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"Not a particle of sense."
"Unless, of course, we entertain for a m
oment the notion that this mummy is immortal. Then everything falls into place."
"But you don't believe--" Samir stopped. The distress was plain again. In fact, it had worsened.
"Yes?"
"This is preposterous," Samir murmured. "Lawrence died of a heart attack in that tomb. This thing did not kill him! This is madness."
"Was there the slightest evidence of violence?"
"Evidence? No. But there was a feeling about that tomb, and the curses written all over the mummy case. The thing wanted to be left in peace. The sun. It did not want the sun. But it was asking to be left in peace. That is what the dead always want."
"Do they?" Elliott asked. "If I were dead, I'm not sure I would want to be at peace. If it meant being purely dead, that is."
"We're allowing our imaginations to run away with us, Lord Rutherford. Besides ... Henry Stratford was in the tomb when Lawrence died!"
"Hmmmmm. That's true. And Henry didn't see our ragged, rotted friend moving about until this morning."
"I do not like this story. I do not like it at all. I do not like that Miss Stratford is alone in the house with these relics."
"Perhaps the museum should look into it further," Elliott said. "Check up on the mummy. After all, the thing is extremely valuable."
Samir didn't answer. He had sunk into that speechless state again, staring at the desk before him.
Elliott took hold of his cane firmly and rose to his feet. He was getting quite good at hiding the inevitable discomfort of that simple operation. But he had to stand quite still for a few moments to allow the pain to stop. He crushed out his cigarette slowly.
"Thank you, Samir. It's been a most interesting conversation."
Samir looked up as if waking from a dream.
"What the hell do you think is happening, Lord Rutherford!" Slowly he rose to his feet.
"You want my frank opinion of the moment?"
"Well, yes, I do."
"Ramses the Second is an immortal man. He found some secret in ancient times, some compound which rendered him immortal. And he is walking about London with Julie right now."
"You're not serious."
"Yes, I am," said Elliott. "But then I also believe in ghosts, and spirits, and bad luck; I throw salt over my shoulder and touch wood all the time. I should be surprised--no, flabbergasted --if any of this turned out to be true, you understand. But I believe it. At the moment, I believe it. And I'll tell you why. It's the only explanation for what's happened that makes any sense."
Speechless again.
Elliott smiled. He slipped on his gloves, took hold of his walking stick and left the office as if every step were not causing him pain.
HIS WAS the great adventure of her life. Nothing after could ever equal it, of that she was sure. And how utterly surprising that it should be in London, at midday, rushing to and fro amid the noisy, crowded streets she'd known all her life.
Never before had the vast, grimy city seemed magical to her. But it did now. And how did he perceive it--this overgrown metropolis, with its towering brick buildings, its rumbling trams and belching motor cars, and hordes of dark horse-drawn carriages and cabs choking every street. What was he to make of the never-ending advertising, signs of all sizes and descriptions offering goods, services, directions and advice? Were the dim department stores with their stacks of ready-made clothing ugly to him? What did he make of the little shops where the electric lights burned all day long because the streets themselves were too smoky and dark to admit the natural light of the daytime sky?
He loved it. He embraced it. Nothing frightened him or repelled him. He rushed off the kerb to lay hands on the motor cars as they idled. He scampered up the winding steps of the omnibuses to see from the top deck. Into the telegraph office, he sped to study the young secretary at her typewriter. And she, at once charmed by this blue-eyed giant of a man bending over her, sat back to let him strike the keys with his own deft fingers, which he did, at once pounding out Latin sentences which sent him into peals of laughter until he could not go on.
To the offices of The Times, Julie spirited him. He must see the giant printing presses, smell the black ink, hear the deafening noise that filled those immense rooms. He must make the connection among all these inventions. He must see how simple it all was.
She watched as he charmed people everywhere that they went. Men and women deferred to him, as if they knew instinctively that he was royalty. His bearing, his great strides, his radiant smile, subdued those at whom he stared fixedly, those whose hands he hastily clasped, those whose conversation or casual words he listened to, as if receiving a secret message which must not be misunderstood.
