seti I this evening
partook of soup canned in Pittsburgh. I think I shall go to bed.”
He was as good as his word, departing almost immediately. Danbazzar
set out to learn if the two guards posted in the valley were on the alert, and
Barry and his father were left alone. Hassan es-Sugra, that unfathomable
man, was sleeping in the entrance to the tomb to insure against pilfering.
As the sound of Danbazzar’s receding footsteps died away in the wâdi:
“You haven’t said much, Barry,” John Cumberland remarked, after an
interval during which he had been closely watching his son; “but I think
you have quite a lot to say all the same.”
Barry started, looking up. Then he began to knock out his pipe on the
heel of his shoe.
“You mean, about—Zalithea?”
John Cumberland nodded.
“Well—I have!” Barry admitted. “She is the girl I saw twice in New
Jersey and twice in New York!”
“I knew it!” said John Cumberland. “I didn’t speak, when I saw it first. I
was waiting. Now that we have actually found her, alive, it’s a different
matter. Barry—I think I can explain the whole thing.”
“Then go ahead, Dad!” Barry invited.
“We have proof—living proof—that the Ancient Egyptians knew more
than we know. If they were wiser in one respect, it’s only reasonable to

suppose they were wiser in others. Now, here’s what I believe: you didn’t
see Zalithea in America. You had prevision of her! Danbazzar spoke of what
we know, upsetting physiology and psychology. It’s going to upset religion
as well. I believe you had an incarnation in Egypt at the time of Seti I, and I
believe Zalithea remembers you!”
Barry started up excitedly.
“Why,” he exclaimed, “I had come to just that conclusion only to-night!
It’s unavoidable, Dad! There’s no other explanation.”
They discussed the problem at some length, with the result that they
agreed upon the main issue while differing about minor points.
“Poor humanity’s unanswerable question—the destiny of the soul—has
been answered for us!” said John Cumberland. “I’m dazzled, Barry, by the
magnificence of all these revelations. We have learned something, or are on
the verge of learning it, which has taxed the greatest intellects in history.”
When finally John Cumberland turned in, Danbazzar had not come back
from his tour of inspection. Barry, feverishly restless, lighted a fresh pipe
and strolled out into the wâdi.
The night was very dark. Leaving the door of the tent, he walked into a
wall of shadow, until, around a natural buttress, he saw a patch of light upon
the sand ahead. It came from the entrance of Zalithea’s tent. Danbazzar was
just coming out. He wore the priest’s robe and linen skullcap. Barry paused:
and in the next moment Danbazzar saw him.
“I was coming to get you,” he called.
“Why? Is there anything wrong?”
Danbazzar joined him.
“No,” he replied. “But old Safîyeh was hanging around to speak to me.
She caught me on my way back. Come along and get into a robe.”
“What!” Barry exclaimed. “Why?”
“Because Princess Zalithea wants to see you!”
Barry pulled up dead in his tracks. His heart began thumping.
“How do you know?” he demanded. “I mean, how did she make you
understand?”
“Largely by signs,” Danbazzar admitted. “My Egyptian is mighty
limited. But I’m learning.”
That old sensation of unreality, phantasy, came to Barry again. Urged by
Danbazzar, he attired himself in the strange dress that they had adopted with
the idea that it would be more familiar to the awakened girl. Then, not

entirely master of himself, he walked back along the wâdi. At Zalithea’s
tent:
“Wait outside,” Danbazzar directed. “Safîyeh will call you when I have
made her understand you are here. I’ll do my best as interpreter.”
He went in, leaving Barry alone in the darkness.
Vaguely, a sound of voices came to him where he waited. The deep,
subdued tones of Danbazzar made a marked contrast to the silvery note of
that other voice! How well he seemed to know it!
Barry wondered why he was so nervous.
Suddenly the flap was drawn open, and the old Arab woman looked out,
beckoning. Barry stooped and went in.
He found himself in a sort of tiny antechamber or lobby constructed of
hanging tent cloths. An antique lamp hung from above. There were carpets
on the sandy floor, but no furniture.
Safîyeh held one of the tent cloths aside and intimated that he was to
enter. He stepped forward. Some hazy impression he had of a silver lamp,
of embroidered curtains, of cushions, queer-looking inlaid chests, but these
were an indistinct background into which the tall robed figure of Danbazzar
merged appropriately. He was standing behind a cushioned divan, or native
mattress.
Upon it, her cheek resting in her upraised hand, lay Princess Zalithea.
She was dressed in a manner which perhaps represented a compromise
between the ancient and the modern Egyptian style. Her beautiful arms
were bare to the shoulders, and she wore no jewellery of any kind. A sort of
tightly fitting tunic and some sort of gauzy dress disguised in a measure the
delicate shape which Danbazzar’s scissors had so mercilessly revealed in
the tomb. Her white ankles were bare, as also were her little feet. It was so
that he remembered her.
Long, dark, heavily fringed eyes were raised to Barry as he entered. They
were the deeply mysterious eyes that had watched him since memory began
—the beckoning eyes of the women who lived upon the frescoes
surrounding his father’s walls—the eyes that had smiled down upon him
from a New Jersey balcony!
How beautiful she was! But how pale and fragile. He found himself
unable to believe Safîyeh’s report that she had enjoyed the meal so carefully
prepared for her. Those full red lips, though, spoke of health. He was

hopelessly, speechlessly embarrassed, under the grave scrutiny of
unreadable eyes. But how beautiful she was!
“Speak to her,” Danbazzar prompted.
Barry bowed awkwardly.
“Princess Zalithea,” he said, “I am deeply honoured.”
She watched him, unmoved, for several moments more. Then, a slow,
delightful smile revealed her little gleaming teeth. She turned her head
slightly, looking up at Danbazzar. She spoke in soft, queerly modulated
syllables. One word which might have been “Zalithea,” but accented very
differently from Barry’s rendering, gave him a clue to her question.
Danbazzar replied, slowly, haltingly; then:
“I think,” he said, “she is curious about how you learned her name. She
seems to have recognized it. I told her that you were a very learned priest.
She wants to know what you are called. Tell her.”
Zalithea turned her disturbing glance upon him again, as:
“I am called Barry Cumberland,” he responded.
Zalithea considered the words, then:
“Bahree?” she said—and nodded interrogatively.
“Yes—Barry; Barry Cumberland.”
She smiled, shaking her head in bewilderment. She looked up at
Danbazzar and addressed him again. He listened, interpolating hesitant
questions, while Barry watched, fascinated. Presently:
“She understands that you are called Barry,” he explained. “Cumberland
is too much for her. Now, she is going to tell you how to pronounce her
name properly.”
Zalithea turned to Barry, and, laying one slender hand on her breast:
“Zal’ith-eeah,” she said distinctly, and beckoned to him to approach
closer.
He did so, almost trembling: the mad wonder of it all had seized upon
him anew. Zalithea, in a sweetly imperious way, intimated that he should
kneel. He obeyed, and she laid her hand on his breast. His heart was
thumping wildly. She looked fixedly into his eyes.
“Bahree,” she said, and smiled.

CHAPTER XXIII.
AN ENGLISH LESSON

The sound of a distant shot came—from the direction of the Nile. Professor
Blackwell looked up with a start. He was inclined to nervousness in these
days. Breakfast was temporarily suspended.
“Mr. Tawwab has called for the rent!” said Danbazzar grimly. He raised
his great voice, looking over his shoulder. “Mahmoud!” he boomed.
The grinning face of Mahmoud appeared in the opening of the tent.
Danbazzar spoke rapidly in Arabic. Mahmoud saluted and departed.
“I’ve told him,” Danbazzar explained, “to warn Safîyeh that they must
keep under cover and then to go up and tell the guards, in case they missed
the signal.”
It was now Zalithea’s custom to take exercise, veiled like a Moslem
woman, early each morning and again in the evening. In a manner
reminiscent of that adopted (by request) during the historic ride of Lady
Godiva, not a soul was visible about the camp on these occasions.
Hassan es-Sugra, at a respectful distance, acted as escort. And he had his
instructions touching prohibited areas. After a time, Zalithea had seemed to
recognize where she was. At the first coming of this recognition—realizing
that she was in the Valley of the Dead—she had been seized with terror.
Danbazzar’s linguistic resources had been taxed to the utmost to pacify her.
Ultimately he succeeded in making her understand that she had slept,
magically, for a very long time; that Thebes (which she knew apparently as
Amen) had altered beyond recognition; and that they wanted her to become
accustomed to strange changes before taking her there.
Once having conquered her first natural terror, the girl accepted her
situation with astonishing philosophy. A reaction came. Perhaps she had
grasped the fact that a new lease of life had been granted to her—and that
life was sweet. At any rate, she developed a strain of childish mischief at
once delightful and disturbing. For Danbazzar’s orders she had little
respect, apparently; but that diplomat was quick to learn that for Barry she
would do anything.

“I trust,” said the Professor, nervously glancing at his watch, “that the
young lady from Unu will subdue her high spirits while Mr. Tawwab is in
camp.”
“I’m going to send Barry along to keep her quiet,” replied Danbazzar.
Whereupon Barry felt a hot flush rising to his cheeks and hastily stooped
to load a pipe.
“A duty by no means irksome,” the Professor murmured. “I confess that a
woman of more than sixty is no longer attractive in the amorous sense. I
had never imagined that one over three thousand could be. But I was
mistaken. Indeed, all my life has been lived in error.”
“In another three days,” said Danbazzar, flashing a triumphant glance
around the table, “we’ll be through! All the stuff is where Mr. Tawwab will
never see it. The photographs are finished. My drawings I can complete
when I like. It’s just a matter of building up the opening, now, and striking
the screen.”
“My notes are fairly up to date, also,” John Cumberland added. “I have
material for a book that publishers would fight to get.”
“Quite, quite,” remarked the Professor. “But except as a work of fiction
you cannot publish it.”
“I shall write it, nevertheless,” the other assured him. “It will be in three
volumes. The first volume will deal, exhaustively, with the history of the
papyrus and the formula. It will bring the account up to the time of our
arrival here. The second volume will be compiled from notes made on the
spot. It will deal with the excavation and end with the discovery of Zalithea.
The third volume will contain the story of her life during the reign of Seti.”
“Admirable,” the Professor agreed. “I shall be obligated, however, if you
will refer to me in your magnum opus as Doctor X.”
And now, a slender, mysterious, black-robed figure, Hassan es-Sugra
bowed in the tent opening.
“Your pardon, sirs,” he said in his gentle way, “but Mr. Tawwab comes.
He will shortly be here.”
“I vote we all see him!” cried Barry. “Why should we study his feelings?
He’s just a common grafter.”
“In studying the sensibilities of Mr. Tawwab,” remarked Professor
Blackwell, “one would be studying the non-existent; a paradox. But our
own position is not too secure.”

“We don’t have to jolt him,” Danbazzar agreed. “We’re not out of the
wood. But Mr. Cumberland and I can talk business. It’s just as well that he
should show his hand with a witness here. I guess, Professor, you’d rather
not stay. And I’m taking Barry along to the Princess.”
“Why?” Barry demanded, laughing to hide his embarrassment.
“Because you may be able to keep her in order. Nobody else can.”
“But I can’t talk to her!”
“You’ve got to learn. Give her some elementary lessons in English.”
The masterful Danbazzar had his way; and Barry found himself, a few
minutes later, in the little lobby of Zalithea’s tent. Danbazzar went in to
announce him, and almost immediately Safîyeh appeared, holding the tent
cloth aside and intimating that he should enter.
He found this wonder girl who was so distractingly human, this charming
survival of a mystic past, stretched on the cushioned mattress, her head
buried in her creamy arms rebelliously. Danbazzar stood looking down at
her in an unfamiliar attitude of defeat.
“She’s a bit up-stage this morning,” he announced. “It’s so darned hard to
remember that she’s a princess and probably used to a lot of ceremony. I
thought I had her set about the robes. I tried to tell her that we only wore
them on religious occasions, and that other times we dressed as we’re
dressed now. I had to tell her something, because she caught me on
Monday, you remember, coming back from the tomb?”
“I do remember,” said Barry. “But when I saw her, later, she seemed to be
used to our queer costumes.”
Danbazzar looked down at his white breeches and speckless tan riding
boots.
“It isn’t that,” he explained. “She’s got the idea that the robes are
ceremonious and that we’re slighting her by not wearing them when we
come to see her.”
Zalithea half raised her oval face, so that one dark eye peeped out over
the rampart of her arm. A quick, disdainful glance she flashed over Barry,
from his bare head to his dusty shoes; and hid her face again.
“That’s that,” sighed Danbazzar. “There’s no time to go back. But wait
outside and I’ll have your robes brought down by Hassan.”
They turned to go, when:
“Dan-bazz-ah!” said a clear, imperious voice.
Barry and Danbazzar turned, together.

Princess Zalithea was sitting upright, her arms outstretched, her hands
resting upon the cushions on either side of her. From her pale, beautiful
features all expression had been effaced. They were like an exquisite ivory
mask into which a magician has blown the breath of life.
She spoke a sentence rapidly, her long, half-closed eyes turned sideways
upon Danbazzar. He bowed in his graceful manner and replied very
hesitantly. No expression stirred the girl’s lovely face.
“I was right,” he explained. “She considers that we’ve insulted her! I
took all the blame and told her you had just come back from a journey and
asked to see her right away.”
Barry frowned, and:
“Is it necessary to tell her so many lies?” he asked.
“You bet it is!” Danbazzar assured him. “Look at her!”
Barry glanced, guiltily, toward the divan. He started. Zalithea was
watching them with a stare of such murderous anger that his heart seemed
to turn cold! He would never have conceived it possible that her youthful
features could assume a look of such utter malignancy.
Watching her, fascinated against his will, he experienced again that awful
tingling of the spine which he had known during his vigil in the valley on
the night he had heard the strange voice. Definitely, he knew in this moment
that it had been her voice… although she had lain buried deep in the heart
of the rock! Yes, this girl-woman, this child-witch who had first seen the
light in an island unknown to modern geography, was uncanny!
Danbazzar’s deep tones broke in upon the silence; he addressed Zalithea
in the musical, oddly monotonous language which Barry was beginning to
recognize as that which the Pharaohs spoke. Then:
“Come on!” he said abruptly. “I can hear Tawwab.”
He raised the tent cloth. Barry was about to follow him out, when:
“Bahree!” came softly.
He turned. Danbazzar had gone, dropping the curtain. He was alone with
Zalithea!
Half fearfully, he looked at her.…
She was resting on her elbow, watching him, and her sweet lips were
arched in a smile which revealed little gleaming teeth! Her eyes, widely
opened now, were deep pools of contrition; her delicate nostrils quivered.
She was on the verge of tears!

Barry experienced a dramatic revulsion of feeling. In his hard, modern,
Western self-sufficiency, he had wounded the tender susceptibilities of this
sheltered flower of the East. What did he, or Danbazzar, for that matter,
know of courts and palaces? Much less they knew of the splendid ceremony
of those old, dead days when Seti, from Thebes of the Hundred Gates, ruled
a mighty empire!
He hated himself and hated Danbazzar. They had a princess among them,
and they treated her like a chambermaid! They discussed her as though she
were a marketable relic, to be bought and sold—this living, lovely
revelation of the wonder that was Egypt!
Some remote ancestor who had known the meaning of homage came to
life in Barry; seized him by the scruff of the neck and forced him onto his
knees. Very near to Zalithea he knelt, his head bowed, waiting for pardon.
Instantly it was granted.
A little hesitant hand touched his hair; and he looked up. The girl’s long,
curling lashes, the most perfect he had ever seen, were wet with tears.
“Forgive me!” he burst out, forgetting that she could not understand. “I—
he—neither of us—meant to hurt you!”
She smiled through her tears and touched his hair again.
“Bahree,” she said, and made a quaint gesture which conveyed dismissal
of the subject.
And then, very close together, in silence, these two remained for long
moments, watching one another; the girl reclining on her cushions and the
man kneeling beside her. In that odd hush, the suave tones of Mr. Tawwab
were clearly audible as he entered the upper end of the wâdi in conversation
with Danbazzar. A subdued booming was all that could be distinguished of
the latter’s responses. Both voices presently ceased. The party had met in
the tent above.
Barry suddenly grew self-conscious. He was kneeling beside Zalithea
and studying her raptly. It had occurred to him that this was the height of
rudeness. True, she had suffered his scrutiny without complaint, but this did
not excuse his bad form.
In a nervous endeavour to break the tension, and recalling Danbazzar’s
instructions, he touched a symbol embroidered upon one of the tent cloths
draped beside the divan. It was the crux ansata, symbol of life; and:
“This,” he said, “means Life.”

Zalithea looked at it, then turned to him. She seemed to be trying hard to
grasp what he had in mind; and finally:
“Ankh,” she said.
“You call it ankh?” he asked eagerly; for he knew this to be the Ancient
Egyptian term for the figure.
Zalithea, listening and watching, smiled.
“Ankh,” she repeated.
“Life,” said Barry.
“Lie-ef,” Zalithea whispered doubtfully.
“Life!”
She shook her head. And Barry realized how, tempted by the fact that he
chanced to know its Egyptian name, he had chosen an object impossible to
explain in pantomime. Zalithea, laughing now, stretched out a finger and
laid it gently upon his eyelid.
“Eye,” he said eagerly.
“Eye,” she repeated.
She touched his ear.
“Ear.”
“Ee-ah!”
So the first lesson began—a lesson in a science that was old even in
Seti’s days. Master and pupil forgot the passing of the hours in that
enthralling study. Old Safîyeh, squatting patiently on her mat beyond the
curtain, nodded as the sun climbed a blue highway toward the dome of
noon. Innumerable cups of coffee had been drunk by Danbazzar, John
Cumberland, and Mr. Tawwab, and entire boxes of cigarettes consumed.
But still Barry said, touching Zalithea:
“Arm!”
And Zalithea, watching him, replied:
“Aah-em!”
When, at last, a substantial check having changed hands, Mr. Tawwab
rose to take his departure, he showed a marked preference for a route
through the lower end of the wâdi. Mr. Tawwab was an observant man.
Suddenly, raised voices disturbed the English lesson. Zalithea sat very
upright, listening.
“If you don’t mind, yes!” Mr. Tawwab was saying. “Your camp is so
interesting. I should love to see your kitchen.”

Placing a finger on her lips, Zalithea stood up. In her simple native dress
Barry thought she was the sweetest thing he had ever looked upon.
“Zalithea,” he murmured, “you are adorable!”
She paused, glancing down at him.
“Zal’ith-eeah!” she corrected; then: “You-ah-addorahble!” she added.
Before he realized what she intended to do, she had glided to the tent
cloth, raised it, and gone out. He jumped up and followed her. He had
recalled, tardily, the real purpose of the interview. His duty was to see that
Zalithea did not make her presence known to Mr. Tawwab!
In the tiny lobby, old Safîyeh had scrambled hastily to her feet. Beside
her mat was a bowl in which were some peaches which Zalithea had
evidently rejected as overripe. Some of them, presumably, Safîyeh had
consumed. The less desirable remained.
Mr. Tawwab’s voice came from immediately outside. He had paused on
his way down the wâdi.
“Surely a new tent?” he inquired smoothly.
“Sure!” boomed Danbazzar. “An English Bell tent, sir!”
“You have guests?”
“No, sir! We’re hoping for guests—distinguished guests—and we’re all
ready. If ever you feel like spending a night with the boys, say the word!”
“I am deeply indebted,” Mr. Tawwab assured him. “It would be
delightful. But my duties do not allow.”
“That’s a pity,” said Danbazzar.
They moved on, slowly—and Zalithea, ignoring Barry’s restraining hand,
pulled the flap aside and peered out. Over her shoulder, he could see
Danbazzar, a great, towering figure, moving down the wâdi beside the
slight, red-capped form of Mr. Tawwab.
Then, in a moment, it had happened.
Displaying a deadly aim, Zalithea hurled an imperfect peach at the
retreating Mr. Tawwab!
It struck him on the back of the head, squashed liberally, and dislodged
his tarbûsh! With a cry of mingled fear and anger, he turned. Barry dropped
the flap and sank back, aghast.…
Zalithea, both hands held over her mouth, fled beyond the tent cloth.
Safîyeh, horror-stricken, followed.
“Hell’s bells!” roared Danbazzar. “Mr. Tawwab, I can’t say what I think!
It’s that half-wit Said! Wait here, sir! Take my handkerchief! By God! I’ll

——”
He ran back and burst into the tent in an apparent fury. Barry faced him.
“Zalithea?” Danbazzar whispered.
Barry nodded.
“Howl like fury!” Danbazzar directed—“not in English!”
Thereupon he broke into a flood of Arabic, and clapped his hands,
simulating smacks. Barry yelled obediently.
“You son of a mange!” Danbazzar concluded—and went out. “He’s
crazy, Mr. Tawwab,” he called. “Don’t blame me. Blame the people that
hired him to me.…”

CHAPTER XXIV.
THE RETURN TO LUXOR

Work in the valley was ended. The tomb, stripped of its contents, had been
reclosed so that even Mr. Howard Carter could not have found it. The
workmen, well paid and happy, had dispersed to their homes. Most of them
were men of the Fayyum.
Danbazzar and Hassan es-Sugra had contrived the transport of Zalithea
from the camp in the wâdi to a carefully chosen suite at a Luxor hotel
without provoking comment. John Cumberland’s bank account had silenced
any criticisms regarding the nature of his interest in the heavily veiled
Moslem lady for whose accommodation he had arranged. The thing had run
on oiled wheels, dollars being the lubricant; but since there is more grit in
the world than there are dollars, this smooth running inevitably couldn’t
last.
Barry, whose dream woman had miraculously come to life, found himself
in a frame of mind which he was sane enough to recognize as unique. The
Zalithea he knew, the adorable, winning, childish, petulant, sometimes
frightening girl, he was learning to worship. The Zalithea of the papyrus,
the princess of unknown origin who had been captured by the troops of Seti
in an unimaginable past, he fought to forget.
Advance guards of the Thomas Cook army had already established
themselves in Luxor. A German party, some days earlier, and on the eve of
striking camp, had penetrated to the wâdi. Their insatiable Teutonic
curiosity was their only guide; Danbazzar’s lurid profanity their only
reward. Even the donkey boys had blushed.
But the incident had gone to prove that they had achieved their purpose
only just in time. It was the tourist invasion which had checked Danbazzar a
year before.
That remarkable man, whose resourcefulness knew no bounds, had long
since set out, accompanied by Hassan es-Sugra, two camel drivers and a
large sum of ready money, for the Great Oasis. Here he had arranged to
meet a certain sheik of the Shorbagis from Dakhla and to obtain from him a

document, suitably witnessed, authorizing John Cumberland to escort the
sheik’s daughter, Zalithea, to America for neuropathic treatment prescribed
by Professor Blackwell.
“The Senussi,” Danbazzar had admitted, “are the most dangerous fanatics
in Africa. One of that bunch would be about as likely to send his daughter
to America as to burn his whiskers for firewood. But nobody here will be
any wiser, never having been to those parts, and the American consul, who
is a Greek from Alexandria, doesn’t know an Arab from an onion. We’ll get
her passport without any trouble.”
Zalithea’s balcony overlooked the Nile. Here she spent many hours every
day, watching the varied life of the river front. Her bewilderment Barry
found at once pathetic and delicious. The dragomans, who were now
beginning to put in an appearance, she mistook for priests. The strangely
garbed tourists she assumed to be foreign captives!
The advent of the first steamer from Cairo aroused such terror that Barry
grew alarmed. He found himself utterly incapable of explaining this
mystery, handicapped as he was. Automobiles, for some reason, frightened
her but little. Indeed, she managed to make him understand at last that she
wished to ride in one!
That once vexed question of dress had been settled. Zalithea understood
that no slight was intended by the wearing of a lounge suit. She seemed to
think that the Winter Palace was the palace of Pharaoh, and she tried to ask
if the reigning monarch was absent at war.
She was extraordinarily observant. In the cool of the evening, with
Safîyeh in attendance, and escorted by Barry or John Cumberland, Zalithea
would walk along the bank as far as the old shadûf. The really fashionable
crowd was not yet in evidence, but, nevertheless, she quickly noticed—
since wealthy Moslem women rarely appear in public—that except among
the lower classes veils were nowhere to be seen.
This problem was quite beyond Barry’s power of explanation. But John
Cumberland, in his practical way, set to work to solve it.
From Cairo one day stacks of boxes arrived and were duly carried up to
Zalithea’s apartment. Barry had just bought her a bundle of illustrated
magazines and was watching her, fascinatedly, as she pored over pages of
photographs showing society groups in various sun traps from Mentone to
Miami.

What an exquisite profile she had! He wondered, was eternally
wondering, where the island of Unu had been. Zalithea’s long, narrow dark
eyes were of a kind he had never seen among the modern Egyptians, but
they were typical of the women depicted on the ancient wall paintings. Her
profile, too, was purely aristocratic and bore a remarkable resemblance to
that of the beautiful queen Ameniritis. His rapt study of the girl was
interrupted by the delivery of the boxes.
Zalithea ran in from the balcony immediately, filled with childish
interest. As box after box was laid on the carpet, her excitement grew
intense. Stooping, she touched a label, looked at Barry interrogatively and
then indicated herself.
“Yes,” he said, “for you! All for you.”
“Fo-ah you?”
“No—you! you are me! I don’t know how to explain!” He rested his
hand on her shoulder. “Me,” he said.
Zalithea, watching him eagerly, touched her own breast, and:
“Me,” she echoed.
“Yes!” Barry nodded. “For me.”
“Fo-ah me.”
She clapped her hands excitedly and indicated that he should cut the
fastenings. Happy because Zalithea was happy, he obeyed.… and out from
this box and from that, with a vast rustling of tissue paper, came frocks,
stockings, hats, flaky, delicate underwear—priceless loot of Paris.
Never had he seen Zalithea so excited. Taking up piece after piece, she
literally danced in her joy!
Then, crying, “Safîyeh! Safîyeh!” she gathered up a great armful of
assorted garments and ran into her bedroom. She had apparently forgotten
Barry’s existence. But he walked out onto the balcony to await her
reappearance. Knowing his father’s thoroughness, he didn’t doubt that John
Cumberland would have found some way to obtain things to fit. Zalithea
had been early introduced to shoes; so that this part of her equipment was
comparatively simple. As for the other items, perhaps he had enlisted
Safîyeh’s aid.
Barry looked out across the Nile to where the Libyan Desert baked under
the merciless sun. He could hear Zalithea’s delicious, childish laughter and
the harsher tones of Safîyeh. The miracle of it all crashed down suddenly
upon his mind like a palpable weight.

This gay, light-hearted girl, whose laughter rang out clear as a bell,
happily as a child’s, had lain for three thousand years over yonder in the
Valley of the Dead!
He picked up a magazine at random from the little table set upon the
balcony. There were things he couldn’t face—yet. He wondered if he ever
would be capable of facing them. He dropped into a cane chair and began to
scan the pictured pages.
In a section devoted to the doings of New York Society, he came across
photographs of two or three people he knew. He stared at them as at the
pictures of strangers. He felt that a great gulf had opened between himself
and the empty life he had known. Upon one side of it were the old set, Aunt
Micky, Jim and the rest; upon the other he stood, alone—with Zalithea.
Beneath, beside the river, moved men and women to whom Thebes
meant sightseeing and sunshine—no more. He watched them as through a
haze or as in a glass, darkly. Then, from a minaret at the back of the town,
distantly, sweetly, came the voice of the muezzin raised in the adan, or
noonday call to prayer:
“Alla-hu akbar.… La illa-ha illa Allah! …”
“God is most great.… There is no God but God!” He listened to those
words, which he knew, with a fresh wonder. For some reason they soothed
his troubled mind. The passive attitude of Islam toward life was very wise,
after all. He found himself thinking of Hassan es-Sugra, that grave, graceful
philosopher, when:
“Bahree!” came a cry from the room behind him.
He turned. His eyes, dazzled by the blazing sunlight, at first could see
little in the darkened room. Then, standing just within the doorway
communicating with her bedroom, he saw Zalithea.
She wore a very up-to-date dance frock which displayed more of her
creamy skin than Barry had seen since that unforgettable hour in the tomb
when Danbazzar’s scissors had stripped off the wrappings. With unfailing
instinct she had selected shoes to harmonize with the frock, which was very
short.
Manlike, he thought she looked exquisite—and showed that he thought
so. The admiring, grinning face of old Safîyeh appeared in the doorway, as
Zalithea, almost timidly, came forward into the room. The girl’s wonderful,
black-fringed eyes were set upon Barry with an expression of childish
eagerness.

Something very unusual there was in her appearance, not due to her
wholly different style of beauty, but to some irregularity in her attire which
for a moment he failed to place.
Then, all at once, he saw what it was.
Zalithea’s shapely creamy legs were bare! She had forgotten to put
stockings on! Watching him anxiously, she spoke.
“Zal’ith-eeah!” she said. “You-ah-addorahble!”

CHAPTER XXV.
SOCIAL AMENITIES

On the eve of Danbazzar’s return, Barry ran into his acquaintance, the
irrigation specialist, in the lounge of the hotel.
“Hullo!” said that chronically bored person, dropping into a neighbouring
armchair. “I’ve only just come in from Assouan, but I heard you were back.
How’s the oasis lookin’?”
“Splendid,” Barry returned hastily, hoping that the other had forgotten
about the dates. “Dry Martini?”
“Thanks,” was the reply. “Rumour has it that a charmin’ stranger has
joined your party.”
“Oh!” said Barry. “With which of her many tongues did Rumour whisper
this news?”
“Tawwab,” drawled the tired voice. “Nasty bit of work. Know him?”
Barry nodded.
“I have that misfortune.”
He experienced a vague uneasiness. To the best of his knowledge, Mr.
Tawwab’s hold upon them was no more. But the man’s insatiable appetite
for bakhshish on a grand scale might inspire him to some new piece of
interference. He wished Danbazzar were back.
Zalithea was dining downstairs to-night. It would be the first time she
had appeared in public unveiled. Barry had reserved a discreet table, and
when he had left Zalithea to dress, she had been wild with excitement. A
French chambermaid had been detailed to assist. Inexplicably, the hotel
seemed to have become filled up. The lounge was crowded. A number of
visitors had arrived during the afternoon. He hoped Mr. Tawwab was not
present.
“Our guest is the daughter of a friend of Danbazzar’s,” he explained.
“Professor Blackwell is treating her for nerve trouble.”
“I see,” murmured the irrigator, sipping his drink and lighting a cigarette.
“Danbazzar is the sportsman like a Moorish pirate?”
“Yes!” said Barry, laughing.

“Saw him when you were here before. Extraordinary lookin’ bird. Do
you grow ’em like that in America?”
“Not in large quantities.”
“Rara avis, eh? Tawwab was tellin’ me your girl friend only speaks
Kabyle. As I don’t know whether Kabyle is a vegetable or an ointment I
ain’t any wiser.”
“It would be quite a good thing if Tawwab attended to his own business,
don’t you think?”
“Rather. It’d choke him—which would be toppin’.”
John Cumberland and Professor Blackwell came down shortly afterward,
and the bored young man went off to join a friend who was dining with
him. While they waited for Zalithea, Barry related what he had heard.
“Mr. Tawwab is a subject who was born to be poisoned,” said the
Professor. “I shall feel altogether more at ease when I find myself outside
his sphere of influence.”
“It’s disturbing,” muttered John Cumberland. “I fear he’s up to fresh
mischief. He hadn’t counted on our slipping away so soon and covering our
tracks. He probably considers we have bested him.” He broke of, staring.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “Barry! Did we dream it all? Look at her!”
Zalithea had just come into the lounge, cynosure of many eyes. She was a
radiant vision in a zephyr-like Paris model. Whom John Cumberland had
commissioned to buy it and what he had paid for it only John Cumberland
knew. But he was satisfied. Marie, the chambermaid, had done her work
well. As they made their way to the table, soft music of an orchestra stole
through the hubbub. Barry thought that the lovely girl beside him whose
eyes were lighted up happily must have heard other music and witnessed
stranger banquets on this very spot… three thousand years ago!
That uncomfortable sense of unreality, a sort of veil through which he
saw and heard imperfectly, descended upon Barry during the early stages of
dinner. The irrigation man and his friend sat quite near and were at no pains
to hide their admiration of Zalithea.
In fact, it gradually became apparent that the beautiful unknown was
being widely discussed. Barry wondered if the story of the sheik’s daughter
had spread farther than they supposed. He began to cast off the Old Man of
the Sea astride his shoulders—to disregard the inner voice which whispered
—whispered: “Yes, she looks young and lovely. But you saw her in the
tomb. You know she is the oldest woman who has ever lived.”

He was fully and finally aroused by a waiter who handed him a folded
note. It was from the young man at the near-by table, and it read:

“Where can I take lessons in Kabyle?”

The smiling impudence of his acquaintance appealed to Barry’s sense of
humour. He showed the note to John Cumberland and the Professor.
Zalithea, while they read it, touched Barry’s arm, and:
“Fo-ah me?” she said.
He laughed outright.
“Yes!” he nodded.
Zalithea held out her hand for the note. Professor Blackwell passed it to
her. And she studied it gravely. It was at this moment that a high-pitched
feminine voice made itself audible above the other voices.
“I really must just say how d’you do!”
John Cumberland started and looked over his shoulder. A very smart,
hard-faced woman was making for their table. She seemed to be possessed
of volcanic energy, and:
“Holy Mike!” said he. “Mrs. Uffington!”
“What!” Barry muttered, and glanced in the same direction. “Good Lord!
All New York will have the story now!”
Indeed, it was the famous Mrs. Uffington, most intrepid of lion hunters:
according to Jim Sakers, “The pride of Pierre’s and uncrowned Pope of
Park Avenue.”
She swooped down upon them. Zalithea, dropping the note, fixed a stare
of cold hostility upon the face of the newcomer.
“My dear John Cumberland!” she cried; “and if it isn’t our very own
Professor and Barry!”
They rose to greet her—without enthusiasm.
“I know all about you!” she ran on vivaciously. “John Cumberland, I
know all about you! What will Micky Colonna say? But, my dear—she’s
lovely! I can’t believe she’s a coloured girl—can’t believe it!”
“Princess Zalithea is a member of a very old and distinguished family,”
said Barry coldly. “Allow me to present you.” He bowed to the girl. “Mrs.
Dudley Uffington.”
Zalithea did not move. Her unwavering stare never left Mrs. Uffington’s
face. It had an oddly quelling effect.

“She’s rather queer, isn’t she?” asked the lady, in a lower tone.
“She doesn’t speak English,” Professor Blackwell explained.
“No! I was forgetting. But of course I have heard all about it. Do you
know who told me? Mr. Ahmed Tawwab—such a charming man, for an
Egyptian. He is looking in later, and I must really insist that you and your
delightful—protégée—join us for coffee. I shall expect you!”
And she was off.
“Phew!” said John Cumberland. “Here’s a mess!”
“Since she finds Tawwab so charming,” murmured the Professor, “I
sincerely wish she would marry him—and settle here.”
Zalithea, through half-closed eyes, watched the retreating figure.
“Hafee!” she hissed—or that was how it sounded.
Barry began to laugh.
“I find I am learning Ancient Egyptian!” he said. “You may be amused to
know that, to the best of my knowledge, hafee means ‘snake’!”
“Really!” said Professor Blackwell, glancing uneasily at the malignant
face of Zalithea. “It occurs to me that our foster child can be definitely
unpleasant. She should prove a revelation to the drawing rooms of New
York. Dear me, it’s all very extraordinary.”
Any plans they may have had to evade the subsequent meeting were
frustrated by the energetic Mrs. Uffington. She had a table waiting, with
coffee, liqueurs, and cigarettes, outside, after dinner. She swept them to it.
And as they entered the palm-screened alcove in which it was situated, Mr.
Tawwab rose to greet them, bowing deeply. He was accompanied by a lean,
square-jawed man having small, fierce eyes, a bristling moustache, and very
large prominent teeth. He resembled a mad horse.
He was presented as Captain Quick.
Zalithea, trailing a light wrap, seated herself disdainfully on the very
edge of a tall chair, staring straight into the eyes of the two men in turn as
they were introduced, but giving not the slightest sign of acknowledgment.
Mr. Tawwab appraised her, critically and ravenously. Captain Quick burst at
once into a shouted conversation.
“This is amazing!” he cried. “Positively! Never would have believed you
come from the Senussi country! Never! Was down there in ’nineteen.
What’s your part?”
Mr. Tawwab exchanged a swift, malicious glance with Mrs. Uffington.
John Cumberland looked helplessly at Barry. Zalithea stared at the speaker

as though she had not heard him. It was Professor Blackwell, husky in his
embarrassment, who explained:
“Our friend does not speak English, sir.”
“Oh, damn it! What a fool I am!” yelled Captain Quick. “Wait a minute!
Wait a minute! I know the lingo.…”
Zalithea stood up, leaving her wrap on the arm of the chair.
“Bahree!” she said—and pointed to it.
Then, without so much as a glance at any of the party, she walked slowly,
languidly, out of the alcove.
“Excuse me!” Barry mumbled.
He had flushed to the roots of his hair. Grabbing the wrap, he ran after
the girl.
Zalithea, moving with an unfamiliar, swaying movement of the hips
which he had always imagined characteristic of the women figured on the
ancient wall paintings, was making for the entrance.
He came up with her, but she did not pause or glance aside. The night
was perfect, and there were groups assembled before the hotel: visitors,
residents, vendors of many wares, and guides clamouring to conduct
somebody, anybody, to the Great Temple by moonlight.
Barry was longing to walk through those mighty halls with Zalithea, but
—incredible thought!—they had feared the memories which sight of that
stately ruin might arouse in the girl. Karnak she had seen. And Barry could
never forget her expression, in which sorrow, stupefaction, and horror had
mingled. She had retired to her apartment, refusing to see anybody for a
whole day afterward.
How he longed to be able to talk to her! If his own brain became so
tumultuous when he thought of the history of this lovely, wayward,
yielding, imperious girl, what deathly terrors must she know when
realization of the truth was borne home to her?
Side by side they walked on through the scented night. He placed the
wrap over her shoulders. She was following her favourite route—that to the
ancient shadûf.
And so, presently, in silence, they were alone beside the Nile. Zalithea
paused, resting against a crumbling wall and staring out over the whispering
water. A boatman began to play a reed pipe. He played that age-old melody
which surely the boatmen of Seti knew. Barry glanced at Zalithea. She was
listening—intently.

Her lips were slightly parted, her lashes drooped. She looked beautiful.
But—perhaps because of the Egyptian night and the music of the reed—she
seemed unearthly.
A cold hand clutched his heart. Princess Zalithea! He was alone with a
ghost!
She knew that music! What was she thinking? Whom was she
remembering? Did it bring dreams of happiness—of love? Or did it
magically cast her spirit back over the ages to the coming of that unnatural
sleep?
Zalithea sighed, shudderingly. Turning, she put her hand in his.
Her hand was warm. The little slender fingers clung tremulously. At their
touch, his ghostly imaginings fled. She was real, a girl of flesh and blood;
not a phantom, but a living, lovely testimony to the wisdom of a past
science. If only he could get used to that idea!
In silence, as they had come, they walked back; like two children, hand
in hand. And standing in the entrance to the hotel were Mr. Tawwab and
Danbazzar.
“I am most indebted to His Excellency,” boomed the latter’s great voice,
“for this offer of his service. But the lady has been entrusted to me by her
father, and I have just left the American Consul——”
“H’m,” murmured Mr. Tawwab, his sly eyes lighting up as he saw the
slender, approaching figure; “you have seen him to-night?”
“Sure,” said Danbazzar. “All’s clear. A few formalities in the morning,
that’s all.”
“But,” Mr. Tawwab interpolated gently, “as the young lady belongs to El-
Kasr, you tell me, this matter does not concern your consul. El-Kasr is in
the mudiriya of Minia!”
“I’ve seen the Mudîr of Minia, sir!” Danbazzar replied. “I arrived in
Minia last night. That’s where I’ve come from. Believe me, I know the
ropes of your country, Mr. Tawwab, although I’m greatly obliged to you.
Our consul has got to give me a visé for the United States, that’s all. I’ve
arranged the rest.”
“The Mudîr of Minia is very obliging.”
“Most obliging man in Egypt, bar none!” boomed Danbazzar. “Always
was an obliging man.”
Zalithea passed in to the hotel, Barry following. From a hidden bench a
slim, black-robed figure arose, bowing low.

“Lêltak sa’îda, effendim,” said a soft voice.
Barry started, peering into the shadows; then:
“Lêltak sa’îda, Hassan es-Sugra!” he replied.

CHAPTER XXVI.
IN NEW YORK

A month later, to a day, Barry from the boat deck of the Berengaria pointed
out Ambrose Light to Zalithea. She clutched his arm to steady herself in the
high wind, nestling, furry, very close to him. As he looked down at her he
found himself thinking not of the camp in the wâdi, nor even of the tomb;
not of the ancient wonders of Egypt; nor even of those few delightful days
in Paris and the later joy of taking Zalithea around London.
He found himself thinking of Hassan es-Sugra.
Hassan had seen the party off at Luxor, bringing a great bundle of
flowers for Zalithea. Where everyone else was hurrying and bustling,
Hassan had walked calmly up and down the platform with Barry. His eyes,
which were so like the eyes of a gazelle, had been sad. But his words, softly
intoned yet laden with some deep significance, had remained with Barry
like the haunting memory of a song:
“One day, sir, you will come again to Egypt. Some of your friends, now,
will not be your friends then. You will learn to forgive me if I have failed
you in anything and come and tell me so. For in the end understanding will
be. There is one thing, sir, I have to say to you: they tell me the lady is of
El-Kasr. It is not so. I cannot say where she is of. But this I know—she is
not of Egypt. She is very sad at heart. If, one day, she tells you why, be not
angry with her.”
Then the train had moved out. Barry’s last impression of Luxor was that
of the graceful, black-robed figure of Hassan es-Sugra, his hand raised to
his forehead in a parting salute.
“Be not angry with her.…”
He looked down at the bewitching face half hidden in fur. Sea breezes
had whipped a delicious colour into the soft cheeks—down which big tears
were falling!
“Zalithea!” he cried. “My dear! what is it?”
She looked up at him quickly, blinking tears away; then:
“Sorree,” she whispered.

This word, “sorry,” she had acquired in London, but he knew that she
employed it in the sense of “sad.” He squeezed her arm reassuringly. He
had long since decided that her courage was miraculous—unfaltering. Now,
he tried to imagine what supreme dread—what rankling doubt—what
sorrow for some long lost one had broken it.
It was always so with him. In the most perfect moments of understanding
it would come—that inscrutable curtain; the veil of an unimaginable past.
Once, and once only, he had tried to ask her what he longed so ardently
to know: if she remembered ever having met him before. By some
unsuspected law of preordination alone could he hope to explain those
visions. Had he not seen her as he was destined later to see her—in the
dress of Ancient Egypt? Had he not seen her as she looked during the early
days in Luxor—veiled like the women of Islam?
He thought he had made her understand. But instead of answering she
had turned her back and walked away!
Did the question transgress some strange law, known to her but unknown
to him?
There were times when his brain reeled. And now, with the American
coast in sight, she was weeping; she was “sorree.” He wondered hopelessly
what her thoughts were at this hour. “She is very sad at heart,” Hassan had
said. How clearly he recalled the words of that extraordinary man.…
And then, before Barry realized the passage of time, they were in sight of
the familiar skyscrapers.
Zalithea’s mood had changed. The child had come uppermost again. She
clapped her hands gleefully, grasping Barry’s arm and pointing to the
skyline of New York.
“Fo-ah me?” she asked.
Barry nodded, laughing.
“I trust,” murmured Professor Blackwell, “she is not labouring under the
delusion that you are the king of this country!”
They speedily had evidence of Mrs. Uffington’s activity. She was not
prepared to lose the credit of discovering a beautiful Oriental princess who
had been adopted by an American millionaire! Every ship reporter in the
city was primed; camera men were there in flocks.
And Zalithea imperiously declined to see any of them!
She retired to her cabin, with old Safîyeh on guard in the alleyway; and
all remonstrances were in vain.

For a considerable time she banned Aunt Micky, as well, until Danbazzar
made it clear to her that Aunt Micky was John Cumberland’s sister. She
received her, then, very graciously. Aunt Micky was stupefied.
“She’s a beauty, young Cumberland,” she confided to Barry. “But who
the devil is she?”
“The daughter of one of the minor rulers out there, Micky!”
“But she’s not black! She’s whiter than I am!”
“It isn’t my fault,” said Barry humbly. “Cleopatra wasn’t black, according
to all accounts.”
“But this girl isn’t an Egyptian.”
“Neither was Cleopatra!”
“Young Cumberland—you have a secret eye! It’s the right. I’ll get the
truth out of John!”
Out on the deck, Jim Sakers and pretty Jack Lorrimer were consoling
each other. When, presently, Barry reappeared:
“This is the blackest hour of my life!” Jim declared plaintively. “I am
despised—cast out—rejected. I feel like a falling stock. As though it isn’t
bad enough to be told that the coveted bottle of unchanging desert has been
forgotten! No man with a heart could have overlooked my quart of eternal
sand. Now, with my eyes bulging out of my head and my temperature at a
hundred and four in the shade, I’m told, ‘No fairy princess. Pass along,
please. Stand clear of the gangway!’ ”
“Be patient, Jim,” said Barry. “She feels very strange.”
“She feels very strange!” cried Jim. “I feel completely extraordinary!
Here are we—poor little sleepy Jack, who didn’t go to bed until three
o’clock, and tired-eyed Jim who had to get home after seeing her home—
here are we, lured from our slumbers at an unearthly hour by false
promises! … Sand and sorrow!”
When Zalithea finally went ashore she was so heavily veiled that not a
glimpse of her features could be obtained.
As a result, the most conflicting accounts were published. For a ship
reporter whose imagination cannot penetrate a few yards of drapery is not
worthy of his hire. “Veiled Princess for Cumberland Collection,” was one
good headline. “Daughter of Persian Pasha Says New York Like Paradise,”
another declared. “Harem Beauty Brought by Berengaria,” was the line
which appealed to Jim. But Barry’s indignation was aroused by
“Cumberland Cleopatra Here!”

A suite of rooms had been prepared, by John Cumberland’s orders, in the
furnishing of which, while a definite Egyptian note had been struck, the
total leaned to modernity. For Zalithea he had conceived an affection which,
when he tried to analyze it, seemed to be compounded of the paternal, the
scientific, and—he could not otherwise define it—the maternal! She was his
child in a sense not hitherto comprehended in human relations; and she was
the embodiment of that second great passion of his life—Egyptology.
Lovingly he had studied her. He had noted her early acceptance of those
mechanical things which at first had appalled her; her easy, youthful
adaptability to wildly strange environment. A certain shrinking from her—
involuntary, superstitious—of which for a time he had been conscious, left
him utterly in the sunshine of her warm humanity.
Barry’s attitude occasioned him many anxious hours. That the boy should
lose his heart to this beautiful mystery was no matter for wonder. He had
eyes, ears, imagination. And Zalithea would have inflamed any man of his
age not made of wood or stone with whom she was thrown into contact.
Furthermore, that the meeting of these two was preordained, John
Cumberland found it hard to doubt. He knew that Barry thought so; and he
did not blame him. For what other explanation could there be of those
strange pre-glimpses which he had had of her? He had never doubted his
son’s word. But he had found something phenomenal in the story which had
led him to look upon it as the product of an excited imagination. How little
he had known, in those days, of the wonderful! How sceptical he had been!
From the big armchair in which he was seated in the library, he looked up
at a wall painting from Medinet Habu. Quite clearly he recalled that he had
been seated here, looking at this very painting, on the night that Danbazzar
arrived, on the night that he had first set eyes upon the papyrus!
Somehow, the values of his possessions seemed to have changed, subtly,
during his absence. That wall painting, for instance, no longer struck him as
a priceless treasure, although he had often thought of it as such. The
enamelled casket of Nitocris; the exquisite painted wooden figure of the
priestess, Thent-Kheta; even the great inlaid throne of Osorkon from
Bubastis—in some queer fashion they had lost colour in his eyes.
Almost as the fact dawned upon him, its explanation came, too. As those
ancient priests had foreseen, a living testimony to the grandeur of the
Pharaohs would outshine all others!

The library door opened, although there had been no knock; and Zalithea
stole in.
John Cumberland jumped up and placed an armchair for her. Jim and
Jack were coming on after a theatre, Danbazzar and Aunt Micky having
joined them there.
Zalithea was wearing a frock which had been bought for her in Paris. She
wore it exquisitely. It was a semi-Oriental creation, simple enough; but it
set off her dark, lithe beauty to perfection. She rested one slender hand on
the chair back for a moment, smiling inscrutably at John Cumberland.
Then she crossed to the Bubastite throne and seated herself.
“Yes?” she asked naïvely, her head tilted aside.
And John Cumberland knew that it would be quite useless to say No,
therefore:
“Yes, Zalithea,” he agreed, “if you’re comfortable.”
She listened in her intent fashion, then:
“Zal’ith-eeah you-ah-addorahble!” she corrected.
John Cumberland sat down. Apparently Zalithea thought that this was the
name by which she was known nowadays. He strongly suspected the
identity of the tutor who had led her into this error.
“Barry!” he muttered, reaching for the cigar box.
“Bahree-I-love-you,” Zalithea corrected again. “Geeve-me-er-kiss.”
“You’re learning the wrong things too quickly, young lady!” said John
Cumberland. “Do you know where you are, yet?”
“Ah-addorahble!”
“I mean where you live. I tried to teach you yesterday. Your home?”
Zalithea wrinkled her smooth forehead.
“Darling,” she replied.
“I know you’re a darling,” John Cumberland admitted; “but I think I shall
have to take your education in hand myself. I’m afraid I have been
neglecting you.”
Zalithea, from the throne of the Bubastite king, smiled regally.
A considerable disturbance in the lobby now proclaimed the return of the
theatre party. Barry opened the library door, and:
“Hullo!” he cried. “You’re in there! I’ve been hunting all over for you.
Here’s the gang.”
Headed by the Countess Colonna, the party entered. Jack Lorrimer was
frankly nervous—an unusual condition—but highly curious. She had not

yet met the mysterious Cumberland guest. Jim followed in with Danbazzar,
an imposing figure distinguished from the rest alike by his great height and
by the slight eccentricity of dress which he affected. His Egyptian tan suited
his oddly Moorish type.
“Zalithea,” said John Cumberland, beckoning to Jack, “I want you to
know Jack Lorrimer, my niece, and”—he drew Jim forward—“Mr. Sakers.
Princess Zalithea has very little English, so excuse her.”
Zalithea, beyond a slight smile, offered no sort of acknowledgment.
Barry, covertly watching his friend and his cousin, noted that the girl’s
queer aloofness had created its usual effect. He noted something else. Jack
Lorrimer was very pretty (what Jim termed “A 1 at Cupid’s”), and Barry,
like many another, had often wondered where the dividing line lay between
prettiness and beauty. To-night he knew that Zalithea was beautiful.
Jim’s reaction to the lovely, cold vision on the throne was good to study.
“Delighted!” he said. “Been counting the hours until—— No, of course,
you don’t know what I’m talking about! … Cooler this evening, I fancy.…
Wrong again! How’s Egypt looking these days? … Let me out,
somebody! …”
Danbazzar stood at his elbow. He spoke to Zalithea in that monotonous
language which no one else understood. Under half-lowered lids she
watched him, and then replied briefly. He turned to Jim.
“She says you talk too much!” he translated.
Jim turned fiery red.
Barry laughed delightedly, and Professor Blackwell, who had just come
in, endeavoured to console poor Jim.
“She is a young lady of very definite ideas,” he said, groping with one
large, bony hand for a dress tie which, having become unknotted, had
evidently dropped off somewhere. “For instance, she has a settled belief
that I’m funny!”
“Please, Mr. Danbazzar!” whispered Jack. “Ask her if she likes me!”
Danbazzar, whom nothing annoyed more than to be addressed as
“mister,” conversed briefly, and unintelligibly, with Zalithea; then:
“She is a little undecided,” he announced. “She has got hold of the idea
that you’re a dancing girl and wants to know when you are going to begin!”

CHAPTER XXVII.
ABOUT IT AND ABOUT

Danbazzar, in these days, was constantly at the Cumberland home. Next to
Barry, it was evident that Zalithea preferred his society to that of anybody
else. John Cumberland she respected, but he, for all his knowledge of the
old, mysterious land in which they had found her, groped in vain with the
strange tongue which she spoke and which Danbazzar alone understood.
Nor was he so successful as his son in establishing a link of understanding.
Perhaps because he did not speak the language of love, which is God’s
esperanto.
Nevertheless, and largely with Danbazzar as interpreter, he had begun his
ambitious work. The first and second sections of the book came within
scope of his personal knowledge. He believed that they were, now,
comparatively valueless without the third. Therefore, beyond arranging his
bulky notes, he had done little in this direction. His interest was with
Zalithea’s story, and this she surrendered only in provoking fragments,
imperfectly understood by Danbazzar.
For instance, urged on one occasion to describe Pharaoh’s court, she
became unusually voluble. Danbazzar looked puzzled, thought over what
she had said for some time, and then:
“It sounds to me,” he confessed, “uncommonly like back stage at the
Metropolitan Opera House!”
And a day was to come when those words should recur to Barry
Cumberland.
Social invitations hailed upon them. No door in New York was closed to
Princess Zalithea. But She Who Sleeps was as capricious as she was lovely.
Modern ideas of good behaviour she simply didn’t understand. They had
learned from painful experience, to consult her, vide Danbazzar, before
accepting proffered hospitality.
She would inquire closely into the character of the household and the
probable guests before consenting to go. More often than not she flatly
declined to be present.

And they knew that social embarrassment would almost inevitably follow
if Zalithea were urged against her will. This knowledge had come as result
of a disaster at the apartment of a prominent member of Washington’s
diplomatic set who was entertaining in New York.
Zalithea, reluctantly, had agreed to go. She had looked radiant. She was
the sensation of a brilliant gathering. Then, Mrs. Uffington had arrived. As
that gushing lady crossed with extended hands:
“Bahree,” Zalithea had said, in her imperious way.
Ignoring Mrs. Uffington, ignoring everybody, she had glided, a slender,
stately figure, out of the room—and out of the building!
It was a moment which Barry sometimes lived over again, memory of
which brought cold perspiration. He had been furiously angry with her, and
had been unable to conceal his anger. Unmoved, apparently, as an ivory
statue, she had sat beside him in the car, while he had poured out the vials
of his wrath. Perhaps she had understood, perhaps she had not.
But when he saw her face, as they alighted before the door of his home,
he would have given much for power to recall those words. Her beautiful
eyes were glassy, like those of a tortured animal. Then, as she turned to run
up the steps, he saw the long-repressed tears gathering under the dark fringe
of her lashes.…
She had refused to see him that night and for half of the next day. His
father, and Aunt Micky, who had been left behind to face the appalling task
of explaining, arrived later—and were denied admittance to Zalithea’s
apartments!
Danbazzar was summoned. Barry knew no sleep that night. He paced the
big library, a man demented, knowing—if he had ever doubted it—that the
happiness of this girl meant more to him than the opinion of every hostess
in America; than any friendship; than anything in life.
Reconciliation had come. But they had all learned their lessons.
Invitations to the Cumberland home were eagerly sought for. It came to
be regarded as a sort of mark of distinction to be honestly able to say that
Princess Zalithea had consented to know one. What guided her in her
selections and rejections, John Cumberland could never make out.
Slowly, provokingly slowly, Zalithea was learning English. There was no
lack of voluntary (male) tutors. In fact, by painful degrees, the fact dawned
upon Barry that he had to count not only with that intangible dread, his
knowledge of the true age of Zalithea, but also with more than one rival.

“There’s something I want to know, young Cumberland,” said Aunt
Micky on a certain afternoon when Barry was lounging in her private
sanctum.
This room was notable chiefly because of the fact that it differed from
every other in the house; it contained not a single Egyptian relic.
“What’s that, Micky?”
Aunt Micky puffed reflectively at her cigarette; then:
“When is Zalithea going home?” she inquired.
“What!”
Barry sat up with a jerk.
“Don’t get excited,” she went on. “It’s a perfectly reasonable question.
And as I can’t talk to the girl, and your father won’t talk to me, I’m asking
you. Have we adopted her?”
Barry laughed to hide his embarrassment.
“I suppose in a way we are responsible for her,” he answered evasively.
“What does Dad say?”
“Nothing!” Micky replied promptly. “That is, nothing sensible. He told
me, only yesterday, that her history was so strange I should never be able to
believe it.” She took a fresh cigarette from the box. “He’s very likely right,”
she added.
“No, Micky!” Barry protested. “Something has upset you. What is it?”
“It isn’t one thing; it’s several.”
“Tell me one of them.”
“In the first place, who is this girl?”
“It’s very difficult to explain, Micky.”
“Ha!” She lighted her fresh cigarette with the stump of the old one.
“That’s what John says—and Blackwell! You’re all lying—all the damn’ lot
of you! You can’t tell fairy tales to Micky Colonna! And where, exactly,
does the man Danbazzar come in?”
Again Barry hesitated. It was hateful to lie to Aunt Micky. Hitherto, by
skillful evasion, he had dodged the necessity. He determined to endeavour
to do so again.
“Well,” he replied, “Danbazzar is the only one of the party who knows
her language. He knows—all about her father, too.”
Aunt Micky stared at him hard; then:
“I’ve been in Egypt, young lad,” she said, “and although I never went so
far, I know where the desert Arabs live—and what they look like. This girl

isn’t one! Also, when Dr. Davidson called, why did old Blackwell hurry
him away without seeing Zalithea?”
“I don’t know, Micky.”
“But I do! Because Dr. Davidson has just come back from a journey
through Zalithea’s home country, among the Senussi Arabs! Teach your
grandmother to suck eggs, young Cumberland!”
“Does all this mean you don’t like her?”
“I’d like her well enough if I knew who she was. But all I know is that
she’s a little impostor and the whole gang of you are backing her up.”
“She isn’t an impostor,” Barry retorted hotly. “No! I didn’t mean to be
abrupt, but you don’t understand, Micky. It’s the rest of us who are
impostors!”
Aunt Micky shaded her unflinching gray eyes with one upraised hand, a
mark of disapproval; then:
“Liars! all the lot of you!” she commented. “I knew it. But what’s the
object? Is she wanted by the Egyptian police?”
Barry laughed.
“Not exactly,” he replied. “But there is a likelihood of complications, all
the same. You see, we brought a stack of stuff away. It’s all at Danbazzar’s
place, now.”
“What has this to do with Zalithea?”
“Well, in a way—— Oh, I can’t explain, Micky! What’s the use of
trying?”
“Tell me what your father told me yesterday—that I wouldn’t understand
—and I’ll heave this ink-well at you!”
The interview left Barry in a very unsettled frame of mind. He simply
could not foresee the future otherwise than through a storm cloud. As he
came down into the lobby, Zalithea was just crossing. She was going out to
dinner and a theatre with a party that included Monty Edwards, a moneyed
undesirable whom Barry detested. She disliked parties but loved theatres,
they had discovered.
She was dressed already, and made a sweet picture against a background
depicting the wars of Rameses II.
Barry’s heart jumped ridiculously; for she was so close to him that by
extending a hand he could have touched her. He suppressed an impulse—
which seemed quite natural—to take her in his arms and hold her and kiss
her.

“Zalithea,” he said, “you are adorable.”
She paused, looking sideways at Barry. Her smile maddened him.
“You like?” she asked naïvely.
“Yes.”
“Bahree-geeve me-er-kiss,” she invited.
He felt a hot flush rising to his forehead. Truly his sins had found him
out! At some time he had murmured those words, and Zalithea, who seemed
so slow to learn many things, had seized upon them mysteriously. Perhaps
the syllables chanced to resemble those of her own language.
“I shall have to, one day!” he said. “I shan’t be able to help myself!”
The maddest impulses surged up in his brain. Her eyes were beckoning to
him. But she was helpless—their guest—to be guarded and protected.
He laughed—quite mirthlessly—turned, and walked across to the library.
He never glanced back.
Jim Sakers was calling for him later. They were dining at a club and
doing nothing in particular; what Jim termed “a night of well-earned rest.”
Barry was looking forward to the evening with great interest, because he
had determined, guardedly, to voice his difficulties to his friend and to get
the opinion of this honest, worldly soul.
Of Zalithea he purposely saw no more. He heard the others arrive and
heard the car drive off. A few minutes later Jim arrived.
At a corner table, placed before a high oak settle, they presently found
themselves in one of the Bohemian clubs of which Jim was a member. And
Barry began by outlining the position that Zalithea occupied in the
Cumberland home.
“I gather,” said Jim, “that your former flaming passion for the balcony
princess has now been transferred to the Egyptian princess?”
“Don’t be silly,” Barry returned irritably. “I’m serious. Can’t you
understand that that was a vision of the girl I was going to meet?”
“No,” Jim admitted, “I can’t. I have seen Mr. Brown’s house, and I have
interviewed Mr. Brown’s housekeeper. There’s nothing visionary about
either. Why should there be about Mr. Brown’s balcony?”
“I don’t know; but there is. It’s utterly impossible that I should have seen
Zalithea there. It’s utterly impossible that I should have seen her on Fifth
Avenue.”
“You saw her twin sister.”

“Her twin sister, if she had had one, would have been dead long ago
——”
He broke off. He had said more than he had intended to say. Jim stared
curiously.
“How so?” he inquired. “Do they drown one of the twins in those parts?
Which one do they keep? Who decides? Answer me that—the local witch
doctor?”
“Forget it!” Barry urged, “and talk sense. You have seen Zalithea—many
times, now——”
“Undoubtedly. She’s A 1 at Cupid’s—a first-class risk—Bachelor’s Bane,
Incorporated.”
“You know her rather imperious spirit.”
“I do. She has practised hard on me.”
“But I’m crazy about her, Jim! And I’m dying to tell her so! But how can
I?”
“How can you? Easily. You’re not dumb.”
“She has scarcely any English.”
“Press your hand to your heart and kneel at her feet.”
“It isn’t that. She’s our guest. I have no right——”
“Cable the sable parent. Say, ‘Dear Sir: With reference to your charming
daughter——’ ”
“Jim! you’re not helping me! And, anyway, that’s not all.”
Jim realized that his friend was really serious. He listened, without
facetious comments, while Barry hesitantly outlined a hypothetical case. He
spoke of a famous physician of the East who had discovered a method of
prolonging life for several hundreds of years. He could not bring himself to
speak of thousands! He asked him if he should expect the offspring of a
marriage between such a subject and an ordinary mortal, to be normal.
But Jim was merely bewildered.
“Are you hinting that Zalithea’s mother is three hundred years old?” he
demanded, incredulously. “Is this the skeleton in the cupboard?”
His tone was sufficient for Barry. Jim would never understand. How
could he be expected to understand? He was glad he had been no more
definite; and he clutched at this straw gratefully.
“So we were led to believe,” he replied.
Jim’s stare became that of a man hypnotized; but finally:

“Does your father believe this?” he asked. “And old Blackwell, and
Danbazzar—do they believe it?”
“Yes,” said Barry. “You would have believed it if you had been there.”
But he knew, now, that he could look for guidance to no man. He and
those others who had entered the tomb of She Who Sleeps had entered a
world controlled by laws other than those known to the rest of mankind.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
A DOOR CLOSES

Barry returned home comparatively early. Neither Jim’s airy philosophy
nor his more serious sympathy, which was not without a salting of worldly
wisdom, had lifted the cloud of despondency that had settled upon him. He
felt utterly alone. Never, in the loneliest hours he had known in the desert,
had he experienced anything quite like his mood of to-night.
He had fallen in love with a shadow—a mirage; the shadow had
materialized; and now, the substance was less real than the shadow.
The whole thing seemed to have gone out of tune. The Zalithea he
pictured as he walked along, the Zalithea who went to theatres and parties,
was this the sleeping princess they had delivered from an Egyptian tomb?
Could it be the same, pale, slender girl from whose lifeless body Danbazzar
had torn those age-old wrappings?
In short, where had delusion begun? Where did delusion end?
The tired man smoking a soiled cigar lolled on the corner as Barry
approached his home. It occurred to him that it was the same cigar that he
had always smoked. It was unreal.
Without removing the root, the man touched his hat as Barry went in and
took out his key. John Cumberland kept early hours; and, except when
entertaining, his household was abed by midnight. Barry did not expect to
find anyone up.
On the tray in the lobby he discovered two letters. Neither was important,
but he switched on the light above the table and glanced at them. As he
stood there, dimly he could hear steamer whistles on the river. One of them,
a deep-throated blare, he thought he recognized as the voice of the
Berengaria. Even as his glance ran over the typed page, in spirit he had
crossed again to Southampton upon that quest never to be forgotten which
had led to Zalithea.
Then, thrilling in the stillness of the big house, came a soft cry!
Barry dropped the letter and turned, standing stock still, with clenched
hands.

He stared across at the closed door of the library. It was from there the
cry had come. All was silent, however, as he stepped quickly in that
direction. But, as he reached the door, in a strangled voice:
“Bahree!” he heard; then, in a coarse, laughing tone:
“Don’t be so silly!”
Zalithea was in the library—with Monty Edwards!
Barry flung the door open and walked in.
Across by the big, carved mantelpiece, with its overpowering decoration
from the wall of Medinet Habu, Edwards had the girl in his arms. He was a
thickset, coarse-grained type, whose boisterous good humour served as a
cloak for a rather nasty animalism. At the wrong age for a man of his
character he had acquired control of a fortune little less than that of John
Cumberland.
Zalithea’s lithe body was bent back like a bow as she strove to avoid his
lips. Edwards, holding her fast, stooped lower and lower to the alluring,
forbidden red mouth.
By what cunning strategy he had contrived to be left alone with her Barry
neither knew nor cared. It was the colossal outrage of the thing that struck
him dumb. The affront to him, to his father, was gross enough. But the
affront to this delicate, guarded treasure of some long-forgotten court was
beyond computation.
To his imaginative mind it appeared that Monty Edwards had disgraced
irrevocably the name of American hospitality.
So swiftly did he act, in his white-hot anger, that Edwards, hastily
releasing the girl, allowed her to sink down upon the carpet. He turned in a
flash—and Barry stood before him dumb with hate.
Edwards’s high colour fled. He spoke huskily.
“Hullo, Barry! Don’t get mad. It was only fun.”
Barry was murderously pale. For ten—fifteen—twenty beats of the
library clock, he stood, quivering; then:
“Get out!” he said. “Get out while I can remember you’re in my house.”
Monty Edwards bandied no words with the speaker. He knew when a
man was seeing red. Head lowered and lips unsteady, he passed Barry and
walked out of the library.
Zalithea stood up, breathing quickly. But Barry never moved, never
stirred a muscle of his tensed-up body, until the closing of the front door
told him that Monty Edwards had left the house. Then he turned to Zalithea.

She was dressed as he had seen her earlier in the evening. She was pale
but more utterly desirable than any woman in all the wide world. Her long,
dark eyes were fixed upon him in a sort of wonder—questioningly—
doubtingly. He unclenched his fists. No word was spoken. But Zalithea
stepped forward as if bidden.
His arms went around her like steel bands. He uttered a queer, pent-up
cry. He kissed her lips breathlessly, her hair, her eyes, her smooth, creamy
neck. He was in the throes of a veritable madness. His long-repressed
passion swept him away.…
When, at last, he released her, she fell back, raised her hands to her eyes
for a moment; then, giving him one long look of indescribable intensity, as
though she would imprint his image indelibly upon her mind, she ran out of
the room.
Standing as she had left him, his back to the lobby, he heard the light
patter of her footsteps as she raced upstairs.
Somewhere, above, a door closed softly.
And to that sound Barry found himself listening with a strained intensity.
It seemed in some way to be an answer to a question—to a subconscious
question that his mind was incapable of framing. Exhausted by the fiercest
emotions he had ever known, he dropped into a big padded rest chair in
which, evidently, Monty Edwards had been sitting. A still-smouldering
cigar lay in the little Oriental tray attached to the chair arm.
Mentally, he was depressed. But his heart was singing. His former
experiences might have led him to doubt Zalithea’s sentiments. But he
could not forget that she had returned his kisses.
For an hour he waited, hoping yet not expecting that she would come
back. He lived again through the strange days and nights he had known
since that evening when Fate had steered the Rolls into a private road—and
he had seen a vision of Zalithea.
Imagination led him on. Once more he talked with Danbazzar and the
others in the tent in the wâdi and walked beside Hassan es-Sugra through
those silent halls of the Great Temple. So walking in spirit, with gods and
Pharaohs beckoning secretly from moon-touched walls, he fell asleep.
The cigar, in the tray at his elbow, smouldered on. In the still air of the
library, a bluish pencilling of smoke stole straightly upward. It burned until
only a powdery shell remained attached to a leafy stub. But Barry never
stirred. The night sounds of New York did not reach him in his dreams. And

the detective on duty outside the house wondered why the library lights
were still burning when dawn’s gray mystery crept over the city.
Through the shades, morning light was competing with the electric lamps
when soft footsteps sounded on the thickly carpeted stairs. Barry slept on.
The footsteps crept lower and lower… and Zalithea stood peeping in at the
doorway.
She turned swiftly at sight of the sleeper, her fingers raised to her lips.
Old Safîyeh’s wrinkled face appeared in the lamplight. Then Zalithea
looked again at Barry, his ruffled curly head resting on one shoulder. She
watched him longingly, as a woman watches a sleeping child. Once she
stole forward, but hesitated and went back.… Very softly she drew the door
partly to.
The man on duty at the corner saw the two women come out and walk
away. He was not surprised. They frequently went for a walk in the early
hours of the morning, although he could not recall that they had ever set out
quite so early before.
As the front door closed, Barry moved. The movement rasped his neck
against his collar—and he awoke. Cramped, stale, heavy-headed, he stared
about him. Swiftly memory reasserted itself.
He stood up, stretching his cramped limbs. Then he crossed and switched
off the lights. The library clock registered half-past five. He went upstairs,
pausing outside Zalithea’s door and listening intently. He could detect no
sound. He passed on, mounted to the floor above, and went to bed.
His next awakening was a tragic one.
John Cumberland burst into his room, with:
“Barry! Barry! Zalithea has disappeared!”
“What!”
Barry sprang out of bed, his eyes wide in sudden fear. John Cumberland’s
face was pale.
“She and Safîyeh went out at half-past five this morning. They have not
returned. It’s after ten o’clock.”
Half-past five… what memory did this awaken? Of course! …
“But I was in the library at that time!” Barry cried. “They must have seen
me!”
“Explain,” said John Cumberland. “What were you doing in the library
so early?”

Barry, very briefly, told the story, mincing no words, concealing nothing.
As he spoke, he was dressing in feverish haste.
“The door was closed, I suppose?” his father asked dully.
Barry paused in his task. He looked up.
“By heaven,” he said, “she must have closed it! Edwards left it open, and
I fell asleep watching the lobby. But it was half to when I woke up!”
“Do you realize, Barry,” his father asked, “that it was probably the
shutting of the front door that awakened you?”
“I can’t bear to think of it.”
The house was in an uproar. Remembering that Zalithea knew next to
nothing of the language, and Safîyeh little more, it was impossible to
imagine their plight. In one fact, that Zalithea was not alone, Barry found
comfort.
John Cumberland’s private secretary was already in touch with the
police; and, as Barry came hurrying downstairs, Professor Blackwell
arrived.
“Cumberland!” he cried. “What’s this they tell me?”
“She’s gone, Blackwell,” was the reply. “No news.”
The Professor dropped into a lobby chair.
“Somehow, I can’t grasp it,” he said pathetically. “If she had been alone I
should have feared an accident, but as Safîyeh is with her——”
“That’s what I think!” Barry interrupted eagerly. “An accident is out of
the question.”
“This being so,” the Professor went on, “what are we to conclude? Is
Danbazzar here?”
“Expected every minute,” John Cumberland replied shortly. “I naturally
’phoned there first, as she is used to visiting him.”
“She had not been there?”
John Cumberland shook his head.
“Tell him what happened last night, Barry,” he said, and hurried away.
Barry, hoping against hope that something in the occurrences of the night
might suggest to the scientific brain of Professor Blackwell a clue to
Zalithea’s motive, gave him an account of the matter. At last:
“It may be some primitive reaction,” the Professor murmured. “The
psychology of Zalithea is of course an unknown quantity.”
“You think she is frightened and so has run away?”
“Frankly, I don’t know what to think.”

“I can’t believe she would voluntarily leave the house,” Barry declared.
“Just think. Where could she possibly go to?”
Professor Blackwell shook his head.
“That is a question I cannot pretend to answer.”
At this moment Danbazzar arrived. As the door was opened he came into
the lobby, a big, dominating figure. But his stock was not quite so perfectly
knotted as usual, and his strange eyes held a very wild light.
“Still no news?” he asked.
The blank faces about him were sufficient answer.
“Have her apartments been searched to make sure there’s nothing there?”
Aunt Micky, very stern-faced, came downstairs.
“I have searched thoroughly,” she answered. “But it might be as well if
you looked, also.”
Danbazzar bowed and walked upstairs. Barry followed.
In the suite of apartments which had been furnished for the use of
Zalithea, a very faint perfume lingered. It caught Barry by the throat. It
spoke to him intimately. It was as though he had buried his face in her
fragrant hair; as though she were in his arms again.
The rooms were strangely appointed. They were scantily furnished in the
Eastern manner, with little inlaid tables and cabinets, and many richly
cushioned divans. Perforated silver lamps concealed the electric lights, and
the windows were screened with mushrabiyeh work. The bedroom struck a
more Western note, being equipped with a wonderful dressing table
possessing wing mirrors and laden with every imaginable luxury of Paris.
There was no evidence of disorder or of hasty departure. The bleak
chamber adjoining in which the old Arab woman spent a great part of her
days afforded no better evidence.
Danbazzar crossed to a window and threw back the near-by mushrabiyeh
screen. For a long time he stood there, looking out.

CHAPTER XXIX.
THE HIEROGLYPHIC LETTER

A period of anxiety now commenced to which it seemed impossible to
imagine any end other than the return of Zalithea. The idea that he should
never see her again was one that Barry simply could not contemplate. The
mystery of her disappearance baffled all conjecture.
Short of the theory of drowning both in the case of Zalithea and of
Safîyeh, no feasible explanation presented itself. At John Cumberland’s
urgently expressed wish publicity was for long avoided. But neither police
headquarters nor the private experts employed on the case could offer any
hypothesis covering the facts.
Since Zalithea spoke no English and her companion very little, it was
difficult to imagine how they could have gone far without attracting
attention. Further, it appeared that neither had any money, beyond, possibly,
some small change.
To Barry, every waking hour seemed like a week. He had fits of anger
during which he bitterly reproached the girl for the pain which she was
inflicting. Then, his mood changing, he would mourn her as dead. Every
time the ’phone bell rang his heart leaped wildly. Hope and fear alternately
gripped him, threatening to drive him mad.
Secrecy at last became impossible, if not unwise.
“There’s only one theory that covers all the facts,” said the detective in
charge of the inquiry. “They must be in hiding; either because they want to
hide for some reason, or because they are being detained.”
“Detained!” cried John Cumberland. “By whom? For what purpose?”
“Well,” was the reply, “such things have happened before, you know. It
may develop into a demand for ransom. But my point is this: apart from the
fact that the lady’s disappearance is beginning to be talked about, we are
neglecting a very valuable weapon, in a case of this kind, by avoiding
publicity.”
“I agree with you,” Barry said.

“If these two are hiding somewhere,” the detective went on, “offer of a
big reward will tempt someone to give them away. If they’ve been
kidnapped, offer of a reward is what the kidnappers are waiting for. I know
it’s going to make things mighty unpleasant for you, and you’re in no sort
of humour to be badgered by newspaper reporters. But it’s all that’s left.
The cat’s out of the bag, anyway. Hundreds of people know. You might as
well tell the world.”
Reluctantly, sick at heart, John Cumberland consented. The notoriety
which he knew must follow was appalling to his sensitive nature. But
anything that might lead to the recovery of Zalithea he was prepared to
face.
And so, on the following morning, New York revelled in full details of
perhaps the most romantic mystery that had ever spread itself over the city’s
front pages. Photographs of Zalithea there were none available. Those taken
on the day of her arrival, showing her muffled in veils, were at a premium.
Danbazzar supplied a brief and strictly untruthful biography of “The
Lady Zalithea el-Aziza ed-Dhahir (daughter of the Sheik Mohammed Abd
el-Ghuri, of the direct line of the last of the Khalifs and a descendant of the
Prophet) entitled by Moslem law and usage to the designation, Princess
Zalithea.”
As this corresponded with the particulars entered in her passport, no
doubts of its accuracy were entertained. A description of Safîyeh was also
given. She was cited as a native of Cairo.
“This is going to reach Egypt,” said Danbazzar gloomily. “And if I know
anything about Tawwab, it’s going to reach the Sheik Mohammed. If it’s
made worth his while, he’s sure to say he never had a daughter. What
happens next we have to wait and see.”
The sensational report issued, John Cumberland and Barry entrenched
themselves behind secretaries, refusing to receive any newspaper
representatives. Danbazzar discreetly disappeared. So intense was the
public curiosity aroused that Professor Blackwell was forced to cancel a
course of lectures and to retire to the home of relatives in the Middle West.
Wild rumours were circulated freely. Anybody who had ever met Zalithea
was interviewed and cross-examined. Thousands who had never even seen
her claimed acquaintance for the sake of a brief moment in the limelight.
Reports flowed in from places as widely removed as Marseilles and
Hollywood.

At a cost appalling to estimate, John Cumberland had every one of them
taken up and tested. All proved to be mare’s nests.
Aunt Micky’s life became a perfect burden to her. If it had not been for
her recognition of the fact that Barry was breaking his heart over the affair
she would have fled long since. Instinctively she had known from the first
that there was some secret in connection with Zalithea which she did not
share. Her resentment had been sharpened by what she termed “this
damnable publicity.”
Save for very old friends, Jim Sakers, Jack Lorrimer, and a few others,
society she had none in these days, but was compelled to hide like a fugitive
from the tireless persecution of paragraph writers.…
Then, it happened—the inexplicable thing; the event that, while it
aroused a momentary hope, did so only to dash hope to the ground again.
Barry and a secretary were going through the voluminous mail one
morning. Barry’s high spirit had quite deserted him. He looked physically
ill, and was morose and silent. He hoped for nothing, in all these letters, but
inquiries prompted by idle curiosity or lies designed to torture him. Then:
“Here is a letter addressed to you, Mr. Cumberland,” said the secretary,
“and unstamped. It must have been delivered by hand. It is marked ‘Private
and Personal.’ ”
Barry stretched apathetically across the table and took the envelope, upon
which his name was neatly typed. It seemed to contain a quantity of
correspondence and also some small, hard object.
He tore it open listlessly.
A large double sheet of some very thick, tough kind of writing paper was
inside. And, as he pulled it from the envelope, a ring fell out upon the table.
Barry’s heart seemed to miss a beat. What change had come over his face
he could only guess by the secretary’s horrified expression.
“Mr. Cumberland!” she cried—and stood up.
But Barry motioned to her to sit down again. He was staring—staring—
at the ring which he held in his hand. It was an oddly mounted and very
perfect piece of lapis lazuli.
He had bought it in the Rue de la Paix for Zalithea!
Uttering a stifled moan, he dropped the ring, and, with wildly unsteady
fingers, unfolded the thick sheets of paper.
They were covered with Egyptian hieroglyphics!
One glance he gave at the writing, and:

“Quick! Quick!” he shouted. “Get my father!”
He sprang from his chair and began to pace the room like a madman. His
brain was working feverishly. The letter was from her! … The letter was
from her! Even if John Cumberland could decipher it, he could do so only
very laboriously, perhaps inaccurately.
“Mr. Cumberland is coming,” the secretary announced.
“Call Danbazzar,” Barry directed.
“He is out of town. Mr. John Cumberland received a note from him this
morning saying he would be away for two or three weeks.”
“Of course,” cried Barry. “I don’t know what I’m talking about!”
He clutched his head, trying to think clearly. Horace Pain was abroad and
not expected back for a long time. But Dr. Rittenburg had been home when
they arrived. He had dined with them only two weeks ago at Danbazzar’s
apartment and had had a private view of the contents of the tomb when
these had reached New York through some mysterious channel controlled
by their host.
“Look up Dr. Rittenburg’s number,” he said. “Get him at all costs.”
And the secretary was engaged with the directory when John
Cumberland burst in.
Barry could not speak. He merely pointed to the ring and letter—and
went on walking up and down.
“Good God!”
John Cumberland’s voice shook emotionally. He was staring at the
writing, pale-faced, incredulous.
“It’s… from her!” Barry whispered. “She’s alive! She’s alive!”
“Come down to the library, my boy,” said his father, regaining his own
self-control in presence of the distracted Barry. “Wallis Budge can help us
here. I fear my knowledge is not sufficient.”
As they left the room:
“Dr. Rittenburg has gone out,” the secretary reported, “but they have
given me a number where they think I can find him.”
“Tell him to come along at once,” John Cumberland directed, “or, if he’s
engaged, put him through to me in the library.”
A few minutes later they were engrossed in study of the extraordinary
letter; and from the well-laden shelves Barry, at his father’s instance, had
taken Budge’s standard work on the language of Ancient Egypt, Erman’s
Egyptian Grammar, and other handbooks on the subject.

“It’s going to be a hard job for me, Barry,” John Cumberland confessed.
“But it would be easy for Rittenburg or Danbazzar. It’s hieratic writing, of
which I know very little.”
“Is it—” Barry began, trying to steady his voice, “is it the sort of writing
she might be expected to use?”
“Undoubtedly,” his father answered. “It was the form of writing
employed by the priests and scribes. The papyrus and the formula are
written in this style. But the characters in both are much more carefully
drawn.”
“For heaven’s sake, let’s begin. Does it read from left to right or right to
left?”
“That’s the trouble,” John Cumberland replied. “Sometimes it reads one
way and sometimes the other!”
“Can you find any clue—or any word you recognize?”
“That’s what I’m looking for,” his father murmured, bending over the
page of hieroglyphs.…
And for the greater part of an hour he looked, seeking aid in his
researches from the pages of Budge, Petrie, and others. But he had made no
progress whatever when Dr. Rittenburg arrived.
As the library door opened and the round, red face of the distinguished
Egyptologist was thrust into the room, Barry rose from the table with a cry
of welcome. Dr. Rittenburg bent forward, his large, round spectacles
shining as he peered in the direction of the students. As is the way of the
human brain, an idea suddenly presented itself to Barry now, in this hour of
intense anxiety—that Dr. Rittenburg was a reincarnation of Mr. Pickwick.
Greetings were very brief, and:
“I must ask you, Rittenburg,” said John Cumberland, “to treat the matter
about which we want to consult you as strictly confidential.”
“Certainly, certainly,” Dr. Rittenburg agreed. “Count on me. What’s the
problem?”
Barry held out the letter.
“This!” he replied.
Dr. Rittenburg glanced at him curiously, noted his condition of
tremendous nervous excitement, then changed his large, round spectacles
for a larger pair, equally round. He seated himself and bent over the writing.
John Cumberland and Barry stood before the high, carved mantelpiece
watching him. Courtesies were forgotten. They had not even offered the

doctor a cigar.
For perhaps five minutes he peered down intently; then:
“H’m!” he murmured. “Very curious, if I may say so. Very, very
curious.”
He looked up.
“Can you read it?” Barry demanded.
“Certainly I can read it!” the savant returned brusquely. “But as I assume
you have not asked me to do so merely as a test of my ability, may I inquire
who wrote it?”
An eager answer was on the tip of Barry’s tongue when his father
checked him with a gesture.
“This is our real problem, Rittenburg,” John Cumberland explained. “We
have certain reasons for believing, or hoping, that we know the writer. But
we look to you for internal evidence, in the letter itself, to confirm our
hopes.”
“I see,” said Dr. Rittenburg, glancing queerly from father to son. “The
internal evidence is here. And knowing what I already know of certain
occurrences, I may say that this letter astounds me—literally astounds me!”
Barry could scarcely contain his impatience; but:
“While it is not perfectly formed in many places,” the doctor went on, “it
nevertheless contains phrases that are beyond the compass of the ordinary
student. In fact”—he removed his spectacles and polished them with a
pocket handkerchief—“I doubt if there are six people in the United States
of America who could have written it!”
“Is it—signed?” Barry asked.
“Yes!” Dr. Rittenburg replaced his glasses and bent once more over the
letter. “It bears a name which I should be tempted to translate in a certain
way if I were not afraid that my knowledge of other matters is
unconsciously prejudicing my judgment!”
“For God’s sake, read it!”
John Cumberland was the speaker.
“Very well.” Dr. Rittenburg cleared his throat and read: “ ‘Because I can
be with you no more I send the ring’ ”—he glanced up, and: “I am almost
sure that ‘ring’ is meant,” he said, and read on: “ ‘By this you will know. Do
not lament me or look in many places. Forget. There is nothing else. My
heart I leave behind!’ ”
Again Dr. Rittenburg looked up, and:

“To the best of my knowledge,” he added, “the next, and final word, is
Zalithea!”

CHAPTER XXX.
MARGUERITE DEVINA

“The Moving Finger,” which waits for no man, moved on. But Zalithea did
not return. The police had relaxed their efforts. They had nothing to work
upon. It was obviously impossible to place the hieratic letter in their hands.
Nor did its arrival assist the investigations of the private agency employed
by John Cumberland.
He allowed them to examine it, saying that the writing was believed to be
in Princess Zalithea’s hand. They tried to trace the maker of the paper and
of the envelope which had enclosed it, but failed. Their final effort was
directed to the discovery of the messenger who had put the letter in the box.
A reward of five thousand dollars was offered. No one claimed it.
During these anxious days, Barry had not neglected the house of Mr.
Brown. In a despairing effort, he had had the history of this country home
examined—in vain. The property had changed hands during his absence in
Egypt, and little could be learned of the former owner or of his associates.
Agents had handled the transactions in both cases. The housekeeper—once
interviewed by Jim Sakers—could not be traced.
The nine days’ wonder lived its allotted span; and the world in general
began to forget Princess Zalithea, who had flashed, a dazzling meteor,
across the social sky of New York, and, like a meteor, had vanished.
But Barry did not forget. He was not of those who love and ride away.
For him a dream had come true—a dream held like a crucifix through years
of waiting. He had lived in a heaven of moments. He had been snatched
back to earth. And he was lonely.
One faith he had. To this he remained true; it saved him from despair.
Zalithea was alive; so was Safîyeh. Somewhere, they were together. And
one day he would find them. Despite official evidence proving that no such
persons had departed from the port of New York, a conviction was growing
in his mind that Zalithea had returned to Egypt.
John Cumberland’s anxiety, divided from the first, began now to centre
upon Barry. Professor Blackwell, feeling that he might hope to walk the

streets again without being accosted by newspaper representatives, had
returned to his usual quarters. And one evening the two old friends dined
together at the University Club, to discuss the question of Barry’s welfare.
“Bob Sakers couldn’t join us for dinner,” said Cumberland, when the
Professor arrived, “but he’s dropping in later.”
“Danbazzar is still away?”
“Yes,” John Cumberland nodded. “The publicity attaching to this
unhappy affair came very near home, I think. His apartment is shut up. I
shouldn’t wonder if he stays away for a long time.”
“Quite—quite,” murmured the Professor. “Of course, for my part, I
confess I am floored. I don’t dare to think about it. The whole thing, from
that unimaginable moment in the tomb up to the time that you received this
incredible letter, often seems to me to be unreal—a nightmare.”
“Yes,” John Cumberland agreed, “it doesn’t seem real. But—” he sighed
—“it has ruined Barry.”
“Poor boy—poor boy. She was very lovely, Cumberland.”
A long silence fell between them, until:
“Do you ever ask yourself,” said John Cumberland, “if she was—
natural?”
“My dear fellow,” the Professor returned, “I have asked myself that
question a hundred times! And I think it has been answered for us.”
“How? In what way?”
“By her disappearance.”
John Cumberland stared, and:
“I don’t think I follow,” he declared.
“If,” explained Professor Blackwell slowly, “Zalithea was supernatural,
certainly Safîyeh was not. But Safîyeh disappeared with her!”
His friend considered the words for some time, and at last:
“I see the point,” he said. “It’s a new one, I admit.”
When, later, Jim Sakers’s father joined them, he put the case before him
bluntly.
“This thing has knocked Barry sideways,” he told Robert Sakers. “In
confidence, it’s touch and go. Blackwell will bear me out.”
“I have watched Barry,” the latter admitted; “and I am certain that he’s on
the verge of a nervous breakdown. He is crazy to go back to Egypt, via
London and Paris. We don’t hope that he will find the girl, Sakers; we don’t
expect so much. But I am quite positive that the journey will save him. Now

—he can’t go alone. It’s out of the question. Jim is his oldest friend, and
you can very well spare him for a month or six weeks——”
“I’m not asking you to stand the damage, Sakers,” John Cumberland
interrupted. “It wouldn’t be fair on top of the inconvenience of losing your
right-hand man.”
“Leave that part out,” said Robert Sakers. “Let’s get down to dates.”
And as a result of the conference which followed, some ten days later
Jim Sakers found himself, with Barry, bound for Europe. His profound and
ceaseless amazement, expressed at great length, was an antidote to poor
Barry’s melancholy—as it was designed to be.
New environment and the magic of sea breezes aided the cure; and after
an idle week in London, during which Barry’s restlessness seemed to have
abated in a measure, they crossed to Paris.
The faithful Jim cabled an enthusiastic report home; and perhaps Barry,
by this time, had begun to realize that the journey was intended to be a
“cure” and to reconcile his overwrought mind to the idea of resignation. But
what he did not realize, what neither of them realized, was that they were
helpless in the “moving row” of which old Omar spoke, and that they were
being danced impotent toward that inevitable end designed by “the Master
of the Show.”
Paris proved rather a setback. It provoked memories which brought about
in Barry a relapse into melancholy. Jim worked like a Trojan to arouse him
from his mournful apathy.
“Regard, oh, regard the glitter of the boulevard,” he invited, as they sat
outside a popular café in the sunshine. “Unknown to the old folks at home,
in their sleepy village adjacent to the delta of the Hudson——”
“The Hudson has no delta,” Barry murmured.
“Let that pass. But still unknown to them, whether they have a delta or
not, here we sit sipping perfectly good wine at a price for which we could
not obtain a cup of coffee in our little home town. Therefore, let us rejoice!
And, lo! here come soldiers—complete with band! Let us cheer!”
A small party of infantry marched past, accompanied by a large band. Jim
stood up, watching them enthusiastically and talking away all the time.
Receiving no criticisms from Barry, he turned.
His flow of nonsense was checked.
Barry, pale as death, clutching the edge of the marble-topped table, was
staring—staring—across the street, his ghastly features those of one who

sees a ghost!
“Barry!” Jim gasped. “Barry!”
Barry did not stir. When he spoke his voice was a whisper.
“Jim,” he said, “I have seen her!”
“What!”
“She has just gone into the perfumers’ shop opposite.”
“Barry!” Jim grasped his shoulder. “Wake up, man! You are
daydreaming.”
“Watch until she comes out,” the monotonous whisper went on. “Don’t
let her see you, for God’s sake. But follow her, Jim—don’t lose sight of her
—until you find out where she is living.”
“But, Barry,” Jim began, a note of profound anxiety in his voice, when:
“Quick! There she goes!” he was interrupted.
He looked across the street. He gasped audibly; then:
“Wait for me here!” he said tersely.
Zalithea, carrying a small parcel, had just come out of the shop and was
walking away!
Jim Sakers experienced a sense of sudden acute exhilaration. The wildly
unforeseen had happened! And at last he was going to be of real use to his
friend! What it all meant was outside the province of his mental powers.
Who this mysterious girl really was who had so hopelessly bewitched Barry
he had never been able to understand. Nor could he comprehend how she
could possibly have reached Paris without the knowledge of the American
authorities.
But unmistakably it was Princess Zalithea and none other who walked
along before him. Her lithe figure, her graceful carriage, the very turn of her
head when she paused to look in a shop window were familiar to the man
who had met her many times in New York.
From the crowded boulevard into which she had turned on coming out of
the perfumers’ she entered a side street. Jim didn’t know the name either of
the street or the boulevard. His bump of locality was low. But he knew that
he wasn’t going to lose sight of her if he had to follow her around Paris all
day!
He was turning a problem over in his mind as he tracked the trim,
leisurely figure. What should he do if she saw him?
Zalithea came out onto another boulevard and waited at the corner of the
street for a moment. Evidently she was going to cross. She did so, and Jim

was delayed by the eccentric Paris traffic. When he finally ran over, for a
moment he lost her. Then, just disappearing around the corner of the next
street along, he saw the smart figure again.
He hurried to the spot, swung round the corner—and saw Zalithea
entering a discreet-looking hotel on the same side. He was in the lobby a
minute later—and she was talking to a clerk at the desk!
Jim turned his back and stared out into the street through the glass doors.
The lobby was small. He could hear every word spoken at the desk. And
what he heard gave him the crowning surprise of the morning.
“No, madam—” the clerk spoke perfect English—“no American mail has
come in yet.”
“Thank you. If any comes later will you please send it right up?”
The speaker was Zalithea!
Astounded—thrown off his guard—Jim turned and met Zalithea face to
face!
“Princess!” he said. “You remember me!”
The girl’s white teeth closed sharply on her lower lip. She nearly dropped
the parcel she was carrying, but just managed to recover it. She flushed and
as quickly paled. But she looked at him unflinchingly—and he knew her
long, dark eyes.
“You have made a strange mistake,” she said, evenly. “I am not a
princess and I don’t know you.”
Jim wondered if he were going mad. The clerk was watching him
dubiously, so was a hall porter.
“But—” he floundered—“but——” The dark eyes remained fixed upon
him inscrutably. “I’m sorry. Forgive me. But it’s miraculous.”
She turned and walked out of the lobby. Jim did not afterward remember
having seen her leave. It was the scrutiny of the officials that brought him to
his senses and sharpened his ready wits. He turned to the clerk, taking a
card from his wallet. It was the card of a member of the agency recently
employed by John Cumberland!
He tossed it on the desk, and:
“You no doubt wonder what I’m up to?” he said breezily. “There’s the
answer!”
“Oh!” muttered the clerk, glancing at the name. “I see. But you were
wrong, weren’t you?”

“I’m afraid so,” Jim confessed—“quite wrong!” He stared at a menu that
chanced to lie near and learned that he was in the Hôtel Chatham. “Nothing
for the Chatham to worry about!” he added reassuringly. “But I should like
to make my apologies. We have a reputation, too!” He drew a pencil from
his pocket. “What is the name of the lady I so unfortunately insulted?”
“She is a Miss Marguerite Devina of New Jersey, U.S.A.”
“Thanks,” said Jim, making a note of it. “Here alone?”
“Yes. I believe she is expecting relatives to-day.”
“Much obliged.”
Jim nodded in a brusque fashion based upon that of the lawful owner of
the card and stepped out into the street.
The street gained, his assured manner deserted him. He was the most
hopelessly bewildered American in Paris. What in the name of sanity should
he tell Barry? That this was Princess Zalithea he would have been prepared
to declare upon oath. Besides, good actress though he granted her to be, she
had failed to hide her surprise at sight of him. He had seen her bite her lip—
to check what? A sudden utterance of his name? Probably. Her changed
colour, her trembling hands, proved that she had recognized him.
It was she. But what did it mean?
How could he face Barry with such a story?
Turning these problems over in his mind, he plodded back to the café.
From afar he saw Barry—watching. At sight of Jim he jumped up and ran to
meet him.
“Tell me!” he cried, his eyes feverishly bright. “Where does she live?”
“At the Hôtel Chatham.”
“Thank God! And she didn’t see you?”
“But she did!”
“What!”
“Come back and sit down, Barry,” Jim urged. “Get a grip on yourself.
We’re together in this thing. Let me order you a glass of good cognac.”
“You’re hiding something!”
“I’ll give you the story word for word when you have sat down and had a
drink and lighted your pipe. Not a damn’ syllable before!”
He had his way, for he could be very truculent at times; and poor Barry
Cumberland was a parody of his old masterful self. So, while Barry smoked
furiously the story was told—a stranger story than any Jim had ever
expected to have to tell. In conclusion:

“If you are mad,” he said, “I’m mad, too! Because Miss Marguerite
Devina is Princess Zalithea. But Princess Zalithea only spoke gazoobi or
swahili—and Miss Devina speaks perfect English. Now search me! Garçon,
deux cognacs!”
The chairs about them were becoming filled with loungers, as the day
wore on to noon. A cosmopolitan crowd thronged the street and the
neighbouring boulevard. Somewhere near by an orchestra had begun to play
a melody very popular in New York. Newsboys shouted. Drivers of carts
shouted. Everybody shouted.
But Barry was silent. At last:
“Well?” Jim inquired. “What do we do now?”
“I have just decided,” Barry replied quietly. “It will be best for you to
stay where you are at the Meurice. We don’t want to frighten her. But I shall
transfer to the Chatham, at once.”

CHAPTER XXXI.
THE MEETING

If Barry Cumberland had his weaknesses—and who has not?—he had one
marked virtue. He knew what he wanted, and always headed straight for his
objective. In fact, his impulsiveness was excessive and sometimes overrode
his practical common sense.
He was wise enough to know this, for he was well stocked with
imagination; and, safely lodged at the Hôtel Chatham that afternoon, he
made a direct move, which was characteristic, but one that allowed of safe
withdrawal in the event of failure. This was sound strategy. His tentative
advance was suggested by the name of the mysterious guest—“Devina.”
John Cumberland sometimes spoke of a Madame Devina, a once famous
operatic soprano of the Metropolitan Opera; an idol of New York who had
disappeared from the musical world at the height of her success. She had
been entertained at the Cumberland home more than once during a brilliant
season notable for her singing of Thaïs—the rôle which had made her
reputation. Those days Barry could just remember and no more. They
belonged to the dreams of childhood in which his dainty mother figured as
the centre of a wonderful world.
Now, those memories served a good purpose, and, seated in his room, he
wrote the following note:

Dear Madam:
Please forgive an impulsive countryman for intruding. But I
chanced to see your name in the register to-day, and it reminded
me of the fact that my father, John Cumberland, and my mother,
were formerly friends of Madame Devina. As the name is an
unusual one, I venture to ask if you are related to that lady. If you
are, I should be more than happy to make your acquaintance, and
my father, I know, would be delighted to hear of you.
Respectfully,
Barry Cumberland.

This he directed to “Miss Marguerite Devina” and gave to a page to be
delivered to her in person.
His letter dispatched, Barry restlessly crossed to the window, which he
threw open. It overlooked a garden courtyard, which for some reason cast
his memory back to Shepheard’s in Cairo. Many balconies looked down
upon this sheltered oasis, and he allowed his imagination to tell him that
one of them belonged to the room of Zalithea.…
Zalithea! Was there any such person as Zalithea? Had there ever been a
Zalithea?
Once, this thing which had happened would have frightened him and set
him questioning his own sanity. But now, as Jim had said that morning, “If
you are mad, I’m mad, too!”
Would she answer? Would she consent to see him? If she refused, what
next?
His anxiety and impatience made it impossible for Barry to keep still. He
walked away from the window; paced the room; listened at his door for the
footsteps of the returning messenger; then went across to the window again.
For long minutes he stood there, moving restlessly. He lost track of time.
A knocking on his door recalled him to reality. He turned, his heart leaping.
“Come in!” he cried.
The page entered. At a glance Barry saw that he brought no note.
“Miss Devina will be downstairs at four o’clock, m’sieur.”
No doubt the world went on as usual during the next hour, and Paris lived
and loved and laughed as Paris has done from time immemorial; but to
Barry the interval afterward appeared to have been a blank—a hiatus in
existence. Four o’clock came at last.…
She was seated in a cane chair before a little round table set for tea. She
stood up as he crossed to her.
“It was nice of you, Mr. Cumberland,” he heard her saying in Zalithea’s
unforgettable voice!
He found himself seated beside her. A waiter was serving English tea and
handing little dishes of cakes, biscuits, and sweetmeats. This Barry saw and
heard through a sort of fog. Everything was muffled. His sensations were
almost identical with those he had known toward the close of his farewell
college supper. Presently, in a voice not unlike his own:
“You have not told me,” someone said, “if my guess was right. Are you
related to Madame Devina?”

“Devina was my mother.”
The fog was cleared away by that definite, simple statement. The
merciful numbness which alone had enabled Barry to behave himself
rationally thus far left him. He looked into long, dark eyes.
“You know that we have met before?” he said.
Marguerite Devina watched him unflinchingly.
“You had an accident some months ago right outside my door,” she
replied. “But I didn’t know that you saw me. You were unconscious when
we found you.”
Barry clenched his teeth. An insane desire to laugh came to him. He
knew he must fight it.
“You are referring to my crash in New Jersey?” he said evenly,
tonelessly.
“Yes. You must have wondered why we behaved so oddly afterward. The
fact is that my guardian and I were booked to sail for Europe, and we
realized that if we appeared in the matter it would almost certainly mean
delay. We couldn’t afford that, you see.”
“Your guardian? Mr. Brown?”
“Oh, no!” she laughed—Zalithea’s beloved laughter!—“Mr. Brown was
the man who drove you to the hospital and took care of your car. We were
tenants of his.” She hesitated, bit her lip, and: “When did you see me?” she
asked—“before or after the accident?”
“Before,” said Barry. “On the balcony.”
“Yes,” murmured the girl, bending to pour out tea—“It’s a queer thing to
admit, but I’m fascinated by lightning. Do you think—it was seeing me
there that—caused you to crash?”
“No,” Barry replied promptly. He was watching the slim hands, the turn
of her wrists, the line, seen below a smart little hat, of her creamy neck.
“You were dressed very oddly.”
She stooped forward over the sugar bowl.
“Yes; I was—trying on a fancy costume.” She glanced up quickly. “Two
lumps?”
“One, please.” He watched her dazedly. “It’s amazing to think that my
father knew your mother. I have heard him speak of her singing Thaïs.”
“The critics said she did not merely sing Thaïs, she was Thaïs.”
“Is she——?”
“She died when I was a baby,” the girl replied simply. “Here, in Paris.”

“You were born in Paris?”
“Yes.”
“How did you come to live in America?”
“My foster-father is an American. He was once engaged to marry my
mother, you see. But she changed her mind—unfortunately.”
As she spoke the final word, an expression of such implacable hatred
crept over her beautiful face that Barry flinched. It was so that he
remembered her on that night in the wâdi!
“It’s dreadful to say and dreadful to hear,” she went on; “but my father
ruined my mother, in every sense of the word. She would have died in a
pauper’s hospital but for Paul Ahmes.”
“Who is Paul Ahmes?” Barry asked, a sort of new awe in his voice.
Marguerite Devina glanced up at him, and her eyes were very bright.
“He is the greatest-hearted soul in the world,” she answered in a queer
tone of challenge. “My mother brought him nothing but sorrow. Yet he
spent all he had to try to make her happy—at the end. And he took the place
of my father—afterward.”
“And is he, also, an operatic artist?”
She gave a little choking laugh.
“No,” she replied. “He is, or used to be, a vaudeville artist! He retired
years ago. He was known throughout Europe as ‘The Great Ahmes.’ He was
an illusionist. Not so famous as Houdini, but equally clever in his own
way.”
Watching her closely and trying to steady his voice:
“Ahmes is surely an Egyptian name?” said Barry.
“Yes,” she replied composedly. “He used to work as an Egyptian. There
is Arab blood on his father’s side. He was always billed as ‘The Wizard of
the Sphinx.’ ”
With a curious eagerness she poured out these confidences. Obviously
she wanted to do so. She watched Barry with those long, lovely eyes, as if
inviting further and closer cross-examination; as if challenging him to put
her upon trial.
“Is—your guardian—in Paris?”
“I expect him to-day.”
“Did you expect me?”
The abruptness of the thrust startled her, Barry determined. But if it were
so her defence remained impregnable.

“No,” she replied, laughing; “how could I?”
And even as she lowered her dark lashes and looked in her bag for a
cigarette, sanity whispered: “How could she? This girl, whose every
movement, every expression, every feature, and every mannerism are
familiar, yet is not, cannot be, Zalithea!”
Memory plays odd tricks at times, and as Barry struck a match to light
their cigarettes, a hitherto forgotten remark of Professor Blackwell’s
flashed, intact, through his mind. It had been made on the evening that the
Professor had examined Zalithea. “There is a small scar under the hair, just
above the right ear, which suggests that the theory—now generally
accepted, I believe—that surgery was practised by the ancients is not
without foundation.”
“Have you a small scar under your hair above the right ear?” he asked
suddenly.
At this Marguerite Devina unmistakably grew pale.
“Yes,” she answered, and looked at him with half-veiled alarm. “How
strange you should know that!”
“Professor Blackwell told me.”
“Is he a clairvoyant?”
“No,” said Barry, and laughed without mirth. He met the glance of the
dark eyes. “I once thought I was, though. Now—I don’t know what to
think. But there’s something I must tell you. Perhaps I should have told you
right away. You are the living image, a miraculous double, of someone
——”
“Someone?”
“Someone I love very dearly. There! I’ve told you! I came here, to Paris,
to find her. And when I saw you——”
His voice failed him. He turned his head aside miserably.
The girl was silent for a time; then, very gently:
“Do you mean,” she asked, “that you have come from America to—look
for her?”
Barry nodded.
“What made you think you would find her in Paris?”
“I don’t know. We were—very happy in Paris. But I’m on my way to
Egypt.”
“To Egypt!”
“Yes. That was where—we met.”

“And you really expect to meet her again, in Egypt?”
“I don’t dare to expect. But if I left off hoping——”
He did not complete the sentence. Marguerite Devina had abruptly stood
up. Her head was averted.
“Please forgive me,” said Barry. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Even as the words left his lips, he remembered where he had last uttered
them—and to whom. She turned to him impulsively, and the memory was
complete. Her lashes were wet with tears.
“You haven’t!” she said. “But I must go.”
Barry reached out a detaining hand.
“Please,” he pleaded, “let me see you again!”
She averted her head once more, and:
“If I can,” she murmured. “I’m sorry—but I must hurry away now.”
And, stumbling in her haste, she walked around the little table and ran
across the lobby.…
Back to his room Barry went in a state of mind which he found himself
incapable of analyzing. Was it possible, in the natural order of things, for
two human beings to be so absolutely alike? As well ask himself if it were
possible for a girl to live three thousand years! One being possible, why not
the other?
He was curiously reluctant to leave the hotel. Therefore Jim dined with
him in the grill room whose chef has been preserved for posterity by
Orpen’s brush. Of Marguerite Devina they saw nothing. At the end of
dinner:
“If I don’t stop thinking about this muddle,” Jim declared, “I shall
become completely cuckoo. It’s the Folies Bergères or a lunatic asylum for
mine. Make your selection.”
The selection was made. And it was at a late hour (Paris time) that Barry
returned to the Chatham. The night porter handed him a letter.
In his room he tore open the envelope. He began to read. Then, rushing to
the telephone, he banged the lever up and down in a frenzy of impatience.
At last:
“Hullo! Hullo!” he called, in a high, unnatural voice. “Ring Miss
Marguerite Devina!”
“Miss Devina left this evening, m’sieur.”
And when dawn came it found Barry haggard, wild-eyed, pacing the
room, ever and anon taking up a crumpled letter and reading and rereading

it.

CHAPTER XXXII.
THE GREAT AHMES

“Barry Dear:
“I don’t ask you to forgive me. I never meant to see you again.
But when Jim spoke to me to-day I realized, somehow, that you
were here. And I knew you would come. And I knew I would
have to see you. I didn’t know how hard it would be—because I
never believed you cared, like that.
“I don’t know how to tell you what I see now, I must tell. It all
began, really many years ago, when I was a baby, and when Paul
Ahmes was giving up everything to make my mother’s last days
bearable. She had never loved him, but they had one thing in
common. It was their passion for Egypt. She made her great
success in an Egyptian opera and he as an Egyptian performer. He
used to buy Egyptian antiques with all he could save. He knew
more about these things than any dealer in Europe. Most of his
stage properties were real. They inspired him.
“One day my mother read that a ring which had been the
property of the real Thaïs was being auctioned at Sotheby’s in
London. This ring had once belonged to her. She never sang Thaïs
without wearing it. But poverty had forced her to sell it. Paul
Ahmes, knowing what happiness the recovery of this ring would
give her, went to London to buy it. This was like him. He did not
bid, himself, as all the auctioneers knew him. He sent someone.
“Barry—your father was at that auction—and he has the ring
to-day! When Ahmes heard that John Cumberland had secured it,
he wrote to him, and without mentioning my mother’s name told
him all the circumstances. Your father did not believe him.
“My mother died the night after Ahmes returned.
“Soon after that, before I can remember, we left Paris and went
to live in America. I grew up to look upon Ahmes as my father. I
was always surrounded by things belonging to Egypt, for my

guardian had left the stage and become a professional dealer in
antiques. He was sometimes away for months together, in Egypt,
where he had agents now that his business had grown so big. He
had changed his name. John Cumberland was one of his clients.
“But, Barry, very few of the wonderful and beautiful things he
received from Egypt ever left Ahmes’s possession. They went into
his own collection—which is priceless; for this was his ruling
passion now that my mother was dead. He sold copies, or restored
originals mostly, to his wealthy customers. Some of the most
famous museums in the world contain his work! His love of
everything belonging to Egypt simply wouldn’t allow him to sell
a genuine piece. His genius for making duplicates (for he is, truly,
a genius) made it easy for him to keep them.
“And all the money he earned in this way was spent acquiring
more and more rarities for his private museum.
“Then—this was years ago—he stumbled upon the tomb of
Zalithea. He reached it through a long narrow passage cut at some
time by Arab robbers. He found there the great stone sarcophagus,
and he raised and wedged the lid. The sarcophagus was empty.
“Thinking that one day this discovery might profit him, he
reclosed and concealed the opening. This opening, I must tell you,
came out in another valley, behind the tomb, and it led, through a
hole in the roof, into the shaft between the first and second
portcullis. You remember where the roof had fallen? This second
portcullis the thieves had broken, and also the door of the
chamber where the sarcophagus was.
“I unknowingly inspired him to what followed—I and his wish
to score over John Cumberland, whom he had taught me to detest.
He said I had the true Egyptian profile. The showman in him
came to life—this part of his strange nature was only sleeping;
and he thought of the wildest plot that surely any man ever
attempted to carry out.
“He said to me, ‘I will sell you to John Cumberland! And if you
play your cards properly you will marry a millionaire!’ I was
completely under his influence, Barry. I had never known any
other kind of life but this commercial use of Ahmes’s genius as an

illusionist. I don’t want to excuse myself. I prepared for the thing
with enthusiasm!
“This was when we came secretly to New Jersey. Mr. Brown,
who took the house, was formerly Ahmes’s stage manager. His
wife acted as cook. There were other members of my guardian’s
old company there as well. For no one who had ever worked for
Ahmes wanted to leave him.
“Here for a long time I lived like a nun. No one outside our
small household ever saw me. When I went anywhere I was
always heavily veiled. Ahmes taught me to speak Coptic. This
was the mysterious language of Zalithea! Arabic I knew, because
I had had an Arab nurse from childhood—an old member of
Ahmes’s company—Safîyeh!
“A year before the papyrus was brought to your father, Ahmes
went to Egypt. He erected the screen, as you know, his agent,
Hassan es-Sugra, having traced the real, or front, entrance to the
tomb. He broke through as far as the first portcullis, which he
knew was intact. Then he reclosed and hid the entrance as you
found it. The hieroglyphic of ‘She Who Sleeps’ he himself carved
in the rock.
“By the other tunnel, the one he first discovered, he took in
lifting gear and swung up the stone sarcophagus lid. The painted
sarcophagus, which he had made in New Jersey and shipped out,
he put inside. Then he lowered the stone lid again. The tables,
lamps, couch, and other things he set in place. Some of these were
genuine. Some he had made. He also added the cartouche of ‘She
Who Sleeps’ to the ancient inscriptions painted on the wall.
“He cemented the door and, from the tunnel above, blocked the
secret entrance. Then he came back to America. The stage was set
for his last and greatest illusion.
“The ‘Zalithea Papyrus’ and the ‘Formula’ Ahmes had been at
work upon for two years. They were the biggest achievements of
his career! The materials had cost him no end of research. But no
other man in Europe or America could have written them—to
pass Horace Pain and Dr. Rittenburg!
“Yes, Barry! I’m proud of him! Until you came, it never
occurred to me to question his way of life. Besides, he had taught

me to hate the name of Cumberland. It was a mania with him. I
believe for a long time he held John Cumberland responsible for
my mother’s death.
“The Zalithea dress, the strange ingredients mentioned in the
Formula, and all the other things, he got from many sources,
working patiently for months and months. He put his whole soul
into the affair.
“Then, just as we were ready, you had an accident right outside
the house!
“We were in an awful panic. But Ahmes was always at his best
in an emergency. You know how we managed to keep out of the
matter. The household was dispersed. Only Mrs. Brown stayed to
clear things up. I was hidden in my guardian’s apartment in New
York. And I nearly ruined everything one evening by going out to
our old garden in New Jersey to get some flowers. Yes! I was
there that day when you came!
“As soon as the date of departure was fixed, Safîyeh and
another Arab, called Omar, were sent to Egypt. Soon afterward I
went, also. I sailed on the same ship, to Cherbourg, as Professor
Blackwell! But it didn’t matter, because we had arranged that I
should stay in my stateroom all the way.
“I remained hidden with Safîyeh in Luxor until the night before
the tomb was opened. That night I was smuggled across—and
you heard my voice as I stumbled in the little valley where Omar
was waiting for me! Omar you saw once. He is tall and thin, and
you thought he was a ghost!
“In a ruined tomb in that little valley I was dressed for the part
of Zalithea. Safîyeh was there with me. But she went back to
Luxor in the early morning.
“You understand, now, that when you first discovered the
painted sarcophagus I was not in it? He carried me up to the tomb
during the second watch on the night before the lid was raised! I
was placed inside. Then the lid was fastened down! I was
frightened, although the gold mask allowed me to breathe freely
and there were lots of air holes in the sarcophagus.
“I had to lie there for nearly three hours! But I had been
training to do this for months before.

“Never shall I forget my relief when you came at last to unwrap
me! Of course I had been prepared in all sorts of ways for the
ordeal. And you will remember, Barry, that none of you had a
chance to touch me or even see me properly up to the time that I
opened my eyes.
“Yes! You were in the hands of a master illusionist!
“As for the rest—I was prepared to hate you! But on the night
you came to my tent and said, ‘Forgive me. I didn’t mean to hurt
you,’ I couldn’t hate you, somehow.
“Ahmes, too, had changed his mind about John Cumberland.
He had learned to respect him; in fact, to love him. But he had to
go on then! So did I!
“Sometimes it was good fun. Sometimes, when your father
talked to me, not knowing I understood, I couldn’t bear it. But we
didn’t know how to end it!
“You ended it! The night when you found me with that pig
Edwards I knew it must finish. While you were asleep I went to
Ahmes and told him.
“He was sorry—for me; but glad that we were through. Safîyeh
went to Montreal and sailed, under her own name, for England,
three days later. I was here, in Paris, before you allowed the news
of my disappearance to be published. Ahmes wrote the
hieroglyphic letter to relieve your mind. It was delivered by the
same messenger who brought another letter. He is here, now, with
the others. That is why you failed to trace him.
“That’s all, Barry dear. We have a house in Paris. It had been
closed, though, and so I stayed at the Chatham for a short time.
But Ahmes arrived to-day, and I am going to join him. He knows
I have told you.
“Do what you like. But I shall be punished enough.
“You see—I love you.
“Marguerite.”

CHAPTER XXXIII.
A FLASH OF LIGHTNING

“Jim,” said Barry miserably, “what else can I do?”
“Well,” Jim replied, thoughtfully rapping on the café table to attract the
waiter’s attention, “you can order another half bottle of this very good wine,
and then perhaps ideas may come.”
The order given:
“It’s Kismet,” Barry went on. “If she had confessed to murder I should
still have wanted her! In fact, mad as it may seem, I love her better, now,
knowing her to be what she is, than I did before.”
“Not mad in the least,” Jim commented. “Taking into consideration the
way she was brought up, I, myself, harsh though my judgments of frail
humanity notoriously are, should feel the same. I could both love and
respect the Marguerite who wrote that brave letter. I don’t think I could ever
have worked up any real enthusiasm for a living mummy.”
“I know,” said Barry emphatically, “that one day I shall find her again.
When I do, I’m going to marry her if she’ll have me!”
“Strong, sound sentiments,” Jim replied. “It is men such as you are who
make men such as I am love men such as you are! But the old problem
arises; your father.”
“I have made up my mind on that point,” Barry declared. “He must not
know—yet. It’s hateful, but I mustn’t shatter his illusion. I shall write and
tell him I have met the girl of the balcony, and that she is the double of
Zalithea—and the daughter of Devina. Those who knew Zalithea will soon
forget the resemblance when they hear Marguerite speak. Then, one day, he
shall know the truth. Nobody else must ever know.”
“We shall have to lie like the Brothers Ananias,” said Jim sadly, “for a
time. This prospect appalls my proudly virtuous spirit. But it’s up to you.
What you say, goes. Meanwhile, a full week has elapsed and our patient
inquiries have merely yielded, No, sir. Shall you go on advertising in the
Paris papers?”

“Yes,” was the answer. “My advertisement means nothing to anyone else.
It might as well stand. Who knows?”
“Nobody knows,” Jim murmured. “It is ignorance and not knowledge
which makes us lose faith in Santa Claus. And this afternoon? Shall I scour
the district in and about Batignolles as you so kindly suggest?”
“Jim, you’re a brick! This ‘scouring’ is no sort of way to enjoy a holiday
in Paris. Just say you’re tired, and I’ll do that part myself to-morrow.”
“No, no, Horatio. Batignolles appeals to me because I can’t pronounce it.
And have I not said many times that I long for the life of a detective? ‘All
forms of shadowing undertaken. Your pay roll guarded by machine-gun
experts (in uniform). Missing relatives traced by our special staff of lady
searchers. Our watchword——’ ”
“Jim! I love you, but——”
“Guilty! Dismiss the jury. We reassemble at the Chatham at six for
cocktails.”
And so the quest went on. Barry had in mind a neighbourhood he had
noted during a drive on the outskirts near the old fortifications. Here were
discreet villas sheltering behind little gardens which, like the yashmak of a
Turkish beauty, merely provoked without concealing. He felt sure that the
house he sought would have a garden.
Barry had considered the idea of engaging a detective agency to trace
Zalithea, so strangely found only to be lost again. But, in the circumstances,
he had decided that to do so would be unwise.
Marguerite’s letter he almost knew by heart. At first, the shock of it had
stunned him. The readjustment of perspectives which it entailed appalled
his brain. But out of all the chaos one fact emerged—a fact brooking no
denial. He loved her. He could not imagine life without her.
His eagerness was eternally conjuring up mirages. A group at a café table
would suddenly come into view—and she was there. As he drew nearer, all
resemblance would disappear. He hated those unconscious mimics, some of
whom were astoundingly unlike Marguerite at close quarters. Perfumery
stores he unfailingly explored. And a hundred times he had run like a
madman to overtake some girl seen in the distance—only to alarm a
stranger.
More than one gendarme had eyed him with suspicion. A tall,
distinguished-looking old gentleman, wearing the ribbon of the Legion and
escorting a very pretty girl whose figure and carriage certainly resembled

those of Marguerite, demanded the name of his hotel and promised to send
his seconds to Barry in the morning.
And now he was on the outskirts of the woods. Just ahead lay the group
of villas which had attracted his attention on the previous day. He proposed
to pursue a plan adopted on other occasions: viz.—to call at a likely-looking
house and ask if Miss Devina and her father were at home. Being assured
that he had come to the wrong address, he could inquire if two Americans
resided anywhere in the vicinity.
Following an unseasonably hot morning, clouds had begun to gather
shortly after noon. Now, it was growing very dark. The woods on his right
were haunted by ghostly shadows. From somewhere beyond the western
outskirts of Paris echoed ominous rumblings, to remind good Parisians of
that black day when Von Kluck’s Prussians came hammering at their gates.
Then, suddenly, the downpour started. In sight of a charming little villa
whose green shutters and green balconies were visible above a guardian
row of dwarf acacias, Barry darted to cover. His back against the trunk of a
tree the dense foliage of which promised shelter, he stood, looking up.
A black thunder pall hung directly above. Except for the sound of falling
rain, a profound stillness had come. Then, blindingly, lightning flicked its
venomous fang from the heart of the cloud. The house opposite was
illuminated ice blue, eerily. Every leaf upon the trees was lent a momentary
hard, individual existence. Every nail in the woodwork of the villa gate,
every piece of gravel on the garden paths, summoned attention vividly,
alone, aloof from the rest.…
And a window directly facing the tree beneath which Barry stood was
thrown open.
Marguerite came out onto the green balcony!
Her lips were parted in a half-frightened smile. Exultant, like a roll of
Titanic war drums, thunder crashed and boomed and beat out its fury in
dying echoes.
Across the feathery crests of the acacias their glances met.…
Barry uttered an involuntary cry. The storm was forgotten. The world was
forgotten. Out into the drenching downpour he ran, across to the gate and
on, up the gravelled path, to the discreet, glazed door. She had fled at sight
of him. The balcony above was empty; but the window remained open.
He rang, but without result. He rang again—and again—and again. He
rang continuously.

The door was opened.
And he found himself looking into a wrinkled Arab face.
“Safîyeh!” he exclaimed.
She smiled, unsurprisedly, and stood aside to allow him to enter.
He discovered himself in a little lobby furnished throughout in Egyptian
fashion. There were antique tables and figures of the gods of the Nile. There
was a fresco of subjects from Der-el-Bahari. A perforated silver lamp hung
from the ceiling. And the air was laden with a faint perfume, the
indescribable smell of Egypt.
Safîyeh raised a tapestry curtain and again stood aside. Barry went into
the room beyond.
This apartment was littered with every imaginable kind of relic, from
exquisite enamel necklaces to mummied cats. At sight of the treasures
contained there, Barry was transported in spirit to a similar room high
above the turmoil of New York, where once he had sat in conference with
Horace Pain, Dr. Rittenburg, and others.
Leaning upon a mantelpiece composed of carved red granite fragments
adapted to the purpose was a tall man, the collar of whose white shirt fell
open at the neck, while the sleeves were rolled up on muscular arms. One
elbow rested on the ledge; the clenched fist supported a handsome, leonine
head. A scarab ring glittered on his finger, as, raising the other hand to
remove a cigar which he was smoking, he bowed in courteous greeting.
“Danbazzar!” cried Barry.
A roll of distant thunder from the moving storm echoed and reëchoed
over Paris.
“Paul Ahmes, at your service, sir!” Danbazzar corrected him. “But the
former, if you prefer it. One’s as much mine as the other! Sit down and let’s
talk this thing over.”
Fascinated against his will, as he had always been fascinated by this
man’s extraordinary personality, Barry dropped onto a divan, silenced—
stupefied—by the entire self-possession of the speaker. Here was no
recognition of wrongdoing; this was not a detected impostor; this was the
masterful man to whom obstacles were merely stepping stones, who was
fearless as he was unscrupulous. This was Danbazzar.
“Margot told me what she had said in her letter,” he went on. “I agreed.
Get that clear. She did nothing behind my back. What she wants goes with
me, and she wanted you to know the truth. You’d never have known if you

hadn’t followed her to Paris. But I’m not sorry, anyway. I have retired from
business. Zalithea was my last deal. I regretted it long before the end came,
because I found out that John Cumberland was white clean through. So,
listen. Tell him if you like. I’ll hand you a complete list of all the stuff he’s
got that isn’t right, and he can sell it back to me for just what he paid. I’m
not playing tin angels: I’ve got a market for it at big profit!”
Barry was unable to restrain a smile.
“If you ask me,” Danbazzar added, “he’d be happier left alone. But do as
you damn’ please. There’s no committee of experts in the world would say
any piece from my workshop was faked—and you can lay your last dollar
I’m not going to say it! As for the job at the tomb—we’re all in the dock
together. Pirates can’t afford to quarrel! And now I’m going to talk to you
about Margot. I’m going to talk straight, and I expect you to talk
straight.…”
He talked, and talked straight, for the better part of an hour. He displayed
a side of his complex, twisted character, that Barry had never suspected to
exist. And, at one point, when he spoke of Marguerite’s remorse for the part
she had played, the words of Hassan es-Sugra recurred to Barry: “Be not
angry with her.” Finally:
“Now we’ve got it all set,” said Danbazzar. “I’ve quit the United States
for keeps. You know where I stand. We’re agreed about the bunch in New
York. And I know where you stand. Settle the rest with the kid.”
He walked out of the room, stately, unperturbed; the Great Ahmes,
master of the situation. Barry stood up. Suddenly, he had grown appallingly
nervous. He paced up and down once or twice, among those priceless relics
of an age whose loves and hates were forgotten before Paris arose from the
forests. On one long, low wall, Pharaohs, gods, and goddesses made
mysterious signs to one another, signalling: It was so in our day; it is so in
this.
The rustle of the tapestry portière told him to turn.
He faced Marguerite.…
She stood on the threshold watching him. Her long dark eyes held the
same expression as on that night when, unseen by Barry, she had stolen to
the library door to take her last look at him.
Yet something else was there, and slowly she came forward to where he
stood. When she was close to him:
“My darling!” he whispered.

His arms went around her very tightly but very gently—not as in that first
fierce embrace. And when he kissed her it was a lingering tender kiss.

THE END

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
Minor spelling inconsistencies (e.g. El Kasr/El-Kasr, Kûrna/Kurna, etc.)
have been preserved.
Alterations to the text:
Abandon the use of drop-caps.
Punctuation: fix some quotation mark pairings/nestings and missing
periods.
[Chapter I]
Change “with never a word of farwell, urged by a sudden irrational” to
farewell.
“Same classic analogy cropped up in his mind” to Some.
[Chapter XI]
“and ponds and gardens of flourishng trees” to flourishing.
[Chapter XII]
“Hassan es-Sufa extended his palms and softly intruded” to Sugra.
[Chapter XIII]
“He seemed scarely to have closed his eyes before” to scarcely.
[Chapter XIV]
(“By jove!” John Cumberland exclaimed.) to Jove.
[Chapter XV]
“His foosteps might be heard receding along the wâdi” to footsteps.
[Chapter XVI]
“It we had known, sir, with a little more time and trouble we” to If.
[Chapter XX]
(This was Kyphi, mentioned in the “Papyrus Embers,” and) to Ebers.
[Chapter XXIV]
“set upon Barry with an expresison of childish eagerness” to expression.
[Chapter XXVI]
“Priness Zalithea has very little English, so excuse her” to Princess.

[Chapter XXVII]
“he saw the long repressed tears gathering under the dark fringe” to long-
repressed.
“Do they drown one of twins in those parts?” add the after of.
[Chapter XXXI]
“who drove you to the hospital and took care of you car” to your.
“suggests that the theory—now generally acepted, I believe” to accepted.

[End of text]

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