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.

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