"Well, Miss Stratford, perhaps it was this gentleman your cousin saw," said the genial policeman.
"Oh, it very well might have been," she answered. "But I must take care of my guest now. He's had no breakfast. I must. . ."
Henry knew! She could see it. She struggled to say something civil and appropriately meaningless. That it was past eight o'clock. That she was hungry. Henry was shrinking into the comer. And Ramses was staring at Henry as Ramses moved behind the two Scotland Yard men, towards that handkerchief, and now with a very graceful and quick gesture, he gathered it up from the floor. No one saw this but Julie and Henry. Glaring at Henry, Ramses shoved the handkerchief into the pocket of his robe.
Randolph was staring at her in utter perplexity; one of the Scotland Yard men was plainly bored.
"You're all right, my dear!" said Randolph. "You're certain."
"Oh, yes, I am indeed." She went to him at once, and taking his arm, guided him to the door. The Scotland Yard men followed.
"My name is Inspector Trent, madam," said the vocal one. "And this is my partner, Sergeant Gallon. You must call us if you need us."
"Yes, of course," she said. Henry appeared on the verge of an outburst. Suddenly he bolted, almost knocking her over, and rushed out the open door and through the crowd gathered on the steps.
"Was it the mummy, sir!" someone shouted. "Did you see the mummy walk!"
"Was it the curse!"
"Miss Stratford, are you unharmed!"
The Scotland Yard men exited immediately, Inspector Trent ordering the crowd to disperse at once.
"Well, what the devil is the matter with him!" Randolph muttered. "I don't understand all this."
Julie held his arm all the tighter. No, he couldn't possibly know what Henry had done. He would never have done anything to hurt Father, not really. But how could she be sure? On impulse she kissed him. She slipped her hand onto the back of her uncle's neck, and kissed his cheek.
"Don't worry, Uncle Randolph," she said suddenly. And she felt herself on the verge of tears.
Randolph shook his head. He was humiliated, even a little afraid, and she felt tragically sorry for him as she watched him go. Sorrier than she had ever felt for anyone in her life. She did not realize he was barefoot until he was halfway down the street.
The reporters were following him. As the Scotland Yard men drove away, a pair of the reporters doubled back, and she retreated quickly, slamming the door. She peered out through the glass at the distant figure of her uncle rushing up his own front steps.
Then slowly she turned and came back into the front room.
Silence. The faint singing of the fountain in the conservatory. A horse passing at a brisk trot in the street outside. Rita shivering in the corner, with her apron a little knot in her feverishly working hands.
And Ramses, motionless, in the middle of the room. He stood with his arms folded, looking at her, feet slightly apart as before. The sun was a warm golden haze behind him, leaving his face in shadow. And the deep radiance of his eyes was almost as distracting as the high sheen of his full hair.
For the first time she understood the simple meaning of the word regal. And another word came to her, quite unfamiliar yet perfectly appropriate. It was comely. And it struck her that no small part of his beauty was his expression. He appeared wonderfully clever, and wonderfully curious, though quite collected, all at the same time. Otherworldly, yet perfectly normal. Grander than human; but human nonetheless.
He merely looked at her. The deep folds of the long heavy satin robe moved ever so faintly in the soft current of warm air from the conservatory doors.
"Rita, leave us," she whispered.
"But miss . . ."
"Go."
Silence again. Then he came towards her. No trace of a smile; only a gentle seriousness, eyes widening a little as he appeared to study her face, her hair, her dress.
How must this flimsy lace peignoir look to him? she thought suddenly. Good Lord, does he think the women of these times wear such things about the house and on the street? But he was not looking at the lace. He was staring at the shape of her breasts beneath the loose silk, at the contour of her hips. He looked at her face again and there was no mistaking his expression. It was passionate suddenly. He drew closer and reached out for her shoulders and she felt his warm fingers tighten.
"No," she said.
She shook her head emphatically and she stepped back. She straightened her shoulders, trying not to admit her fear, or the sudden delicious chill that ran up her back and down her arms. "No," she said again with a faint touch of disapproval.
And as she watched, on the edge of fear, the warmth in her breasts astonishing her, he nodded, backed away and smiled. He made a little open gesture with his hands. He spoke in a soft riff of Latin. She caught her name, the word regina, and the word she knew meant house. Julie is Queen in her house.
She nodded.
Her sigh of relief was impossible to disguise. She was shaking again, all over. Could he see it? Of course.
He made a gesture of asking:
"Panis, Julie," he whispered. "Vinum. Panis. " He narrowed his eyes, as if searching for a proper word. "Edere," he whispered, and gestured gracefully to his lips.
"Oh! I know what you're saying. Food, you want food. You want wine and bread." She hurried to the doorway. "Rita," she called out. "He's hungry. Rita, we must get him something to eat at once."
She turned around to see him smiling at her again, with that great warmth of affection she had seen upstairs. He found her pleasing to look at, did he? If only he knew that she found him almost irresistible, that a moment before she had almost locked her arms around him and- Best not to think of that. No, mustn't think of that at all.
4
ELLIOTT SAT back in the wing chair, staring forward at the coal fire. He was as close as possible to the grate, his slippered feet on the fender. The heat of it soothed the pain in his legs and in his hands. He was listening to Henry, veering between impatience and an unexpected fascination. God's vengeance upon Henry had been almost complete for his sins. Henry was a scandal.
"You must have imagined it!" Alex said.
"But I am telling you that damned thing got out of that mummy case and came at me. It strangled me. I felt its hand on me; I looked up into its filthy bandaged face."
"Definitely imagined it," Alex said.
"Imagined it, hell!"
Elliott glanced up at the two young men at the end of the mantel shelf to his right. Henry, unshaven, trembling, the glass of Scotch in his hand. And Alex, immaculate, his hands as clean as a nun's.
"And this Egyptologist fellow, you're saying that he and the mummy are one and the same? Henry, you've been out all night, haven't you? You've been drinking with that girl from the Music Hall. You've been-"
"Well, where the hell did the bastard come from if he's not the mummy!"
Elliott laughed softly. He gave the coals a poke with the tip of his silver cane.
Henry went on undaunted.
"He wasn't there last night! He came down the stairs in Uncle Lawrence's bathrobe! And you haven't seen this man! He's no ordinary man. Anybody who looks at him can tell he's not ordinary."
"He's alone there now? With Julie?"
It took so long for Alex to put things together, trusting soul.
"That's what I Ve been trying to tell you. My God! Isn't there anyone in London who will listen to me?" Henry gulped the Scotch, went to the sideboard and filled his glass again. "And Julie's protecting him. Julie knows what happened. She saw the thing come at me!''
"You're doing yourself a disservice with this story," Alex said gently. "No one's going to believe-"