"Come in, Billy," said Holmes.
The page boy did so but there was no cable or envelope in his hand.
"It's a box, Mr. 'Olmes. Two deliverymen brung it. It's fer Mr. Mycroft 'Olmes, sir. Care of Mr. Sherlock 'Olmes, this address."
"Now that's strange. Mycroft made no mention of this, and surely he has any number of working addresses. Well, best we have a look at it."
"Rather big, sir."
"Oh," said Holmes, springing to his feet. "Come, Watson, and let us see what object comes to Mycroft via our dwelling."
Within the front door was a crate easily five feet long by three feet in width. I glanced at Holmes blankly and drew a responsive shrug. Holmes positioned himself at one end of the box, and with Billy's help I lifted the other end and we maneuvered it up the stairs and into our sitting room. Happily it was not of a great weight, and we had it lying adjacent to the fireplace in short order.
As Billy departed from the room, my friend was surveying the unexpected object with curiosity, which was heightened by the fact that one of the slats of the packing case was obviously loose.
For a moment Holmes waged an inner struggle and then lost it, crossing to secure the clasp knife, though this time he made sure his unanswered correspondence remained neatly stacked on the mantel.
"See here, the object is earmarked for your brother," I protested.
"Agreed, but Mycroft would not deny us a peek, ol' chap."
Holmes had the loose piece of wood pried up before I could muster another objection, and by then it was too late. The knife's stout blade was working out the thin nails that secured the crate and, I blush to admit, I was helping Holmes for I, too, had caught the flash of gold in the light of the fireplace.
What was revealed was certainly unusual. It was the size of a small steamer trunk but glistened with a color unknown to commercial luggage. It was rectangular and its sides were adorned with figures and objects that were strange to me. Finally, an obvious thought forced itself upon me.
"Holmes, if this is of gold, how did we lift it so easily?"
My friend tapped the top of the box with his knuckles.
"Made of wood, I'd say, Watson, and overlaid with sheet gold. A backing of plaster, perhaps."
He had his pocket glass in hand now.
"The ornamental work marks its origin. Egyptian without a doubt. Note the figures, male and female."
"The males seem to wear a kilt type of skirt."
"With the navels showing in each case," replied Holmes. "I believe that is a mark of a certain period in Egyptian art but don't recall which one. See the plethora of signs? Cobras, birds, and this one, resembling our infinity sign, is the life symbol of the Egyptians."
"Whatever do you suppose is inside?"
"That tantalizing thought must remain unanswered, ol' fellow, for we seem denied even a brief look-see."
The sleuth's index finger indicated silver bolts that slid through gold staples and were secured firmly by small and strange-looking locks. Evidently the top of this shiny box opened in the middle like a miniature double door. "The greater mystery is why this object is here. This is no error, for it is plainly addressed to 221B Baker Street."
Holmes stood by the mantel for a moment, his broad brow furrowed in thought, and then either he reached a decision or some new idea came to his superb mind.
"Well, I can draw no meaning from the ornamentation save that it reflects court scenes. Egypt must remain Mycroft's specialty until we learn more, and as to the contents, we can do naught but guess. Here, Watson, let's stretch this afghan over the container, for the hour grows late."
Automatically I helped Holmes cover the box, though his reason for doing this escaped me completely. Once the object was under the afghan that my friend took from our couch, a rapid gesture of warning put me on the alert. All was not as it seemed.
"Let's see," said Holmes calmly. "I'd best get these messages out of the way."
He was at the desk fiddling with papers but only with one hand. The other was signaling towards my medical bag by the cane rack and I made for it with alacrity, bringing it to Holmes at the desk. He kept up a desultory flow of conversation, like a man preparing to retire for the night, all the while removing my stethoscope.
"Stir up the fire, will you, good fellow?" he suggested, affixing the instrument to his head.
I had a poker in my hand in a moment and stirred up the logs, noting that Holmes tiptoed to the covered object and applied the stethoscope to its cover. I took pains at this point not to make undue noise and, after a moment, Holmes seemed satisfied and removed himself to the desk area where he restored my indispensable medical aid to its resting place.
"Well, Watson, shall we turn in?"
"I'm for it," I said rather loudly, and my accompanying yawn was authentic and not dumb show.
Without further ado Holmes extinguished the lights, but now I understood his suggestion regarding the fire since the flames still provided illumination in the room. Following Holmes's lead, I went towards the back stairs. My friend carefully left the door ajar and we progressed up the steps, making a bit more noise than necessary in doing so.
Before we reached the landing, Holmes had one of my arms in his steely grasp and his lips were close to my ear.
"Get your hand gun, old fellow, and tiptoe back down this way. Position yourself by the door and watch that box like a hawk. There's something in there, Watson, something alive. I'll duck round by the front stairs to the entrance door, which is not locked. When you spot it opening, you'll know I'm in place and we'll have whatever is in that Trojan horse bottled up."
Like a dark shadow Holmes was gone, and my heart was pounding as I made all speed to secure the Webley from my bedroom and inch my way back down the stairs to my station. Somehow the thought of a great Anaconda snake slithering out of the strange box kept coming to my mind and I was in a bit of a blue funk when I took position by the half-opened door and peered into our sitting room.
The box with its cover was plainly visible in the dancing light of the fireplace. I reasoned that the afghan was a device of Holmes's in case there was a peephole through which a human eye could have observed us. The thought of something human helped my nervous state until I began to wonder what form of mankind could be secreted in such a small area.
It was then I noted that our front door was silently opening. Its well-oiled hinges made no protest, for which I was grateful, and then its movement ceased. Now for the waiting.
Whatever had entered our quarters in such an outré manner must have been patient, for at least a half hour went by and my bones were aching, desirous of a change of position, which I was able to effect silently several times. Then there was a stir, and the afghan began to rise and then slide down, revealing the golden box. The entire top was rising, and I immediately realized that the bolts had been to create an illusion and that the top was actually secured from the inside. There was a lengthy pause, and then I could dimly discern two small, dark hands that lifted the top of the box. A figure rose from the interior and gently placed the lid on the floor. It was with difficulty that I suppressed an exclamation.
The black hair of this almost doll-like figure hung in two braids down the back of an oversized head that seemed wizened and not young at all as its size at first had suggested. He hopped out of the golden box agilely, landing silently with bare feet on our carpet. A flicker of the firelight revealed broad lips that were skinned back exposing small teeth, filed to a point. There was such an evil menace about the face that I shuddered. It looked like a coconut shell with features painted on it in the manner of primitive art among the aborigines of the South Pacific. But the filed teeth were shockingly real and lent a death's-head quality to this bizarre apparition. A loincloth and a child's-size rough shirt was its costume.