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!”

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