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"I thought it was Ramses the Great," Alex interrupted.
"They are one and the same, you numbskull. Ramses the Second, Ramses the Great, Ramses the Damned. It was all in those scrolls, I tell you--about Cleopatra and this Ramses. Didn't you read it in the papers? I thought Uncle Lawrence was going soft from the heat."
"I think you need a rest, possibly in hospital. All this talk of a curse--"
"Damn it, don't you understand me! It's worse than a curse. The thing tried to kill me. It moved, I tell you. It's alive."
Alex stared at Henry with a thinly veiled look of revulsion. Same look he reserves for newspapers, Elliott thought glumly.
"I'm going to see Julie. Father, if you'll excuse ..."
"Of course, that's exactly what you should do." Elliott looked into the fire again. "See about this Egyptologist person. Where he came from. She shouldn't be alone in that house with a stranger. It's absurd."
"She's alone in that house with the damned mummy!" Henry growled.
"Henry, why don't you go home and get some sleep?" Alex asked. "I shall see you later, Father."
"You bloody twit!"
Alex ignored the insult. It seemed an amazingly easy insult to ignore. Henry emptied the glass again and went back to the sideboard.
Elliott listened to the chink of the bottle against the glass. "And this man, this mysterious Egyptologist, did you catch his name?" he asked.
"Reginald Ramsey, try that one on for size. And I could swear she made it up on the spot." He came back to the mantel shelf, resting his elbow on it, with a full tumbler of Scotch, which he sipped slowly, his eyes darting anxiously away as Elliott looked up. "I didn't hear him speak a word of English; and you should have seen the look in his eye. I'm telling you--you've got to do something!"
"Yes, but precisely what?"
"How the hell should I know? Catch the damned thing, that's what!"
Elliott gave a short laugh. "If this thing or person or whatever it is tried to strangle you, why is Julie protecting it? Why hasn't it strangled her?"
Henry stared forward blankly for a moment. Then he took another deep gulp from the glass. Elliott eyed him coldly. Not mad. No. Hysterical, but not mad.
"What I am asking," Elliott said softly, "is why would it try to harm you?"
"For the love of hell, it's a mummy, isn't it? I was the one traipsing about over there in its bloody tomb! Not Julie. I found Lawrence dead in the damned tomb--"
Henry stopped, as if he had just realized something. He was no longer merely blank-faced; he was in a visible state of shock.
Their eyes locked, but only for an instant. Elliott looked down at the fire. This is the young man I once cared for, he thought, once caressed with tenderness and hunger; once loved. And now he is reaching the end of something, the very end. And revenge ought to be sweet, but it isn't.
"Look," Henry said. He was almost stammering. "There's some sort of twist to this, some sort of explanation. But the thing, whatever it is, has to be stopped. It could have Julie in some sort of spell."
"I see."
"No, you don't see. You think I'm mad. And you despise me. You always have."
"No, not always."
Again they looked at each other. Henry's face was wet now with perspiration. His lip trembled slightly, and then he looked away.
Utterly desperate, Elliott thought. He has nowhere to hide anymore from himself, that's the crux of it.
"Well, whatever you think," Henry said, "I'm not spending another night in that house. I'm having my things sent to the club."
"You can't leave her alone there. It isn't proper. And in the absence of a formal engagement between Julie and Alex, I cannot properly interfere."
"The hell you can't. And the hell I won't go where I wish. I tell you I won't stay there."
