Alex took a glass of champagne from the passing waiter.
'She loves me. She loves me not,' he said softly. 'The simple fact is I cannot live without her. She's driving me mad.'
'Of course you cannot.' Elliott laughed gently. 'Now, look. That clumsy young man down there is stepping on her feet. I'm sure she'd be very grateful if you came to her rescue at once.''
Alex nodded, scarcely noticing as his father took the half-full glass from him and drank down the champagne. He straightened his shoulders and headed back to the dance floor. Such a perfect picture.
' 'The puzzling part is this,'' Randolph said under his breath. 'She loves him. She always has.'
'Yes, but she's like her father. She loves her freedom. And frankly I don't blame her. In a way she's too much for Alex. But he'd make her happy, I know that he would.'
'Of course.'
'And she would make him supremely happy; and perhaps no one else ever will.'
'Nonsense,' Randolph said. 'Any young woman in London would give her eyeteeth for the chance to make Alex happy. The eighteenth Earl of Rutherford? '
'Is that really so important? Our titles, our money, the endless maintenance of our decorative and tiresome little world?' Elliott glanced around the ballroom. This was that lucid and dangerous state with drinking, when everything began to shimmer; when there was meaning in the grain of the marble; when one could make the most offensive speeches. 'I wonder sometimes if I should be in Egypt with Lawrence. And if Alex shouldn't peddle his beloved title to someone else.'
He could see the panic in Randolph's eyes. Dear God, what did the title mean to these merchant princes, these businessmen who had all but the title? It wasn't only that Alex might eventually control Julie, and thereby control the Stratford millions, and that Alex himself would be far easier than Julie to control. It was the prospect of true nobility, of nieces and nephews roaming the park of the old Rutherford estate in Yorkshire, of that miserable Henry Stratford trading on the alliance in every despicable way that he could.
'We're not defeated yet, Elliott,' Randolph said. 'And I rather like your decorative and tiresome little world. What else is there when you get right down to it?'
Elliott smiled. One more mouthful of champagne and he must tell Randolph what else there was. He just might. . . .
* * *
'I love you, fine English,' Malenka said to him. She kissed him, then helped him with his tie, the soft touch of her fingers against his chin making the hairs rise on his neck.
What lovely fools women were, Henry Stratford thought. But this Egyptian woman he had enjoyed more than most. She was dark-skinned, a dancer by profession-a quiet and luscious beauty with whom he could do exactly what he wanted. You never knew that kind of freedom with an English whore.
He could see himself settling someday in an Eastern country with such a woman-free of all British respectability. That is, after he had made his fortune at the tables-that one great win he needed to put him quite beyond the world's reach.
For the moment, there was work to be done. The crowd around the tomb had doubled in size since last evening. And the trick was to reach his uncle Lawrence before the man was swept up utterly by the museum people and the authorities-to reach him now when he just might agree to anything in return for being left alone.
' 'Go on, dearest.'' He kissed Malenka again and watched her wrap the dark cloak about herself and hurry to the waiting car. How grateful she was for these small Western luxuries. Yes, that kind of woman. Rather than Daisy, his London mistress, a spoilt and demanding creature who nevertheless excited him, perhaps because she was so difficult to please.
He took one last swallow of Scotch, picked up his leather briefcase, and left the tent.
The crowds were ghastly. All night long he'd been awakened by die grind and huff of automobiles, and frenzied voices. And now the heat was rising; and he could already feel sand inside his shoes.
How he loathed Egypt. How he loathed these desert camps and the filthy camel-riding Arabs, and the lazy dirty servants. How he loathed his uncle's entire world.
And there was Samir, that insolent, irritating assistant who fancied himself Lawrence's social equal, trying to quiet the foolish reporters. Could this really be the tomb of Ramses II? Would Lawrence grant an interview?
Henry didn't give a damn. He pushed past the men who were guarding the entrance to the tomb.
'Mr. Stratford, please,' Samir called after him. A lady reporter was on his heels. 'Let your uncle alone now,' Samir said as he drew closer. 'Let him savor his find.'
'The hell I will.'
He glared at the guard who blocked his path. The man moved. Samir turned back to hold off the reporters. Who was going into the tomb? they wanted to know.
'This is a family matter,' he said quickly and coldly to the woman reporter trying to follow him. The guard stepped in her path.
* * *
So little time left. Lawrence stopped writing, wiped his brow carefully, folded his handkerchief and made one more brief note:
'Brilliant to hide the elixir in a wilderness of poisons. What safer place for a potion that confers immortality than among potions that bring death. And to think they were her poisons- those which Cleopatra tested before deciding to use the venom of the asp to take her life.''
He stopped, wiped his brow again. Already so hot in here.
And within a few short hours, they'd be upon him, demanding that he leave the tomb for the museum officials. Oh, if only he had made this discovery without the museum. God knows, he hadn't needed them. And they would take it all out of his hands.
The sun came in fine shafts through the rough-cut doorway. It struck the alabaster jars in front of him, and it seemed he heard something-faint, like a whispered breath.
He turned and looked at the mummy, at the features clearly molded beneath the tight wrappings. The man who claimed to be Ramses had been tall, and perhaps robust.
Not an old man, like the creature lying in the Cairo Museum. But then this Ramses claimed that he had never grown old. He was immortal, and merely slept within these bandages. Nothing could kill him, not even the poisons in this room, which he had tried in quantity, when grief for Cleopatra had left him half-mad. On his orders, his servants had wrapped his unconscious body; they had buried him alive, in the coffin he had had prepared for himself, supervising every detail; then they had sealed the tomb with the door that he himself had inscribed.
But what had rendered him unconscious? That was the mystery. Ah, what a delicious story. And what if-?
He found himself staring at the grim creature in its bindings of yellow linen. Did he really believe that something was alive there? Something that could move and speak?
It made Lawrence smile.
He turned back to the jars on the desk. The sun was making the little room an inferno. Taking his handkerchief, he carefully lifted the lid of the first jar before him. Smell of bitter almonds. Something as deadly as cyanide.
And the immortal Ramses claimed to have ingested half the contents of the jar in seeking to end his cursed life.
What if there were an immortal being under those wrappings ?
There came that sound again. What was it? Not a rustling; no, nothing so distinct. Rather like an intake of breath.
Once again he looked at the mummy. The sun was shining full on it in long, beautiful dusty rays-the sun that shone through church windows, or through the branches of old oaks in dim forest glens.
It seemed he could see the dust rising from the ancient figure: a pale gold mist of moving particles. Ah, he was too tired!
And the thing, it did not seem so withered any longer; rather it had taken on the contour of a man.
'But what were you really, my ancient friend?' Lawrence asked softly. 'Mad? Deluded? Or just what you claim
