CHAPTER VI.

DANBAZZAR

The abstracted mood of Barry during the remainder of the evening was

too noticeable to pass without comment. His dance partner, Naomi, a

girl friend of Jack’s grew very petulant, until Jack was really sorry

for her. This wouldn’t have mattered, but Jack showed it. Whereupon

Naomi became furious.

Barry knew that he would not lack successors, however, for a lot of

their crowd were there, and Naomi was what Jim termed “a star looker.”

Accordingly he excused himself early on some imaginary pretext and

started for home. He had let Hemingway go, and he taxied back. He

longed for the solitude of his own room--for reflection.

He wanted to argue this thing out with himself once and for all. He

wanted to know if he had been purposely mystified by the occupants of

the hillside house, or whether he was succumbing to a delusion. This

he must determine, for his highly sensitive nature demanded it. The

family physician had warned him that the blow to his skull had been a

severe one, and that he must on no account overtax his brain for at

least a year to come. Somewhat belatedly he began to take this warning

to heart.

Had it been a covert intimation that he was threatened with insanity?

The detective on duty at the corner saluted him again as he discharged

the taxi. Jim Sakers’s words returned to his mind while he fumbled for

a key. He remembered too that his father had advocated a long vacation

abroad.

What did this mean? Should he regard it as confirming his worst

theories? Or did his father suspect that there was some deep plot

afoot? Reared from childhood in an atmosphere of luxury, he had never

hitherto appreciated, in all its significance, the fact that he was

the son of a millionaire.

As he was passing the library he heard voices; one of them

unmistakable, the other deep, resonant--equally unfamiliar.

John Cumberland as a rule retired early, and Barry paused, wondering

whom this late visitor might be. Curious, he rapped and opened the

door.

He looked down the long rectangular room. The Cumberland library was

one of the acknowledged “sights” of New York, but to Barry it was a

commonplace. It was lined with relics of that wonderful civilization

which flourished under the Pharaohs. Its very atmosphere was

reminiscent of the Nile land, of the indescribable smell of Egypt.

His father was seated in the big armchair, looking up at a wall

painting from Medinet Habu. Facing him, and seated on a corner of the

library table--a favourite perch of Barry’s--was a man of arresting

appearance.

He was in dinner kit, but in lieu of the more regular black bow

displayed a stock. His hair, brushed back from a fine brow, was

silver-gray; his head leonine; the pale chiselled features were of

Moorish severity. He wore a short moustache and a small tuft beneath

his lower lip, of that kind once known as an imperial. He was built

massively, imposingly. His eyes, which at Barry’s entrance had turned

in the direction of the door, were light brown and, in their piercing

regard, resembled the eyes of an animal. He stood up, revealing his

height, which Barry estimated to be more than six feet.

“Hello, Barry!” said John Cumberland. “Glad you looked in. I should

like you to meet Mr. Danbazzar.”

Danbazzar raised his hand in a slow, majestic movement, and:

“I am delighted to meet Mr. Barry Cumberland,” he replied, and his

voice possessed a deep organ note. “But you forget, Mr.

Cumberland”--turning to the elder man--“that I lay no claim to the

title of Mister. I am Danbazzar; neither Danbazzar Esquire, Sir

Danbazzar, nor Lord Danbazzar; merely Danbazzar.”

He came forward, extending his hand.

“Mr. Barry Cumberland, I hope you and I will be friends, as your

father and I have been for many years.”

Half attracted, half repelled, Barry took the extended hand--and

experienced a mighty grip, which greatly reassured him. He smiled.

“You can be sure of it, Mr.--I beg your pardon--Danbazzar,” he

returned. “I heard voices. That was why I came in.”

Danbazzar inclined his head graciously and placed a chair.

“Perhaps you would like to sit here?” he said. “We are discussing a

matter upon which I think your father would welcome your views.”

Barry sat down, and:

“Is that so, Dad?” he asked. “What’s the big argument?”

“There’s no argument, Barry,” was the reply; “there isn’t room for

any. It’s a proposition, and it’s up to me to say Yes or No.”

“Precisely,” Danbazzar murmured; and resumed his seat upon the corner

of the library table.

He had an odd trick of tensing and then relaxing his lips. He did it

now, looking from the older to the younger man. Then, from a box upon

the table, he selected a cigarette, lighted it, and reflectively blew

a puff of smoke toward the dancers and other ladies of Pharaoh’s

golden court displayed upon the wall above him.

Barry, his mind full of his own affairs, settled down rather

reluctantly to listen.

“I am afraid this is going to be right over my head,” he confessed.

“But it’s bound to be interesting, so fire away. What is it all

about?”

Danbazzar waved his cigarette in the direction of John Cumberland, and

the latter, smiling, replied:

“It’s a deal in Egyptian antiquities, Barry, as no doubt you surmise.

But in a new kind of antiquity--different from any Danbazzar has ever

offered me before; different in every way.”

“You are right,” boomed the deep voice. “No such proposition has been

made to any living man, I should guess, since the days of Rameses the

Ninth.”

Danbazzar imparted a quality of awe to this extraordinary statement

which was not without its effect upon Barry. He found himself studying

the large, well-shaped hand holding a lighted cigarette and discovered

a curious fascination in a little scarab ring on the fourth finger. As

one does upon meeting a man of whom one has heard much, he endeavoured

to sum up his impressions of Danbazzar and to compare the result with

what he had hitherto learned about him.

He was reputed to be the agent of an individual or a syndicate in

Egypt, and it was rumoured that his activities had more than once

attracted official attention. Certainly, he had been the medium

through which many rare antiquities had reached collections of wealthy

connoisseurs, and indeed, more than one public institution. John

Cumberland’s museum had been enriched by not a few items obtained in

this way. And since the export of such antiques was contrary to the

laws of the Egyptian government, and their importation subject to a

heavy tax by that of the United States, it was only reasonable to

suppose that Danbazzar was a smuggler. But he was master of his

subject, a fact to which the names of his patrons testified. His

nationality was unknown.

“It is some years since we have met,” John Cumberland pursued, “On the

last occasion, if I remember rightly, you brought me----”

He pointed to a very beautiful enamelled casket enclosed in a glass

case.

“Correct,” Danbazzar nodded. “There are only two of that period in

existence, and the other is in the Louvre. I had the honour to supply

it to France, as I told you at the time of our deal.”

“Yes, I remember,” said John Cumberland. “And now, Barry--” turning to

his son--“I have been given first refusal of a proposition which, if

it matures, will win me a place among the _real_ Egyptologists; let me

in on the ground floor, in fact.”

Danbazzar raised his hand, checking the speaker.

“One moment, Mr. Cumberland,” he interrupted, and turned to Barry,

fixing upon him a penetrating glance from his extraordinary eyes. “You

quite understand that what you are about to hear must not be mentioned

in any shape or form to anyone now outside this room?”

“Quite,” said Barry, almost startled by the intensity of the speaker’s

gaze. “You may rely upon me.”

He glanced at his father, and realized that he was labouring under the

influence of intense excitement. His voice, his colour, his movements

betrayed him.

Enthusiastic though John Cumberland had always been upon this subject,

Barry could never remember to have seen him quite so roused before. He

felt, suddenly, that he stood upon the verge of something momentous.

The shadow of Ancient Egypt at last was reaching out to touch him. He

experienced a momentary shrinking, followed by a thrill of

anticipation, communicated, possibly, from father to son.

“I have seen a papyrus to-night, Barry,” John Cumberland went on,

“which even my limited study of the subject”--he acknowledged with a

smile Danbazzar’s gesture of denial--“shows me to be unique. You shall

see it presently, if you wish--that is, with my friend’s consent.”

Consent was given in a gracious gesture.

“It may mean little to you, but it has meant much to me. I foresee

that reproductions of it will occupy a place in the library of every

student of Egyptology. It will be more sought after than the Papyrus

Harris, or the Papyrus Ebers. The discovery of the Rosetta Stone,

itself, will almost be dwarfed by the publication of the Danbazzar

Papyrus----”

“Mr. Cumberland!” Danbazzar’s voice broke in imperiously. “You have

heard my proposition with all its conditions. If you accept them, the

papyrus shall be known as the ‘Cumberland Papyrus.’ Upon this I

insist. It is no more than your due. By your efforts its authenticity

must be established.”

“A minor point,” John Cumberland assured him. “My share will be that

of a backer. You are the discoverer.”

“Not of the sarcophagus,” was the reply. “This has yet to be

discovered, and can only be discovered by your help.”

“Tremendously thrilling!” said Barry, standing up restlessly and

lighting a fresh cigarette; “but, as I expected, right over my head.

Does it mean a job of exploration or something?”

“It does,” said his father, looking at him.

“Might I take a peep at this papyrus?”

Danbazzar bowed gravely, and from the other side of the library table

took up a large portfolio having double locks. He opened it carefully

and spread out a stained fragment, some three feet in length, part of

which was clearly missing and other parts of which were defaced by

curious stains.

It bore rows of figures of a type quite familiar to Barry, but

nevertheless meaningless, and some of the colouring retained much of

its original freshness. It seemed to deal with the inevitable subject

of burial, but upon one figure, perfectly preserved, he fastened his

gaze as if hypnotized. It was that of a slender girl, more delicately

drawn than any he ever remembered to have seen. But that which held

him enthralled was the resemblance, the uncanny resemblance, of this

figure to the girl of the balcony.

Allowing for the conventional methods of the ancient artist, it might

have been her portrait!

He heard Danbazzar speaking.

“My own translation is here,” he was saying, indicating a manuscript

which he held in his hand. “I have asked your father to have it

checked by any two authorities he may select. But the theory that I

have based upon this is the point that will interest you.”

“It will startle you out of your life!” John Cumberland interjected.

Barry looked up.

“What _is_ the theory?” he asked, looking from face to face.

“The theory is,” Danbazzar replied, “that unless some unforeseen

accident occurs, or has already occurred, we shall shortly be in a

position to learn some of the secrets of Ancient Egypt from the lips

of one who lived there!”