had tried to interfere with the creature. Indeed, I think he was afraid to do so. But he had summoned up enough courage to follow it, at a safe distance.
'Where did it go?' I demanded. 'To the village?'
Abdullah shook his head.
'Not village. Into the wadi, to the royal tomb. I did not follow; I thought you need me, I come here.'
Emerson laughed shortly.
'So it is the ghost of Khuenaten we have with us? Come, now, Abdullah, that does not make sense. Our ghost is an avenging Amonist Priest, if you remember, not a follower of the heretic king.'
'Oh, stop it,' I said impatiently. 'I cannot blame Abdullah for not following the thing. We agreed, did we not, that the villain, whoever he is, must conceal his grisly costume in some remote place. He was on his way there. Perhaps he went to the village later.'
Emerson was about to reply when Evelyn's quiet voice broke in.
'I think we should end the discussion. Waiter ought to rest.'
Walter opened his eyes when she spoke, but I had seen the signs of fatigue too.
'Evelyn is right,' I said, rising. 'She, too, has had a nasty experience.'
'I am all right,' Walter muttered. 'Of course you are,' I said, with a cheer I did not feel. Fever commonly follows such wounds, and infection is rampant in Egypt. But there was no point in anticipating trouble. 'All you need is rest. Come along, Evelyn- Lucas- '
'I must say one thing first.' Lucas bent over the pallet where the sick man lay. 'Walter, please tell me you forgive my clumsiness. I had no intention- '
'It was very stupid, all the same,' said Emerson, as Walter made a feeble gesture of conciliation.
'You are right,' Lucas muttered. 'But if you had been in my place- you saw, I know, but you did not feel the recoil of the pistol, and then see that ghastly thing come on and on…' With a sudden movement he pulled the gun from his pocket. 'I shall never use this again. There is one bullet left…'
His arm straightened, pointing the gun out the mouth of the tomb. His finger was actually tightening on the trigger when Emerson moved. The man was constantly surprising me; his leap had a tigerish swiftness I would not have expected. His fingers clasped around Lucas's wrist with a force that made the younger man cry out.
'You fool,' Emerson mumbled around the stem of the pipe. Snatching the gun from Lucas's palsied hand, he put it in his belt. 'The echoes from a shot in this confined place would deafen us. Not to mention the danger of a ricochet… I will take charge of your weapon. Lord Ellesmere. Now go to bed.'
Lucas left without another word. I felt an unexpected stab of pity as I watched him go, his shoulders bowed and his steps dragging. Evelyn and I followed. As soon as she had dropped off to sleep I went back onto the ledge, and somehow I was not surprised to see Emerson sitting there. His feet dangling over empty space, he was smoking his pipe and staring out at the serene vista of star-strewn sky with apparent enjoyment.
'Sit down, Peabody,' he said, gesturing at the ledge beside him. 'That discussion was getting nowhere, but I think you and I might profit from a quiet chat.'
I sat down.
'You called me Amelia, earlier,' I said, somewhat to my own surprise.
'Did I?' Emerson did not look at me. 'A moment of aberration, no doubt.'
'You were entitled to be distracted,' I admitted. 'Seeing your brother struck down… It was not entirely Lucas's fault, Emerson. Walter rushed into the path of the bullet.'
'In view of the fact that his lordship had already fired twice without result, I would have supposed he would have sensed enough to stop.' I shivered.
'Get a shawl, if you are cold,' said Emerson, smoking.
'I am not cold. I am frightened. Are none of us willing to admit the consequences of what we saw? Emerson, the bullet struck that thing. I saw them strike.'
'Did you?'
'Yes! Where were you, that you did not see?'
'I saw its hands, or paws, clutch at its breast,' Emerson admitted. ' Peabody, I expected better of you. Are you becoming a spiritualist?'
'I hope I am reasonable enough not to deny an idea simply because it is unorthodox,' I retorted. 'One by one our rational explanations are failing.'
'I can think of at least two rational explanations for the failure of the bullets to harm the creature,' Emerson said. 'A weapon of that type is extremely inaccurate, even in the hands of an expert, which I believe his lordship is not. He may have fired two clean misses, and the Mummy put on a performance of being hit in order to increase our mystification.'
'That is possible,' I admitted. 'However, if I stood in the Mummy's shoes- or sandals, rather- I should hate to depend on Lucas's bad marksmanship. What is your other explanation.'
Some form of armor,' Emerson replied promptly. 'I don't suppose you read novels, Peabody? A gentleman named Rider Haggard is gaining popularity with his adventurous tales; his most recent book, King Solomon's Mines, concerns the fantastic experiences of three English explorers who seek the lost diamond mines of that biblical monarch. At one point in the tale he mentions chain mail, and its usefulness in deflecting the swords and spears of primitive tribes. I believe it would also stop a small-caliber bullet. Have we not all heard of men being saved from bullet wounds by a book- it is usually a Bible- carried in their breast pocket? I have often thought it a pity that our troops in the Sudan are not equipped with armor. Even a padded leather jerkin, such as the old English foot soldiers wore, would save many a life.'
'Yes,' I admitted. 'The wrappings could cover some such protective padding. And I have read of Crusaders' armor being found in this mysterious continent, even in Cairo antique shops. But would such an ingenious idea occur to a man like Mohammed?'
'Let us abandon that idea once and for all. Mohammed was not the Mummy.'
'How can you be so sure?'
'Its height,' Emerson replied calmly. 'For a moment Walter was close enough so that I could measure their comparative height. It was as tall as he, or taller. Mohammed and the other villagers are small people. Bad diet and poor living conditions -- '
'How can you be so cool? Discussing diet, at such at a time -- '
'Why,' said Emerson, puffing away, 'I am beginning to enjoy myself. Lord Ellesmere's sporting instincts have infected me; he reminds me that an Englishman's duty is to preserve icy detachment under any and all circumstances. Even if he were being boiled to provide a cannibal's dinner it would be incumbent upon him to- '
'I would expect that you would be taking notes on the dietary habits of aborigines as the water bubbled around your neck,' I admitted. 'But I cannot believe you are really so calm about Walter's injury.'
'That is perceptive of you. In fact, I mean to catch the person who is responsible for injuring him.'
I believed that. Emerson's voice was even, but it held a note that made me glad I was not the person he referred to:
'You have left off your bandages,' I said suddenly.
'You are absolutely brilliant tonight, Peabody.'
'I am sure you should not- '
'I cannot afford to pamper myself. Matters are approaching a climax.'
'Then what shall we do?'
'You, asking for advice? Let me feel your brow, Peabody, I am sure you must be fevered.'
'Really, your manners are atrocious,' I exclaimed angrily.
Emerson raised one hand in a command for silence.
