She who sleeps A romance of New York and the Nile
“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!_”
CHAPTER XXX.
MARGUERITE DEVINA
“The Moving Finger,” which waits for no man, moved on. But Zalithea
did not return. The police had relaxed their efforts. They had nothing
to work upon. It was obviously impossible to place the hieratic letter
in their hands. Nor did its arrival assist the investigations of the
private agency employed by John Cumberland.
He allowed them to examine it, saying that the writing was believed to
be in Princess Zalithea’s hand. They tried to trace the maker of the
paper and of the envelope which had enclosed it, but failed. Their
final effort was directed to the discovery of the messenger who had
put the letter in the box. A reward of five thousand dollars was
offered. No one claimed it.
During these anxious days, Barry had not neglected the house of Mr.
Brown. In a despairing effort, he had had the history of this country
home examined--in vain. The property had changed hands during his
absence in Egypt, and little could be learned of the former owner or
of his associates. Agents had handled the transactions in both cases.
The housekeeper--once interviewed by Jim Sakers--could not be traced.
The nine days’ wonder lived its allotted span; and the world in
general began to forget Princess Zalithea, who had flashed, a dazzling
meteor, across the social sky of New York, and, like a meteor, had
vanished.
But Barry did not forget. He was not of those who love and ride away.
For him a dream had come true--a dream held like a crucifix through
years of waiting. He had lived in a heaven of moments. He had been
snatched back to earth. And he was lonely.
One faith he had. To this he remained true; it saved him from despair.
Zalithea was alive; so was Safîyeh. Somewhere, they were together.
And one day he would find them. Despite official evidence proving that
no such persons had departed from the port of New York, a conviction
was growing in his mind that Zalithea had returned to Egypt.
John Cumberland’s anxiety, divided from the first, began now to centre
upon Barry. Professor Blackwell, feeling that he might hope to walk
the streets again without being accosted by newspaper representatives,
had returned to his usual quarters. And one evening the two old
friends dined together at the University Club, to discuss the question
of Barry’s welfare.
“Bob Sakers couldn’t join us for dinner,” said Cumberland, when the
Professor arrived, “but he’s dropping in later.”
“Danbazzar is still away?”
“Yes,” John Cumberland nodded. “The publicity attaching to this
unhappy affair came very near home, I think. His apartment is shut up.
I shouldn’t wonder if he stays away for a long time.”
“Quite--quite,” murmured the Professor. “Of course, for my part, I
confess I am floored. I don’t dare to think about it. The whole thing,
from that unimaginable moment in the tomb up to the time that you
received this incredible letter, often seems to me to be unreal--a
nightmare.”
“Yes,” John Cumberland agreed, “it doesn’t seem real. But--” he
sighed--“it has ruined Barry.”
“Poor boy--poor boy. She was very lovely, Cumberland.”
A long silence fell between them, until:
“Do you ever ask yourself,” said John Cumberland, “if she
was--natural?”
“My dear fellow,” the Professor returned, “I have asked myself that
question a hundred times! And I think it has been answered for us.”
“How? In what way?”
“By her disappearance.”
John Cumberland stared, and:
“I don’t think I follow,” he declared.
“If,” explained Professor Blackwell slowly, “Zalithea was
supernatural, certainly Safîyeh was not. But Safîyeh disappeared
with her!”
His friend considered the words for some time, and at last:
“I see the point,” he said. “It’s a new one, I admit.”
When, later, Jim Sakers’s father joined them, he put the case before
him bluntly.
“This thing has knocked Barry sideways,” he told Robert Sakers. “In
confidence, it’s touch and go. Blackwell will bear me out.”
“I have watched Barry,” the latter admitted; “and I am certain that
he’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He is crazy to go back to
Egypt, via London and Paris. We don’t hope that he will find the girl,
Sakers; we don’t expect so much. But I am quite positive that the
journey will save him. Now--he can’t go alone. It’s out of the
question. Jim is his oldest friend, and you can very well spare him
for a month or six weeks----”
“I’m not asking you to stand the damage, Sakers,” John Cumberland
interrupted. “It wouldn’t be fair on top of the inconvenience of
losing your right-hand man.”
“Leave that part out,” said Robert Sakers. “Let’s get down to dates.”
And as a result of the conference which followed, some ten days later
Jim Sakers found himself, with Barry, bound for Europe. His profound
and ceaseless amazement, expressed at great length, was an antidote to
poor Barry’s melancholy--as it was designed to be.
New environment and the magic of sea breezes aided the cure; and after
an idle week in London, during which Barry’s restlessness seemed to
have abated in a measure, they crossed to Paris.
The faithful Jim cabled an enthusiastic report home; and perhaps
Barry, by this time, had begun to realize that the journey was
intended to be a “cure” and to reconcile his overwrought mind to the
idea of resignation. But what he did not realize, what neither of them
realized, was that they were helpless in the “moving row” of which old
Omar spoke, and that they were being danced impotent toward that
inevitable end designed by “the Master of the Show.”
Paris proved rather a setback. It provoked memories which brought
about in Barry a relapse into melancholy. Jim worked like a Trojan to
arouse him from his mournful apathy.
“Regard, oh, regard the glitter of the boulevard,” he invited, as they
sat outside a popular café in the sunshine. “Unknown to the old folks
at home, in their sleepy village adjacent to the delta of the
Hudson----”
“The Hudson has no delta,” Barry murmured.
“Let that pass. But still unknown to them, whether they have a delta
or not, here we sit sipping perfectly good wine at a price for which
we could not obtain a cup of coffee in our little home town.
Therefore, let us rejoice! And, lo! here come soldiers--complete with
band! Let us cheer!”
A small party of infantry marched past, accompanied by a large band.
Jim stood up, watching them enthusiastically and talking away all the
time. Receiving no criticisms from Barry, he turned.
His flow of nonsense was checked.
Barry, pale as death, clutching the edge of the marble-topped table,
was staring--staring--across the street, his ghastly features those of
one who sees a ghost!
“Barry!” Jim gasped. “Barry!”
Barry did not stir. When he spoke his voice was a whisper.
“Jim,” he said, “_I have seen her!_”
“What!”
“She has just gone into the perfumers’ shop opposite.”
“Barry!” Jim grasped his shoulder. “Wake up, man! You are
daydreaming.”
“Watch until she comes out,” the monotonous whisper went on. “Don’t
let her see you, for God’s sake. But follow her, Jim--don’t lose sight
of her--until you find out where she is living.”
“But, Barry,” Jim began, a note of profound anxiety in his voice,
when:
“Quick! There she goes!” he was interrupted.
He looked across the street. He gasped audibly; then:
“Wait for me here!” he said tersely.
Zalithea, carrying a small parcel, had just come out of the shop and
was walking away!
Jim Sakers experienced a sense of sudden acute exhilaration. The
wildly unforeseen had happened! And at last he was going to be of real
use to his friend! What it all meant was outside the province of his
mental powers. Who this mysterious girl really was who had so