CHAPTER VIII.

SPECIAL OPINIONS

“The last time the man Danbazzar was about,” said Countess Colonna,

“the result was that a motor lorry and ten men arrived. The front

doors were taken off their hinges and a stone figure as big as the

Statue of Liberty was carried into the library.”

“I don’t think it will happen this time, Micky,” Barry assured her.

“I hope not,” was the reply. “I don’t like Danbazzar. I always imagine

him living in a harem.”

“I haven’t met the sportsman,” said Jim Sakers, “but I am going to

crash into the University Club to-night and look him over keenly. If I

don’t approve, Barry, I shan’t hesitate to advise you to drop him. On

the other hand, I may be favourably impressed. And as is only fair to

him, if this should prove to be the case, I shall relieve your mind at

once and let you know.”

“Thanks,” Barry replied. “I shall be in a frightfully unsettled state

until I have your opinion.”

“That’s quite natural,” Jim agreed; “but I promise not to keep you in

suspense.”

“It occurs to me, young Sakers,” Aunt Micky broke in, “that you and I

are being deliberately kept in the dark about this thing. Young

Cumberland here has a secret eye. It’s his left!”

Barry laughed.

“You hit the nail on the head, Micky,” he admitted. “Danbazzar has

come across with a proposal about which I have promised to say

nothing. It’s a very queer business--more than queer, in fact; but

to-night I shall know more about it. Dad has invited him to join us at

the University Club with Dr. Rittenburg of the Smithsonian, Horace

Pain, the big Oriental man, and Dad’s old friend, Dr. Blackwell of

Yale.”

“What a wild party!” Jim commented. “I suppose you are going on to the

Earl Carroll Vanities after dinner?”

“On the contrary,” Barry assured him, “we are going on to Danbazzar’s

place.”

“You can’t delude me,” cried Jim scornfully. “I see Dr. Rittenburg and

Professor Blackwell dancing far into the small hours of the morning in

some small but costly cabaret. I can see you all, haggard-eyed,

flushed with wine, a really shocking Six, taking breakfast at Child’s

on Fifth Avenue as the morning sun peeps in upon the end of your

debauch. Barry, I’m sorry, but you are making the pace too fast.”

The dinner turned out more successful, however, than Jim had

predicted. Barry’s father had never before so taken him into his

confidence in regard to this hobby of his life, and under different

circumstances he would certainly have come prepared to be bored. As it

chanced, the company proved to be so amusing that he was amazed to

find how quickly the time passed.

Horace Pain, the celebrated Orientalist, was all that he had expected

of him; a dry, slow-spoken scholar, whose only enthusiasm was for his

subject. But Dr. Rittenburg proved to be a comedian who would have

rejoiced Jim’s heart. He was a round little man--a study in curves.

His red face was round, his bald head was round, and he wore very

round glasses. He and Professor Blackwell succeeded in keeping the

party in a state of continuous laughter; for Professor Blackwell,

tall, gaunt, and saturnine, had a fund of wit, as Barry knew, which

seemed to be inexhaustible.

Danbazzar, too, was a delightful companion. There seemed to be few

spots in the world, civilized or uncivilized, that he had not visited,

from the headwaters of the Amazon to the monasteries of Thibet. The

real purpose of the meeting was not touched upon, however, until the

party had adjourned to the library of the club. Here, as they took

their seats in an alcove, Barry observed Jim. Faithful to his promise,

he had “crashed in.”

With an exaggerated air of secrecy, based upon the Charlie Chaplin

tradition, he crept around the gallery above, turning his back swiftly

whenever one of the party looked up, and apparently searching for some

book which he always failed to find. Crouching low behind the rails,

so that only the top of his head and his eyes were visible, he peered

down intently. This amazing piece of pantomime was only interrupted by

the decision of the party to adjourn serious discussion to Danbazzar’s

apartment.

But, as they quitted the club and got into John Cumberland’s big car

which waited outside, Jim Sakers, his face buried in an evening paper,

hat brim pulled down over scowling features, stood beside the steps

watching intently.

Danbazzar’s apartment, Barry had always been given to understand,

contained a number of literally priceless objects, every one unique

and irreplaceable, and any one of which he could have sold over and

over again for incredible sums. Used to the orderly neatness of his

father’s collection, he came prepared to find something similar,

although probably on a smaller scale.

The address proved to be situated amid some of the loudest noises of

New York. He had thought vaguely, before, that it was an odd spot to

live in. But he had not allowed for the fact that Danbazzar lived on

the roof. Here, like a priest of Bel, high above all the buildings

surrounding him, Danbazzar from a cloudy silence looked down upon

teeming streets, thousands of lighted windows, dwarfed sky signs.

His apartment was virtually a bungalow from the porch of which one

stepped into a sort of Japanese garden, with flowering vines and

tortuous, spiny cacti. A large pond was approached through a loggia

and peopled by golden carp. From little arbours around the wall one

might look down upon a muted New York. An Arab servant, who apparently

knew not one word of English, attended upon the guests; and presently

they entered a large, low room, in which the famed collection was

housed.

Here, Barry had a shock. The value of the statuettes, vases, mummies,

caskets, items of jewellery, and other nameless relics of Egypt he

could not dispute. But instead of being formally lined up in wall

cases and cabinets, they were littered about the place in the utmost

confusion.

A magnificently painted sarcophagus had been converted into a cupboard

to contain bottles of Scotch whisky, old brandy, champagne, and other

material comforts. Cigar butts disfigured the polished floor. There

were books and papers lying about anywhere and everywhere.

The effect was that of a second-hand dealer’s establishment in which

somebody had been trying to rope a steer. He was unable to conceal his

amazement, and:

“Did you ever see anything like it, Barry?” his father said, speaking

in a low voice.

“Never!” he confessed. “Are these things really valuable?”

“Valuable!” exclaimed Dr. Rittenburg, who stood near. “There is a

fortune in this room.”

Danbazzar cleared a space upon a large table and set out the papyrus.

“Now, gentlemen,” he said in his courtly manner, “let us get to the

business of the evening. I have given you, Dr. Rittenburg, and you,

Mr. Pain, an opportunity of examining and testing this piece of

writing. I await your opinion.”

“I have anticipated it,” said John Cumberland, in a voice that

betrayed suppressed excitement.

Horace Pain removed the cigar from between his teeth, cleared his

throat, and:

“I know Professor Rittenburg’s opinion,” he said, “and he knows mine.

The papyrus is undeniably genuine. It has points of resemblance to the

Turin Papyrus which I shall presently point out, as I have already

pointed them out to my friend Dr. Rittenburg. Respecting the claims of

its writer, or writers, I shall have nothing to say. This is outside

my province. As, I take it”--turning to John Cumberland--“it is

outside yours? I mean, your interest, like mine, is in the writing

itself, not in what it states.”

“Partly,” John Cumberland replied, glancing swiftly in Danbazzar’s

direction.

“Well,” Pain went on, in his dry, hard voice, “I mean to say that a

parallel is the medical papyrus in Berlin. No one would think of

making up a prescription from it. You agree with me,

Professor?”--turning in the direction of Professor Blackwell.

“I agree with you entirely,” was the reply. “It contains among other

things a prescription for a hair restorer which, I will guarantee,

would turn Paderewski bald in a fortnight.”

“Exactly,” Dr. Rittenburg agreed. “I look upon this business of the

sleeping Princess as a sort of religious ritual, Cumberland, similar

to the worship of the Apis Bull--only kept up for political reasons to

delude the people, and to preserve the immortal name of Seti.

Something of that kind.”

“Quite beside the point, gentlemen,” Danbazzar’s deep voice broke in.

“The fact that the papyrus is genuine and, in your opinion, dates from

the time of the Pharaoh mentioned in it is the thing of interest to

Mr. Cumberland and to myself.”

“Of this I am certain.”

Dr. Rittenburg nodded his round head vigorously.

“So am I,” Horace Pain admitted. “Of course, its publication will

create a profound sensation, and the museums of the world will outbid

one another to get it.”

“They will bid in vain,” Danbazzar replied. “Mr. John Cumberland has

acquired it.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Dr. Rittenburg. “But of course you will publish a

reproduction? Every student in the world is entitled to access to such

a discovery.”

John Cumberland smiled happily. No triumph that his business had

offered or could offer compared with the thrill of such a moment as

this.

“In due course,” he said, “but not yet.”

Whereupon a debate arose concerning certain papyri, with the mere

names of which Barry was unacquainted, and their points of resemblance

to this one. Much excellent old brandy aided the debate. The two

experts disagreed fiercely; but at a late hour, Dr. Rittenburg and

Horace Pain having departed quite reconciled:

“Now,” said John Cumberland, “with Danbazzar’s consent, I shall

discuss this matter with you, Blackwell. Your province is rather

physiological than archæological. We have had expert opinion on the

papyrus itself, and now we should like to have your opinion upon the

feasibility of the claims made in it.”

The silent Arab replenished the guests’ glasses, except the

Professor’s; for Blackwell, who was already lost in thought, waved him

aside. The distinguished scientist was a tall man, though not so tall

as Danbazzar, and built bonily. He was clean-shaven, with a long

strong nose; and from his high brow, hair which was beginning to go

gray was carelessly brushed back. His clothes would have fitted

someone else better than they fitted the Professor, and he wore a low

double collar with his dinner jacket, allowing free play to an

enormously developed Adam’s apple.

His eyes, behind the thick pebbles of his glasses, resembled two

interrogation marks.

“I never jump to conclusions,” he began, thoughtfully selecting a

cigar from a box which Danbazzar slid across the table in his

direction.

The box was an Ancient Egyptian curiosity, but Professor Blackwell had

not even noticed the fact: his thoughts were elsewhere.

“Life,” he went on, “considered in the abstract, is the one thing of

which Science knows nothing. Adolf Weisman maintained that duration of

life is dependent upon adaptation to external conditions. We may take

the case of what is sometimes termed ‘mummy wheat.’ Personally, I

cannot vouch for these stories.”

“_I_ can,” Danbazzar said gravely. “I myself have seen grains of wheat

taken from a tomb of the fourteenth dynasty cultivated.”

“Did they yield any crop?” the Professor inquired.

“No,” Danbazzar acknowledged. “They shot up a very tender green to a

height of six inches and then died.”

“Quite, quite,” murmured the Professor, “but the life principle was

present, you see--dormant, but present. There is the case of a toad

imprisoned in a rock cavity for several generations, vouched for by

persons of repute, and I once examined, in India, a fakir who claimed

the power to unhitch his spirit from his body. Under these conditions

he presented every appearance of death and existed without visible

wasting for a long period unsustained by food or drink of any kind.

The question really is whether the tissues could be preserved over so

long a period as this”--nodding toward the papyrus--“indicated.”

“If for three hundred years, why not for three thousand?” John

Cumberland demanded.

“Quite, quite,” the professor murmured; “but unfortunately this fact

rests upon what I may term ‘hearsay.’ The people who wrote it have

been dead for some little time, you must remember!”

There was a short silence, broken by Danbazzar.

“Have you ever seen the mummy of Seti the First?” he demanded in his

deep, impressive tone.

“Yes.” Professor Blackwell looked up slowly. “Curiously enough, I was

thinking about him. He, of course, dates from somewhere about the same

period as Princess Zalithea, and the preservation in this case is

remarkable. But the system of mummifying employed on Seti could not be

employed on a living person. It is very interesting, though--very

interesting. A German physiologist whom I met in Berlin recently--I

forget his name, but he was a knowledgeable man--was anxious to

attempt some experiment of the kind, in a small way, upon a hypnotized

subject. The difficulty, of course, was to find the subject.”

“Naturally!” said Barry, laughing.

The Professor glanced aside at him over his spectacles. And then:

“I pointed out to my German acquaintance,” he went on, “that normal

processes of decay would proceed under these conditions quite

inevitably. And if there is anything in the extraordinary claims made

in this papyrus, I can only assume that some formula must have been

invented to check these processes. Of course, it is frightfully

empirical. One dare not raise such a thing seriously before modern

science. It would spell ruin.”

“Nevertheless,” said Danbazzar, “you are right--there _was_ such a

formula.”

“Ah!” exclaimed John Cumberland, “if only we could recover it.”

“I _have_ recovered it,” Danbazzar replied calmly.

“What!”

“I acquired it at the same time that I acquired this other papyrus. It

is locked in that safe over there.”

“That settles it,” said Cumberland, standing up. “My other plans are

made. What do you estimate it would cost, Danbazzar, to finance the

expedition?”

“Two hundred thousand dollars,” was the prompt reply.

“Be ready in a fortnight,” said Cumberland. “I must start then or

postpone the journey till next season.”