"Not possible," he heard Samir say." But look, Lawrence, the mummy case!"
Lawrence had already seen it. He was staring speechless at the thing which lay serenely in the very middle of (his puzzling room, this study, this library, with its stacks of scrolls and its dust-covered writing table.
Once again, Samir ordered the photographers back. The smoking flashes were maddening Lawrence.
"Get out, all of you, get out!" Lawrence said. Grumbling, they retreated out of sight of the door, leaving the two men standing there in stunned silence.
It was Samir who spoke first:
"This is Roman furniture. This is Cleopatra. Look at the coins, Lawrence, on the desk. With her image, and newly minted. Those alone are worth - "
"I know. But there lies an ancient Pharaoh, my friend. Every detail of the case - it's as fine as any ever found in the Valley of the Kings."
"But without a sarcophagus," Samir said." Why?"
"This is no tomb," Lawrence answered.
"And so the King chose to be buried here!" Samir approached the mummy case, lifting the torch high above the beautifully painted face, with its darkly lined eyes and exquisitely modeled lips.
"I could swear this is the Roman period," he said.
"But the style ..."
"Lawrence, it's too lifelike. It's a Roman artist who has imitated the nineteenth-dynastic style to perfection."
"And how could such a thing happen, my friend?"
"Curses," Samir whispered, as if he had not heard the question. He was staring at the rows of hieroglyphs that circled the painted figure. The Greek lettering appeared lower down, and finally came the Latin.
" Touch not the remains of Ramses the Great/" Samir read." It's the same in all three tongues. Enough to give a sensible man pause."
"Not this sensible man," Lawrence replied." Get those workers in here to lift this lid at once."
The dust had settled somewhat. The torches, in the old iron sconces on the wall, were sending far too much smoke onto the ceiling, but that he would worry about later.
The thing now was to cut open the bundled human shape, which had been propped against the wall, the thin wooden lid of the mummy case carefully laid upright beside it.
He no longer saw the men and women packed at the entrance, who peered at him and his find in silence.
Slowly, he raised the knife and sliced through the brittle husk of dried linen, which fell open immediately to reveal the tightly wrapped figure beneath.
There was a collective gasp from the reporters. Again and again the flashes popped. Lawrence could feel Samir's silence. Both men stared at the gaunt face beneath its yellowed linen bandages, at the withered arms so serenely laid across the breast.
It seemed one of the photographers was begging to be allowed into the chamber. Samir angrily demanded silence. But of these distractions, Lawrence was only dimly aware.
He gazed calmly at the emaciated form before him, its wrap - I pings the color of darkened desert sand. It seemed he could detect an expression in the shrouded features; he could detect something eloquent of tranquillity in the set of the thin lips.
Every mummy was a mystery. Every desiccated yet preserved form a ghastly image of life in death. It never failed to chill him, to look upon these ancient Egyptian dead. But he felt a strange longing as he looked at this one - this mysterious being who called himself Ramses the Damned, Ramses the Great.
Something warm touched him inside. He drew closer, slashing again at the outer wrapping. Behind him, Samir ordered the photographers out of the passage. There was danger of contamination. Yes, go, all of you, please.
He reached out and touched the mummy suddenly; he touched it reverently with the very tips of his fingers. So curiously resilient! Surely the thick layer of bandages had become soft with time.
Again, he gazed at the narrow face before him, at the rounded lids, and the sombre mouth.
"Julie," he whispered." Oh, my darling, if only you could see ..."
The Embassy Ball. Same old faces; same old orchestra, same old sweet yet droning waltz. The lights were a glare to Elliott Savarell: the champagne left a sour taste in his mouth. Nevertheless he drained the glass rather gracelessly and caught the eye of a passing waiter. Yes, anodier. And another. Would that it were good brandy or whisky.
But they wanted him here, didn't they? Wouldn't be the same without the Earl of Rutherford. The Earl