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!”

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