Early in August I received a note from a well-known dealer in antiques to the effect that an ancient couch of Egyptian workmanship had come into his possession. As I have myself a small collection of Egyptian curios — though insignificant beside that of Maurice Bode — and, as such antiquities are always of interest to me, I called at the shop to examine the specimen.
I must confess that I was anticipating comparatively modem workmanship, probably evincing indications of the Roman influence; it was, therefore, a welcome surprise to find that the couch alluded to was of much earlier design. It was constructed to grotesquely resemble a leopard, the feet and claws being of copper. The body of the couch and a part of the legs were of acacia-wood, heavily gilded. The head and shoulders of the leopard were so contrived as to furnish a hollow, presumably for the reception of a large cushion, and along the framework of this singular piece ran a line of partially defaced hieroglyphics. The execution throughout was magnificent, and, though fantastic, betrayed considerable artistic taste. The wood had in many places decayed, and of the hieroglyphics I could make neither head nor tail. Nevertheless, I would have given much to possess it; but the figure mentioned by the dealer placed it beyond the reach of my somewhat slender purse.
"The price I'm asking leaves me very little profit, sir," he assured me. "It was one of the lots put up at Northbie's last Friday, and there were buyers from three big museums to bid against."
"Who was the previous owner?" I inquired.
"Professor Bayton, who died at the beginning of the year. It was the last item he ever added to his collection."
"How did they describe it at Northbie's?"
"Antique Egyptian couch — later Theban."
"No further particulars?"
"No, sir," said the dealer, with a smile.
I determined to draw the attention of Bode to this very peculiar piece of furniture, and, mentioning my intention, I left the shop. It so happened, however, that the doctor was out of town at the time, and nearly a week elapsed before I saw him. At the earliest opportunity I called at his place, and proceeded to describe what I had seen, intending to ask him to accompany me upon a second visit. There was no need for me to make the request: I saw from the first that he was interested; and when I endeavoured to explain the unusual formation of the leopard's head he sprang up excitedly.
Seizing a sheet of paper and a pencil, he executed a rapid sketch. "Like that?" he said eagerly.
"Exactly!" I replied, in astonishment.
"We'll go now," was his next remark; and clapping his hat on his head, he clutched me by the arm and hurried from the house.
On the way I endeavoured to elicit from him some explanation of his sudden enthusiasm; but he declined to gratify my curiosity, promising to explain more fully later. Upon our arrival at the dealer's a disappointment awaited us. The couch had been sold two days before to a wealthy amateur collector, and was only that morning removed from the shop.
I have rarely seen Bode so keenly annoyed. "I'd have willingly given twice the price," he declared. "The thing is of no earthly use to M'Quown; to me it is of vital importance."
We were both acquainted with the purchaser, and I suggested that we should call upon him and examine the antique. My friend, however, opposed this. "M'Quown has wanted a certain uraeus from my collection for a long time," he said. "I shall endeavour to arrange an exchange."
As I knew that Maurice Bode numbered this uraeus to which he alluded — the earliest example extant — among the three most valuable items of his museum, I wondered more and more why he was so eager to gain possession of the leopard-couch. I was about to press him for an explanation, when he began abruptly:
"You are no doubt wondering what peculiar attraction this object has for me? Well, then, let me explain. I need not point out to you that I regard Egyptology from a different standpoint to that of previous and most contemporary inquirers, principally in that I look upon the period between the reign of Mena (once termed the first historic Pharaoh) and the Christian era merely as the latter end of Egyptian history. You are familiar with the results of my investigations upon the site of Heuopol-is, and you know that I have definitely established the existence of dynasties earlier than the Theban. The secret of that synonym for mystery, the Sphinx of Gizeh, seemed almost within my grasp when an essential datum eluded me."
"You refer, of course, to the nature of the creed professed by the leopard-worshippers?"
"Precisely! At that point my investigations failed utterly. We both know that a mystic cult, the emblem of whose doctrine was some extinct or mythical species of white leopard, actually existed up to the reign of Tehuti-mes III; but subsequently, as you are aware, this ancient and mysterious priesthood, prob ably founded before the carving of the great sphinx, totally disappears. I take it that this leopard-couch which has fallen into the hands of M'Quown was used in their temple — probably about the time of Hatshepsu."
Bode had no immediate opportunity to further pursues the matter, for on the following day he again left London in response to an urgent appeal from the Continent, where he was engaged in some matter connected with one of the principal museums. He was still absent at the end of August, and it was upon the last day of the month that I observed the following paragraph in a well-known scientific journaclass="underline"
"The extensive collection of antiquities made by the late Mr Edward M'Quown, who died suddenly this month, will be sold by auction tomorrow by Messrs. Northbie, at their house in Wellington Street. The sale will commence at 11 a.m. when a large attendance may be expected."
I had known M'Quown slightly, and, as he was barely forty, was shocked to learn of his death. I saw, however, that I must act with promptitude, and without a moment's delay I sent off a wire to Bode:
"M'Quown dead. Auction tomorrow. Am I to secure the couch?"
The reply was brief but definite:
"At all costs — Bode."
Accordingly, at the hour of eleven on the following morning, I duly presented myself at the auction-rooms. I found the couch to be catalogued as Lot 13, and a mournful man who stood immediately beside me commented upon this circumstance.
"Between ourselves, I am inclined to think that the bidding for Lot 13 will be rather slow," he confided. "An unlucky number to an unlucky article."
"I am afraid I don't quite follow," said I.
"Well, does any one know where Professor Bayton got the thing? No, nobody does. Did he or did he not die three weeks after it came into his possession? He died. How long did M'Quown have the couch? Four days! Then he died. Now it's up as Lot 13; and if you're thinking of bidding, it's my personal opinion that you'll get it cheap."
Whatever the reason, it was an undoubted fact that the bids for Lot 13 were few and cautious. It was ultimately knocked down to me at one-third of the price that poor M'Quown had paid for it. There were no other lots in which I was interested, so, having made arrangements for the conveying of the couch to my rooms, I wired Bode of my success, and spent the remainder of the day delving among Babylonian records in the British Museum. I returned home about half-past six, to find that the purchase had just arrived and hastening through my dinner, I lit a cigarette and began a methodical examination of this latest acquisition.