"Well?"
Ali Mahmoud repeated the gesture.
"Nothing," he explained simply. "All the men say they have seen this unknown thing. I am glad you have returned, Desmond Effendi!"
In the morning Desmond awakened early. The vague horror of the night, the mystery of the "thing" seen in the temple ruins, had fled.
Egyptian sunlight flooded the prospect, and he thought that moderate diligence on the part of the gang today should bring him within sight of his goal.
Ali Mahmoud, having performed his duty of awakening his chief, did not retire at once, but stood in the door of the tent, a tall, imposing figure, regarding Desmond strangely.
"Well?" Desmond asked.
"There is more trouble," the Egyptian answered simply. "Follow me, effendi, and you shall see!"
Desmond leaped out of bed immediately and followed the man to the excavation. The site was deserted. Not a labourer was there.
"Where are the men —?" he began.
Ali Mahmoud extended his palms.
"Deserted!" he replied. "Those Coptic mongrels, those shames of their mothers who foraged with their shoes on, have abandoned the world"
Desmond clenched his fists, and for many moments was silent.
"You and I, Ali Mahmoud," he said at length, "will do the work ourselves!"
"It is agreed," the Egyptian replied; "but upon the condition, Desmond Effendi, that neither you nor I shall remain here to-night."
"What?"
Desmond glared angrily, but Ali remained unmoved.
"I am a man of few words," he said, in his simple, direct fashion; "but that which I saw last night was no fit thing for a man to see. Tonight I go. You, too, effendi, will leave the temple."
Brian Desmond was on fire, but he knew his man too well to show it. Moreover, he respected him.
"Be it so," he said, turned, and went back to his tent.
They laboured, those two, with pick and shovel and basket, from early morning until dusk. They worked as of old the slaves of Pharaoh worked. Not even under the merciless midday sun did they stay or slacken their herculean toils; and when, at coming of welcome evening, they threw down their tools in utter exhaustion, the narrow portals of the secret chamber were uncovered. Standing at the bottom of the shaft, sweat-begrimed, aching in every limb, the brown man and the white solemnly shook hands.
"Ali Mahmoud," said Desmond, "you are real Britishi"
"Desmond Effendi," the Egyptian answered, "you are a true Moslem!"
The desert toilet completed and the evening meal dispatched, Brian Desmond lit his pipe and stood staring out across the violet landscape toward the Valley of the Queens.
That day he had actually cleared the debris from before a door wrought of the red sandstone of Silsilis, which almost certainly was the portal of the secret Treasure Room. Despite the superstitious character of the natives, the spot was altogether too near to Luxor for the excavation to be left unguarded. Some predatory agent of a thieving dealer, or of an ambitious rival — for it had been well said that there is no honour among excavators — armed with suitable implements, might filch the treasure-trove destined to establish definitely the reputation of Brian Desmond.
Ali Mahmoud refused to remain — and Mme. de Medicis was waiting in the perfumed cabin of the dahabeah, where an incense burner sent up its smoke pencils of ambergris; and her golden eyes would be soft as the eyes of the gazelles.
But whosoever would retain the mastery of Moslems must first learn to retain the mastery of himself. Once let the idea that a place is haunted take root in the Arab mind, and, short of employing shackles, nothing could persuade a native to remain in that spot after sunset. Thus, at Kamak, the Bab el Abid, or Gate of the Slaves, a supposed secret apartment in the Temple of Mentu, is said to be watched over by a gigantic black afreet. No Egyptian would willingly remain alone in the vicinity of that gate by night.
Desmond entered his tent, trimmed and lighted the lamp, and wrote a note excusing himself and explaining his reasons. Sadi, the Persian poet, sings that love can conquer all; but Sadi lacked the opportunity of meeting a British archaeologist Though every houri of Mohammed's paradise had beckoned him, Brian Desmond would not have been guilty of leaving the treasure of Taia unguarded.
Clapping his hands — a signal which Ali Mahmoud promptly answered — he handed the letter to the tall Egyptian.
"Give this personally to Mme. de Medicis," he said, "on the dahabeah Nitocris. Then do as you please."
"And you, effendi?"
"I agreed with you to leave the temple," Desmond answered. "I shall do so; but I did not agree not to return."
The fine face of Ali Mahmoud afforded a psychological study. Verbal subtlety is dear to the Arab mind. Desmond Ef-fendi had tricked him, but tricked him legitimately.
"It is true," he answered; "but my heart misgives me."
He saluted Desmond gravely, and departed, his slippered feet making no noise upon the sandy ground. Like a shadow he glided from the tent door and was gone.
Desmond stood looking after the headman, and thinking of many things. The fires of his anger were by no means extinct; but Ali Mahmoud was staunch, and had laboured well. The night would pass, and the morrow held golden promise.
A faint, cool breeze fanned his brow, and about him lay that great peace which comes to Egypt with the touch of night. Vague sounds proceeded, for a time, from the direction of the Arab village, and once a pariah dog set up his dismal howling upon a mound not twenty yards away. Desmond could see the beast, painted in violet shadows against the sand; and, picking up a stone, he hurled it well and truly. With it went the last vapours of his rekindled wrath. The beautiful silence had become complete.
For long he stood there, smoking his pipe, and watching the eager velvet darkness claiming the land, until the perfect night of Egypt ruled the Thebaid, and the heavens opened their million windows that the angels might look upon the picture below.
Half regretfully, he turned and entered the tent. In the sandy floor his bottle of whisky was buried; in a bucket of water were the "baby Polly" bottles. These latter he might reveal; but for Ali Mahmoud to detect him using strong liquor would be the signal for the headman's departure. That he so indulged was understood, but that he should keep his vice decently secret from every good Moslem was a sine qua non.
He helped himself to a peg, concealed the "vice" again, and set out to walk to the river, there to taunt himself with a sight of the twinkling lights of madame's dahabeah — and to carry out his pledge to Ali Mahmoud.
No more than ten paces had he gone when he became aware of a curious, cold tingling of his skin. The sensation was novel, but highly unpleasant. It gradually rose to his scalp — a sort of horrific chill quite unaccountable.
Remotely, sweetly, he heard, or thought he heard, a woman's voice calling his name: "Brian! Brian!"
He stopped short. He felt his heart leap in his bosom. The voice had seemed to come from westward — from beyond the temple.
"Who's there?" he cried.
No one answered. A bat circled erratically overhead, as if blindly seeking some lost haven; then it swooped and was gone into some cranny of the great pylon.
"Brian! Brian!"
Again it came, more intimately, that sweet, uncanny crying of his name.
"Brian! Brian!"
Making for the moon-white angle of the great ruin, Desmond set out at a rapid pace. The woman, whoever she was, must be approaching by the path which skirted the temple — approaching from the valley below El Kurn, the Valley of the Queens.
He had almost gained the comer, wherefrom he could command a clear view of the path, when suddenly he pulled up. The icy finger of superstition touched him.
Who, or what, could be coming from the Tombs of the Queens at that hour of night? Breathing checked, muscles tensed, he stood listening.