She who sleeps A romance of New York and the Nile
inscriptions painted on the wall.
“He cemented the door and, from the tunnel above, blocked the secret
entrance. Then he came back to America. The stage was set for his last
and greatest illusion.
“The ‘Zalithea Papyrus’ and the ‘Formula’ Ahmes had been at work upon
for two years. They were the biggest achievements of his career! The
materials had cost him no end of research. But no other man in Europe
or America could have written them--to pass Horace Pain and Dr.
Rittenburg!
“Yes, Barry! I’m proud of him! Until you came, it never occurred to me
to question his way of life. Besides, he had taught me to hate the
name of Cumberland. It was a mania with him. I believe for a long time
he held John Cumberland responsible for my mother’s death.
“The Zalithea dress, the strange ingredients mentioned in the Formula,
and all the other things, he got from many sources, working patiently
for months and months. He put his whole soul into the affair.
“Then, just as we were ready, you had an accident right outside the
house!
“We were in an awful panic. But Ahmes was always at his best in an
emergency. You know how we managed to keep out of the matter. The
household was dispersed. Only Mrs. Brown stayed to clear things up. I
was hidden in my guardian’s apartment in New York. And I nearly ruined
everything one evening by going out to our old garden in New Jersey to
get some flowers. Yes! I was there that day when you came!
“As soon as the date of departure was fixed, Safîyeh and another
Arab, called Omar, were sent to Egypt. Soon afterward I went, also. I
sailed on the same ship, to Cherbourg, as Professor Blackwell! But it
didn’t matter, because we had arranged that I should stay in my
stateroom all the way.
“I remained hidden with Safîyeh in Luxor until the night before the
tomb was opened. That night I was smuggled across--and you heard my
voice as I stumbled in the little valley where Omar was waiting for
me! Omar you saw once. He is tall and thin, and you thought he was a
ghost!
“In a ruined tomb in that little valley I was dressed for the part of
Zalithea. Safîyeh was there with me. But she went back to Luxor in
the early morning.
“You understand, now, that when you first discovered the painted
sarcophagus I was not in it? He carried me up to the tomb during _the
second watch_ on the night before the lid was raised! I was placed
inside. Then the lid was fastened down! I was frightened, although the
gold mask allowed me to breathe freely and there were lots of air
holes in the sarcophagus.
“I had to lie there for nearly three hours! But I had been training to
do this for months before.
“Never shall I forget my relief when you came at last to unwrap me! Of
course I had been prepared in all sorts of ways for the ordeal. And
you will remember, Barry, that none of you had a chance to touch me or
even see me properly up to the time that I opened my eyes.
“Yes! You were in the hands of a master illusionist!
“As for the rest--I was prepared to hate you! But on the night you
came to my tent and said, ‘Forgive me. I didn’t mean to hurt you,’ I
couldn’t hate you, somehow.
“Ahmes, too, had changed his mind about John Cumberland. He had
learned to respect him; in fact, to love him. But he had to go on
then! So did I!
“Sometimes it was good fun. Sometimes, when your father talked to me,
not knowing I understood, I couldn’t bear it. But we didn’t know how
to end it!
“You ended it! The night when you found me with that pig Edwards I
knew it must finish. While you were asleep I went to Ahmes and told
him.
“He was sorry--for me; but glad that we were through. Safîyeh went to
Montreal and sailed, under her own name, for England, three days
later. I was here, in Paris, before you allowed the news of my
disappearance to be published. Ahmes wrote the hieroglyphic letter to
relieve your mind. It was delivered by the same messenger who brought
another letter. He is here, now, with the others. That is why you
failed to trace him.
“That’s all, Barry dear. We have a house in Paris. It had been closed,
though, and so I stayed at the Chatham for a short time. But Ahmes
arrived to-day, and I am going to join him. He knows I have told you.
“Do what you like. But I shall be punished enough.
“You see--I love you.
“Marguerite.”
CHAPTER XXXIII.
A FLASH OF LIGHTNING
“Jim,” said Barry miserably, “what else can I do?”
“Well,” Jim replied, thoughtfully rapping on the café table to
attract the waiter’s attention, “you can order another half bottle of
this very good wine, and then perhaps ideas may come.”
The order given:
“It’s Kismet,” Barry went on. “If she had confessed to murder I should
still have wanted her! In fact, mad as it may seem, I love her better,
now, knowing her to be what she is, than I did before.”
“Not mad in the least,” Jim commented. “Taking into consideration the
way she was brought up, I, myself, harsh though my judgments of frail
humanity notoriously are, should feel the same. I could both love and
respect the Marguerite who wrote that brave letter. I don’t think I
could ever have worked up any real enthusiasm for a living mummy.”
“I _know_,” said Barry emphatically, “that one day I shall find her
again. When I do, I’m going to marry her if she’ll have me!”
“Strong, sound sentiments,” Jim replied. “It is men such as you are
who make men such as I am love men such as you are! But the old
problem arises; your father.”
“I have made up my mind on that point,” Barry declared. “He must not
know--yet. It’s hateful, but I mustn’t shatter his illusion. I shall
write and tell him I have met the girl of the balcony, and that she is
the double of Zalithea--and the daughter of Devina. Those who knew
Zalithea will soon forget the resemblance when they hear Marguerite
speak. Then, one day, he shall know the truth. Nobody else must ever
know.”
“We shall have to lie like the Brothers Ananias,” said Jim sadly, “for
a time. This prospect appalls my proudly virtuous spirit. But it’s up
to you. What you say, goes. Meanwhile, a full week has elapsed and our
patient inquiries have merely yielded, No, sir. Shall you go on
advertising in the Paris papers?”
“Yes,” was the answer. “My advertisement means nothing to anyone else.
It might as well stand. Who knows?”
“Nobody knows,” Jim murmured. “It is ignorance and not knowledge which
makes us lose faith in Santa Claus. And this afternoon? Shall I scour
the district in and about Batignolles as you so kindly suggest?”
“Jim, you’re a brick! This ‘scouring’ is no sort of way to enjoy a
holiday in Paris. Just say you’re tired, and I’ll do that part myself
to-morrow.”
“No, no, Horatio. Batignolles appeals to me because I can’t pronounce
it. And have I not said many times that I long for the life of a
detective? ‘All forms of shadowing undertaken. Your pay roll guarded
by machine-gun experts (in uniform). Missing relatives traced by our
special staff of lady searchers. Our watchword----’”
“Jim! I love you, but----”
“Guilty! Dismiss the jury. We reassemble at the Chatham at six for
cocktails.”
And so the quest went on. Barry had in mind a neighbourhood he had
noted during a drive on the outskirts near the old fortifications.
Here were discreet villas sheltering behind little gardens which, like
the _yashmak_ of a Turkish beauty, merely provoked without concealing.
He felt sure that the house he sought would have a garden.
Barry had considered the idea of engaging a detective agency to trace
Zalithea, so strangely found only to be lost again. But, in the
circumstances, he had decided that to do so would be unwise.
Marguerite’s letter he almost knew by heart. At first, the shock of it
had stunned him. The readjustment of perspectives which it entailed
appalled his brain. But out of all the chaos one fact emerged--a fact
brooking no denial. He loved her. He could not imagine life without
her.
His eagerness was eternally conjuring up mirages. A group at a café
table would suddenly come into view--and _she_ was there. As he drew
nearer, all resemblance would disappear. He hated those unconscious
mimics, some of whom were astoundingly unlike Marguerite at close
quarters. Perfumery stores he unfailingly explored. And a hundred
times he had run like a madman to overtake some girl seen in the
distance--only to alarm a stranger.
More than one gendarme had eyed him with suspicion. A tall,
distinguished-looking old gentleman, wearing the ribbon of the Legion
and escorting a very pretty girl whose figure and carriage certainly
resembled those of Marguerite, demanded the name of his hotel and
promised to send his seconds to Barry in the morning.
And now he was on the outskirts of the woods. Just ahead lay the group
of villas which had attracted his attention on the previous day. He
proposed to pursue a plan adopted on other occasions: viz.--to call at
a likely-looking house and ask if Miss Devina and her father were at
home. Being assured that he had come to the wrong address, he could
inquire if two Americans resided anywhere in the vicinity.
Following an unseasonably hot morning, clouds had begun to gather
shortly after noon. Now, it was growing very dark. The woods on his
right were haunted by ghostly shadows. From somewhere beyond the
western outskirts of Paris echoed ominous rumblings, to remind good
Parisians of that black day when Von Kluck’s Prussians came hammering
at their gates.
Then, suddenly, the downpour started. In sight of a charming little
villa whose green shutters and green balconies were visible above a
guardian row of dwarf acacias, Barry darted to cover. His back against
the trunk of a tree the dense foliage of which promised shelter, he
stood, looking up.
A black thunder pall hung directly above. Except for the sound of
falling rain, a profound stillness had come. Then, blindingly,
lightning flicked its venomous fang from the heart of the cloud. The
house opposite was illuminated ice blue, eerily. Every leaf upon the
trees was lent a momentary hard, individual existence. Every nail in
the woodwork of the villa gate, every piece of gravel on the garden
paths, summoned attention vividly, alone, aloof from the rest.…
And a window directly facing the tree beneath which Barry stood was
thrown open.
Marguerite came out onto the green balcony!
Her lips were parted in a half-frightened smile. Exultant, like a roll
of Titanic war drums, thunder crashed and boomed and beat out its fury
in dying echoes.
Across the feathery crests of the acacias their glances met.…
Barry uttered an involuntary cry. The storm was forgotten. The world
was forgotten. Out into the drenching downpour he ran, across to the
gate and on, up the gravelled path, to the discreet, glazed door. She
had fled at sight of him. The balcony above was empty; but the window
remained open.
He rang, but without result. He rang again--and again--and again. He
rang continuously.
The door was opened.
And he found himself looking into a wrinkled Arab face.
“Safîyeh!” he exclaimed.
She smiled, unsurprisedly, and stood aside to allow him to enter.
He discovered himself in a little lobby furnished throughout in
Egyptian fashion. There were antique tables and figures of the gods of
the Nile. There was a fresco of subjects from Der-el-Bahari. A
perforated silver lamp hung from the ceiling. And the air was laden
with a faint perfume, the indescribable smell of Egypt.
Safîyeh raised a tapestry curtain and again stood aside. Barry went
into the room beyond.
This apartment was littered with every imaginable kind of relic, from