She who sleeps A romance of New York and the Nile

feather--stuck in the band just above the left ear. I am told that everyone will be wearing them this season. Didn’t they tip you this at Dobbs’, Micky?” “They tipped me a lot of things,” Micky returned, lighting a cigarette, “and there are lots of things I could tip _you!_” “I know it,” he said; “my ignorance is appalling. But on one point Park Avenue is agreed. I _do_ know how to dress. Further, I don’t merely put on my clothes--I wear them! Allow me, Barry.” He raised his hands and settled the helmet at an angle over Barry’s right ear, then took a step back to contemplate the result. “Better,” he muttered, “better. That is the British Army rake. Of course--” again grasping the helmet and tilting it forward--“there is the Rajah rake, very popular in India, and _also_----” He was about to take further liberties when Barry gave him a playful but powerful punch in the chest. “And _also_ there is the complete limit,” he said, “and you reach it every time, Jim.” Taken all around, however, the period of preparation was an exciting one for Barry. His father was an experienced traveller and, under his guidance, Barry acquired all sorts of equipment for the journey. On the advice of Danbazzar, most of the camp gear, the firearms, and the impedimenta of the excavator, they were picking up in London. Danbazzar had prepared a formidable list of these, and Barry discovered a great fascination in merely reading it. The papyrus had disappeared into Danbazzar’s great safe, and Barry often wondered if his imagination had played him tricks in regard to the portrait of Princess Zalithea. He had abandoned hope of ever seeing this girl of dreams again; but Fate had one more curious experience in store for him, and it came about in this way: Professor Blackwell was leaving for Europe a week ahead of them, and later joining the party in Egypt. Bound to strictest secrecy regarding the nature of the expedition, his scientific curiosity had been greatly aroused, and he had consented to be present at the opening of the tomb when that time came. The steamer sailed at midnight, and Professor Blackwell had dined at the Cumberland home prior to joining her. Barry and his father went on board with him, inspected his stateroom, ascertained that his baggage had arrived safely, and then: “There is no point in waiting,” said the Professor. “We don’t sail for another twenty minutes or so, but it is my custom on these night sailings to turn in. I leave unpacking until the morning. I hate all this fuss and bustle!” “As you like, Blackwell,” said John Cumberland. “See you in Cairo--or, if you have gone up the river, in Luxor. Hope you have a nice crossing.” Barry and his father came down the gangway, turned to wave to the tall, gaunt Professor at the top, and then made their way along the pier toward the staircase. They reached the street level at practically the same moment that the elevator started up. Through the iron grille of the car a girl was looking out, apparently directly at Barry. He stopped dead, stared at the ascending elevator, and then, with no explanation to his father, turned and fled back up the stairs like a man demented! His behaviour was so extraordinary that a Customs official intercepted him at the top. “Kindly stand aside!” Barry said breathlessly. “I have seen someone I want to speak to--_must_ speak to!” “Go easy, go easy!” The man persistently intruded his burly form. “Wait a minute! Who are you running away from?” “I’m not running away from anybody!” cried Barry angrily. “Let me pass! I want to go on board.” “Go easy!” the man repeated. “You can’t go on board. The last visitors are just coming ashore. In three minutes the gangway will be cleared----” And then John Cumberland, even more breathless than Barry, arrived on the scene. “What’s the matter?” he asked; and, to the man: “It’s all right,” he explained. “My name is John Cumberland. My son has seen someone he thinks he knows.” “You can guess who it is!” the latter returned. “And I’ve lost her again!” Slipping past the mystified Customs officer, he raced out along the pier. Beyond exciting amusement and astonishment among the onlookers, his reward was nil. Of course! He was too late! And he was sure, absolutely sure, that this time he had not been mistaken! Could it be that she had gone on board the liner?--that she was leaving America--still unknown, elusive to the end! He was prevented from reaching the gangplank. The order “Clear away!” was given as he ran up. Realizing the hopelessness of the thing, he turned and went back to where his father waited. His manner was constrained. As they drove home, John Cumberland was very sympathetic, but secretly was glad to think that the journey to Egypt would prove a powerful distraction, which he considered his son badly needed. He was growing more and more anxious about this odd obsession of Barry’s. We are no other than a moving row Of magic shadow-shapes which come and go, Round with the sun-illumined lantern held In midnight by the Master of the Show. The Master of the Show had many more queer tricks and illusions in store. But neither Barry nor John Cumberland, being poor mortals, could peep behind the scenes. The ensuing week passed like a feverish dream, so magically does time dissolve on such occasions--and the night of their departure for Egypt came. A tremendous crowd of friends turned up to see them off, Aunt Micky more iron-jawed than usual, and full of dark theories respecting missing baggage (which was really safely on board, of course). “Clean your teeth in Vichy water,” was her last injunction to Barry. “Once you are out of England, all water is poison.” Then came the final shouted farewells, Danbazzar, Barry, and John Cumberland standing at the rail as the liner crept out of her dock. Much cheering and waving of hats. Great excitement, to be followed by depression. And over it all came a clarion cry from Jim Sakers, standing bareheaded far below, a megaphone upraised. “Don’t forget, Barry!” he bellowed--“a bottle of the Unchanging Desert! I am an Arab brave and free!” CHAPTER X. CAIRO From the balcony of Shepheard’s Hotel, Barry fascinatedly watched the life in the street below. This was Cairo!--real yet less than his imaginings concerning it. Vendors of fly whisks, of scarabs incredibly old, of necklaces from the tombs of queens, of red slippers, of all sorts of Birmingham ware, clamoured in a group beneath him. They poked their offerings through the railings at his feet. The instinct of these people was wonderful. His father was never solicited in this way. One glance the sidewalk merchants would give him, smile sadly and pass on. While of Danbazzar they seemed to be positively afraid. The passers-by absorbed his attention. He had learned to pick out the residents from the tourists, to recognize the curious air of detachment, that quiet fatalism which is the seal of Africa. He had also grown used to the _tarbûsh_ worn by the British officers. At first he had mistaken them all for Turks. But he was not yet entirely reconciled to the presence of laden camels and smart automobiles in the same street. In some of the cars he had glimpses of veiled women, whose long dark eyes provoked him. Whenever such a _harem_ car went by he craned forward eagerly, vaguely expecting to meet the glance of eyes that he knew. During the journey, he had torn himself free in a measure from this strange infatuation, but Egypt had revived his dreams. He had dressed early this evening, and now, sipping a cocktail, sat waiting for his father to join him. It was too hot yet for the big tourist invasion, but the advance guard was already in possession. Guide books were in evidence at several tables in his immediate neighbourhood. To whatever government, Turkish, French, British, or Egyptian, the people may from time to time acknowledge obedience, everybody knows that Egypt really belongs to Thomas Cook & Son. To-night, Danbazzar was expected back from Luxor, where he had been to select a base of operations and to check the information furnished by his agent. This agent, Hassan es-Sugra by name, had met him there four days earlier and was returning with him to Cairo. John Cumberland’s excitement had been intense all day, and Barry’s little less. Never, until now, had Barry fully understood the hold that Egypt and the things of Egypt had over his father. It was a complete, an absorbing passion. The John Cumberland of New York was barely recognizable in this keen, alert, bright-eyed man to whom the African air was an elixir of youth, and who now crossed the terrace and joined him. “Well, Barry,” said he, “has the spell of the Nile got hold of you yet?” “It has, Dad,” Barry admitted, looking at the healthily tanned face of the speaker; “I’m simply dying to start. I went again to-day to look at the mummy of Seti; and even now I find it hard to believe that this man ruled over Egypt, a civilized country, at a time when Europe was peopled by savages, and when the American Continent was probably a mix-up of mountains, forests, swamps, and rivers. That man was no savage, he was a ruler of great power and intellect.” “Certainly he was,” John Cumberland agreed, nodding to an acquaintance coming up the steps. “We are very proud of our new wisdom, Barry. I wonder how much of it is in advance of the old?” “I hadn’t been altogether able to believe in your hopes of success,” Barry went on, “but the figure of Seti is beginning to make me share them. There he lies in the flesh for everyone to see. I looked at him yesterday for nearly half an hour, and I realized that he had known, probably had many times spoken to, the Princess Zalithea! Dad, I’m just crazy to be on the job! Isn’t Danbazzar late?” John Cumberland glanced at his watch; then: “No,” he replied. “The train got in about ten minutes ago. He should be here at any moment now.” And even as he spoke an _arabiyeh_ pulled up at the steps and Danbazzar got out. He wore a white drill suit, the coat cut tunic fashion and buttoning close up to the neck. His light gray felt hat with its very wide brim awakened in this Eastern scene memories of the West. His pale skin had assumed a deep, even tan, and, with his aquiline features, he looked more truly of the Orient than any of the Cairenes about him. His gaze sought and found John Cumberland on the terrace, and he raised his right hand in a slow, graceful gesture. A second traveller descended from the carriage and followed Danbazzar up the steps. This was an æsthetic-looking Egyptian, black-robed and white-turbaned, slender, with small delicate features and the gentle eyes of a gazelle. He carried an ebony cane and possessed a curious dignity, utterly unlike that of Danbazzar, yet in its way equally impressive. John Cumberland sprang up eagerly and extended his hand. “Is everything all right?” he demanded. “Everything is fine,” Danbazzar replied, and, turning, greeted Barry. “I want you to meet our Chief of Staff, Hassan es-Sugra. What I don’t know about the Valley of the Kings, Hassan can tell us.” Hassan saluted profoundly, and Danbazzar now gave him permission to be seated. Discreetly, he took a chair a little removed from the others and waited to be addressed. John Cumberland glanced around to make sure that he could not be overheard; and: “How many men have you got?” he asked. “Hassan has engaged fifteen,” was the reply. “Most of them are already in Luxor.” “No suspicion has been aroused?” “Absolutely none,” Danbazzar assured him. “So far, there hasn’t been a single hitch.” “I take it these men are living in Luxor at present?” Barry asked.