part is over. Rain is the worst we have to fear now.”

He touched Hassan es-Sugra upon the shoulder.

“Hassan,” he directed, “let the first party begin at three o’clock.

You have my instructions. I shall be back at five.”

Hassan saluted, and leaving Mahmoud in charge of the clearing-up

operations, walked away, slow and stately, down the valley.

As it chanced, their belief in the artistic genius of Danbazzar was

very shortly to be put to the test; for, returning to the camp, where

they intended to remain during the heat of noon, they were met by a

very courteous Egyptian official.

John Cumberland started at sight of the figure wearing the _tarbûsh_,

but Danbazzar exhibited neither surprise nor alarm.

“Ah! Mr. Tawwab!” he cried genially. “It was real good of you to hunt

us up!”

Mr. Tawwab’s smile was noncommittal.

“The Mudîr felt anxious about you,” he explained; “and learning that

you had not yet started for the oasis, suggested that I should see

you.”

“We are honoured and delighted,” Danbazzar declared. “Allow me to make

known to you Mr. John Cumberland and Professor Blackwell--Mr. Barry

Cumberland. This is Mr. Ahmed Tawwab, secretary to the Governor of

Luxor. Coffee, I believe, is prepared. You will join us, Mr. Tawwab?”

“Certainly.”

The Egyptian bowed, and they all entered the tent which served as

dining room, office, and council chamber.

Danbazzar entered last, behind Barry, and, in his ear:

“Mischief!” he whispered.

The boring ceremony of coffee and cigarettes, which is indispensable

to any piece of Arab business, having been duly performed:

“The Mudîr,” Mr. Tawwab explained, turning the gaze of his languorous

eyes upon Danbazzar, “learns from the Mudîr of Asyut, that a

considerable party of Hawwara Arabs, led by a sheik of the Hamman

family and plainly meaning mischief, has been reported from El Kharga,

in the Great Oasis. It is perhaps a political or a religious

demonstration, but the Mudîr thought it wise to advise you that there

may be danger.”

“Convey my thanks to His Excellency,” said Danbazzar gravely. “We are

all most indebted.”

His deep voice was lowered to a sort of caressing purr; which,

however, resembled that of some large member of the cat family.

“But,” Mr. Tawwab pursued, rolling a cigarette between his flexible

fingers, “I understand that you are a fairly large party, and, of

course, you can make choice. He will be glad to learn, nevertheless,

that his information was correct, and that this warning has reached

you before your setting out.”

Mr. Tawwab having presently departed:

“What does this mean, exactly?” John Cumberland demanded.

“It means, sir,” said Danbazzar grimly, “that our screen was only

erected in the nick of time! We shall be watched!”

“What!” exclaimed Professor Blackwell with alarm; “but we may be

arrested!”

Danbazzar turned his strange eyes in the speaker’s direction, studying

him silently for a moment; then:

“Before that time comes,” he replied, “we shall be invited to _pay_.

But if we can get through without paying, all the better.”

“Do you believe the story of the Arabs?” Barry asked.

“No,” Danbazzar answered promptly, “I don’t!” His fierce eyes grew

very reflective. “Nor do I believe that Ahmed Tawwab came from the

Mudîr at all.”

“I don’t follow,” said Barry. “What is your idea about it, then?”

“My idea is,” Danbazzar answered, “that Mr. Tawwab has discovered the

identity of your father and has simply called as an ordinary matter of

business. He has got wise that we’re here with some secret purpose,

and he’s going to make us pay. It was against grafting of this sort

that I budgeted when I mentioned the price for the expedition, Mr.

Cumberland.”

Undeterred by these vague threats, operations were commenced that day.

A tiny opening, a mere crevice, had been left by Danbazzar in the

reclosed entrance, some ten feet above, and to the left of the

inscription on the rock.

The first party set to work to enlarge this, and two guards were

placed where they could command all possible approaches. By nightfall,

enough had been done to show that this indeed was the entrance to a

narrow, sloping shaft, carefully closed at the top with stone blocks.

John Cumberland’s excitement became intense. Professor Blackwell

experienced much difficulty in persuading him to sleep. Throughout the

afternoon and the evening not a soul had appeared in sight of the

excavation, and the first day promised well for the enterprise. Barry

only deserted the job when a night shift of excavators came on duty,

walking back, tired but mentally exhilarated, to the camp with Hassan

es-Sugra.

As they pursued their way through moonlight and shadow down to the

little _wâdi_, Barry glanced many times at his silent companion. The

wonder of it all swept over him--the insanity of their dreams; the

almost incredible fact that less than a month before he had been

leading a rather empty life in New York.

Now, he was walking through a vast cemetery peopled with kings and

queens, princes, princesses, councillors, of a glorious civilization

which the desert had reclaimed long ages before the name of America

was known to men!

The stillness seemed to become oppressive. Not even the bark of a dog

could be heard. And to-night no camel bells jingled on the ancient

caravan road. Barry spoke at random.

“How long, Hassan,” he asked, “should it take to reach the tomb?”

“It is doubtful, sir,” was the reply. “Perhaps, if the stones are not

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.