She who sleeps A romance of New York and the Nile
The Professor dropped into a lobby chair.
“Somehow, I can’t grasp it,” he said pathetically. “If she had been
alone I should have feared an accident, but as Safîyeh is with
her----”
“That’s what I think!” Barry interrupted eagerly. “An accident is out
of the question.”
“This being so,” the Professor went on, “what are we to conclude? Is
Danbazzar here?”
“Expected every minute,” John Cumberland replied shortly. “I naturally
’phoned there first, as she is used to visiting him.”
“She had not been there?”
John Cumberland shook his head.
“Tell him what happened last night, Barry,” he said, and hurried away.
Barry, hoping against hope that something in the occurrences of the
night might suggest to the scientific brain of Professor Blackwell a
clue to Zalithea’s motive, gave him an account of the matter. At last:
“It may be some primitive reaction,” the Professor murmured. “The
psychology of Zalithea is of course an unknown quantity.”
“You think she is frightened and so has run away?”
“Frankly, I don’t know what to think.”
“I can’t believe she would voluntarily leave the house,” Barry
declared. “Just think. Where could she possibly go to?”
Professor Blackwell shook his head.
“That is a question I cannot pretend to answer.”
At this moment Danbazzar arrived. As the door was opened he came into
the lobby, a big, dominating figure. But his stock was not quite so
perfectly knotted as usual, and his strange eyes held a very wild
light.
“Still no news?” he asked.
The blank faces about him were sufficient answer.
“Have her apartments been searched to make sure there’s nothing
there?”
Aunt Micky, very stern-faced, came downstairs.
“I have searched thoroughly,” she answered. “But it might be as well
if you looked, also.”
Danbazzar bowed and walked upstairs. Barry followed.
In the suite of apartments which had been furnished for the use of
Zalithea, a very faint perfume lingered. It caught Barry by the
throat. It spoke to him intimately. It was as though he had buried his
face in her fragrant hair; as though she were in his arms again.
The rooms were strangely appointed. They were scantily furnished in
the Eastern manner, with little inlaid tables and cabinets, and many
richly cushioned divans. Perforated silver lamps concealed the
electric lights, and the windows were screened with _mushrabiyeh_
work. The bedroom struck a more Western note, being equipped with a
wonderful dressing table possessing wing mirrors and laden with every
imaginable luxury of Paris.
There was no evidence of disorder or of hasty departure. The bleak
chamber adjoining in which the old Arab woman spent a great part of
her days afforded no better evidence.
Danbazzar crossed to a window and threw back the near-by _mushrabiyeh_
screen. For a long time he stood there, looking out.
CHAPTER XXIX.
THE HIEROGLYPHIC LETTER
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.”