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.

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