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!”

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