She who sleeps A romance of New York and the Nile
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.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE HAUNTED VALLEY
Prone upon a high crag Danbazzar lay, watching a horseman making his
way down the slope of a distant valley and heading in the direction of
the Nile. At last:
“He’s gone!” he said, and looked back over his shoulder.
John Cumberland heaved a great sigh of relief and, standing, stretched
his cramped limbs. One long last look Danbazzar took at the receding
figure, and then the two climbed down to the path below where
Professor Blackwell and Barry awaited them.
“Do you think I got away with it?” the latter asked.
“No!” Danbazzar said promptly--“not entirely. Your explanation that we
had gone out for jackal was good.”
“Excellent, in my opinion!” Professor Blackwell murmured. “You are
really an accomplished liar, Barry.”
“Well,” Barry explained, laughing, “I knew we shouldn’t find you in
the camp, and some sort of explanation had to be offered. I spoke
loudly enough for you to hear me behind the screen, so that if he
insisted upon staying till you returned, your story would correspond
with mine.”
“Unfortunately,” said John Cumberland, “he must have heard the
whistle.”
“He did!” declared the Professor--“although he never once mentioned
it.”
“That is why I know he didn’t believe you,” Danbazzar added. “I shall
go into Luxor on Monday and talk business to Mr. Tawwab.” He turned to
Barry. “You haven’t heard the good news yet! Can you imagine that I
was forced to stop work last year within a matter of hours of breaking
through that portcullis?”
“What do you mean?” Barry cried.
“They cleared the entrance,” his father replied excitedly, “which
Danbazzar had reclosed, without difficulty. You see, Barry, we are
provided with the very best and latest gear. They set about the
portcullis, and Hassan found a flaw in the rock itself beside this
otherwise immovable stone door.”
“Why didn’t we find it last year!” boomed Danbazzar. “I figured that
portcullis was a long, tough job!”
“They worked on it all night,” John Cumberland went on, “enlarging
it----”
“Have you actually been in!” cried Barry.
“No,” was the reply; “the opening isn’t big enough. But Danbazzar and
I were looking along the passage when we heard the whistle!”
“Hassan has been down,” said Danbazzar. “There’s an obstruction twenty
feet below, but he reports the air is fairly good.”
“But what’s the obstruction?” Barry asked.
“I fear another portcullis,” said Danbazzar. “But the roof of the
shaft seems to have collapsed at this point, or partly collapsed, and
Hassan is uncertain whether there’s another portcullis or not. It may
be a month’s work, or our job may be nearly finished. Remembering the
purpose for which it was constructed, I look for a simple tomb. I
should be surprised to find wells or dummy passages.”
“Could I possibly get through?”
Danbazzar looked him over briefly; and:
“No!” he replied, “but we have dropped a light into the shaft and you
can look down. The men are at work again now.”
Excitement rose to fever pitch. Constant relays of skilled excavators
could not work fast enough for John Cumberland or for Barry. By
nightfall, the hole beside the mighty stone door which closed the
passage had been appreciably enlarged. But whereas their first success
had been due principally to a flaw in the rock tunnel itself, progress
beyond this stage was a matter of patient drilling and chipping.
Danbazzar’s optimism was shown to have been excessive. Hours went by
in constant work; blazing days and nights of ceaseless toil; but still
the great portcullis defied them. Hassan es-Sugra, with the smallest
men of the party, had attacked the lower obstruction. But conditions
were bad. Both air and proper light were lacking. Since they could not
be relieved, their progress was necessarily slow. And, meanwhile, the
main gang chipped and chipped patiently at the rock tunnel surrounding
the stone door.
By Monday success seemed to be in sight; and as Danbazzar set out for
Luxor to interview Mr. Tawwab, he gave orders touching the work on the
lower passage. And so, this day, which it was written should be a
memorable one, wore on.
When the wonderful curtain of dusk was drawn over the valley,
Danbazzar had not returned from his interview with Mr. Tawwab. Barry
pictured him patiently drinking numberless cups of coffee and smoking
scores of cigarettes.
Mahmoud had been out for quail in the morning, and the savoury odour
of his cooking increased the appetite of the party, already keen
enough at the end of an arduous and exciting day. Having performed
their somewhat limited ablutions, they assembled in the tent over a
surreptitious cocktail, perforce without ice.
“It seems to me,” said John Cumberland, “that this thing has developed
into a race. The man Tawwab is out for blackmail. That’s clear.”
“Can we keep him off until we succeed, or will he hold us up?”
murmured Professor Blackwell. “Success might come almost any day. What
is beyond that further obstruction no one can pretend to guess. But as
to what it _is_, from my scanty observations--for the light was very
bad--I have formed a theory.”
“What’s your theory, Blackwell?” John Cumberland asked.
“It is this,” the Professor continued: “That first portcullis blocking
the passage was built to be raised--I am sure of it.”
“I believe you are right,” said Barry; “and it worked in deep
grooves.”
“Quite! Quite!” The Professor nodded. “By what means such a vast lump
of rock was lifted, I leave to the greater knowledge of Danbazzar to
explain. I am no Egyptologist. But I think the obstruction twenty feet
down, from what I can see of it, is, or was, a second portcullis. The
broken pieces look of about the same thickness as that at the top.”
“But why should the second be broken and not the first?” Barry
demanded.
“Which brings me to my theory,” the Professor continued. “I think the
second portcullis, at some time when it was raised, fell and was
shattered.”
“By Jove!” John Cumberland exclaimed. “You may be right!”
“I am almost sure I am,” the Professor said. “I think I can see one of
the deep grooves it worked in. If this is so, it should be fairly easy
to clear the débris, and, unless there is a third portcullis, intact,
why should we not then find ourselves in the actual burial chamber?”
“It’s possible,” his friend admitted. “Let’s hope you’re right.”
“There are no inscriptions to be seen on the walls of the passage,”
Barry remarked.
“No,” said the Professor; “but I understand that this is usual. Am I
right, Cumberland?”
“Quite right. But we may look for something very _un_usual in the
chamber itself.”
They were all feverishly restless, but as their presence at the
excavation merely interfered with the work, for this restlessness
there was no proper outlet.
Dinner concluded, and Mahmoud having cleared the table, the Professor
and John Cumberland, shirt sleeves rolled up and cigars lighted,
settled down to poker. Barry, pipe in mouth, sauntered out into the
_wâdi_, vaguely wondering why Danbazzar had not returned.
Without consciously intending to do so, he found himself following the
familiar path, to which he no longer required a guide. On he went and
down, until he came to that little ravine which opened into the valley
just above the tomb. In the nick of time he remembered the usual
routine and clapped his hands sharply three times.
Had he forgotten, the result would have been a blast of a police
whistle and the suspension of operations!
The ingeniously screened working lay in deep shadow. He could see
neither of the guards, but, standing there, silent, he could hear
vaguely, deep in the heart of the rock, a sound of regular muffled
blows. He was tempted to open the sand trap and to penetrate to the
scene of activity, but overcame the impulse and turned right, walking
up the valley to where it came out on the shoulder of a hill. Here,
squatting under a curious mass of rock roughly resembling a giant
skull, was one of the guards, who stood up as Barry approached.
“_Lêltak sa’ îda!_” said the man, saluting him.
Barry echoed the words, to which he was now becoming accustomed, and
passed on. The guard reseated himself under the rock.
He determined to walk up as far as the ancient caravan road which
crossed the crest above, a spot from which, Danbazzar had informed
him, the view by moonlight was remarkable. He had counted, however,
without the natural difficulties of the route. The path which he had
intended to follow disappeared into midnight gullies and twined about
upstanding crags. The shadowy places might be full of pitfalls. Barry