Lord John in New York

by C. N. Williamson; A. M. Williamson

"It was only for a time, however, that he and his twin sister—able to help him now—searched in vain. He traced the travellers eventually by means of the mummy-case. Your mother was dead: but his vow to his father was not fulfilled while you were alive, and the mummy of Hathor Set under the roof of the Odells. You were too well protected to be easily reached, but there are many ways of accomplishing an end. You were never a strong girl. Plots against your peace of mind were planned and carried out. Once or twice you came near death, but always luck stood between you and what Essain and his sister Zorah believed to be justice. The drama of your life has been a strange one. Your death alone without the restoration of the mummy would not have sufficed, though, had you died, Essain would have moved heaven and earth to gain possession of the body of Hathor Set. At last he has obtained it. The oath of his father's ancestor not to open the mummy was but for the son and the son's son. That has run out many years ago, and Essain felt that the time had come to learn and profit by the secret. He has done so, and holds a wonderful treasure in his hands. The like of it has never been seen in the new world, except in museums of the East. Now the whole duty of Essain's son and daughter has been accomplished, except in one last detail. What that is, you, Madeleine Annesley can guess. I have finished my explanation. But if you would understand more, go now, and look at the mummy-case."

As if fascinated, Maida obeyed. Her brain was working fast. Was her instinct right? Had she been brought here to the House of Revenge to die, or would this soft, sweet voice, telling so calmly the terrible story of two families, add that the last sacrifice would not be permitted? Was the command to rise and look at the mummy-case a test of her physical courage after what she had heard?

To her own surprise, she was no longer conscious of fear. A strange, marble coldness held her in its grip, as if she were becoming a statue. She moved across the room and stopped in front of the mummy-case. Living eyes looked out at her. She saw the dark face so like in feature to the withered face of the mummy. This was the face of her dreams.

The girl recoiled from it and turned to the woman who had been her friend. For the first time the Head Sister had lifted her veil and taken off the mask always worn at the Sisterhood House. Her face seemed identical with that in the mummy-case. It also was the face of Maida's dreams, the haunting horror of her life. Without a word the mystery of the mask and veil became clear to her. The Head Sister's one reason for wearing them was to hide her startling likeness to Essain, her twin brother.

"The end has come," a voice said Maida did not know whether the man or woman spoke. As the mummy-case opened and the figure within stepped out, the world broke for the girl into a cataract of stars which overwhelmed her.

*****

I have told already how I was guided in the direction of Hathor Set. I hoped and believed that I was right, but even so I was far from the end of my quest. Hathor Set is a small town, important only because of its situation and the fact that several rich Arabs have their country houses on the outskirts of the oasis. Each hour, each moment counted: yet how was I to learn which of the houses was Maida's prison? Judging by the precautions taken for the first stages of the journey, it was in no optimistic mood that I rode with my little caravan into the principal street—if street it could be called—of Hathor Set. Our camels trod sand, but to our left was the market, and beyond, a few shops. In the background the secretive white walls of houses clustered, the plumed heads of palms rose out of hidden gardens, and the green dome of a mosque glittered like a peacock's breast against the hot blue sky.

It was not market day, and the open square with its booths and enclosures was deserted: but men stood in the doors of two small shops hopefully designed to attract tourists. One exhibited coarse native pottery, and the other, more ambitious, showed alleged antiques, silk gandourahs, embroideries and hammered brasswork. Above the open door was the name "Said ben Hassan," and underneath was printed amateurishly in English: "Egyptian Curios: Fine Embroideries: French, English and American Speaken."

I had halted, meaning to descend and buy something as an excuse to ask questions, when a dirty, crouching figure which squatted near the floor scrambled up and flung itself before me whining for backsheesh. "Get away!" roared my camel-man, who was in a bad temper because of a forced march. He struck at the beggar with his goad, while the shopkeeper rushed forward to prove his zeal in ridding a customer of the nuisance.

"Wretch!" he exclaimed. "How often have I told thee to depart from my door and not annoy the honoured ones who come to buy? This time it is too much. Thou shalt spend thy next days in prison."