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"Yes," said Samir Ibrahaim quietly from the outer edge of the circle where he sat. "But I tell you there were only five when I cataloged the collection, and none of us has seen this so-called stolen coin."
"Nevertheless," said Hancock, "Mr. Taylor is a reputable coin dealer. He was certain the coin was authentic. And that it was Henry Stratford who offered it for sale."
"Stratford could have stolen it in Egypt," said the elder gentleman. There were a couple of nods from the circle.
"The collection should be in the museum," said Hancock. "We should be making our examinations of the Ramses mummy now. The Cairo Museum is angry about this controversy. And now, this coin--"
"But, gentlemen," Samir interrupted. "Surely we can make no decision about the safety of the collection until we've talked to Miss Stratford."
"Miss Stratford is very young," Hancock said snappishly. "And she is in a state of grief which clouds her judgment."
"Yes," said the elder gentleman. "But surely everyone present realizes that Lawrence Stratford contributed millions to this museum. No, I think Samir is right. We cannot move the collection until Miss Stratford gives her permission."
Hancock glanced again at the newspapers. " 'Ramses Rises from the Grave,' " he read. "I tell you I don't like it."
"Perhaps another guard should be posted," said Samir. "Perhaps two."
The elder gentleman nodded. "Good suggestion. But again, Miss Stratford's feelings are to be considered."
"Perhaps you should call on her!" Hancock said, glaring at Samir. "You were her father's friend."
"Very well, sir," Samir answered in a low voice. "I shall certainly do that."
Early evening: the Hotel Victoria. Ramses had been dining since four o'clock, when the sun was still slanting through the leaded glass, onto the white-draped tables. Now it was dark; candles blazed everywhere; the ceiling fans turned very slowly, barely stirring the fronds of the tall, elegant dark-green palms in their brass pots.
Liveried waiters brought plate after plate of food without comment, eyebrows arched as they opened the fourth bottle of Italian red wine.
Julie had finished her scant meal hours ago. They were deep in conversation now, the English flowing as easily as the wine flowed.
She had taught Ramses how to use the heavy silver, but he ignored it. In his time only a barbarian would have shoveled food into the mouth.
In fact, he had remarked after a little consideration, no one had shoveled food into the mouth. There was time for Julie to explain how silverware had come about. For now, she must agree that he was most, most ... fastidious, she volunteered. Elegant, civilized, deft at the breaking of bread and meat into small portions, and the placing of them on the tongue without the fingers touching the lips.
She was now deep into her discussion of revolution. "The first machines were simple--for weaving, tilling the fields. It was the idea of the machine that caught the mind."
"Yes."
"If you make a machine to do one thing, then you can perfect a machine to do another...."
"I understand you."
"And then came the steam engine, the motor car, the telephone, the aeroplane."
"I want to do it, fly in the sky."
"Of course, and we shall do it. But do you understand the concept, the revolution in thinking?"
"Of course. I don't come to you, as you say, from the nineteenth dynasty of Egypt's history, I come to you from the first days of the Roman Empire. My mind is, how do you say it, flexible, adaptable. I am constantly in, how do you say it, revolution?"
Something startled him; at first she didn't realize what it was. The orchestra had begun, very softly, so that she scarcely heard it over the hum of conversation. He rose, dropping his napkin. He pointed across the crowded room.
The soft strains of the "Merry Widow Waltz" rose strongly over the hum of conversation. Julie turned to see the little string orchestra assembled on the other side of the small polished dance floor.
Ramses rose and went towards them.
"Ramses, wait," Julie said. But he didn't listen to her. She hurried after him. Surely everyone was looking at the tall man who marched across the dance floor and came to a quick stop right in front of the musicians as if he were the conductor himself.
He positively glared at the violins, at the
