“Again I see the ring,” she said, “a hand is holding it before me. The ring bears a green scarab, upon which is written the name of a king of Egypt.... The ring is gone. I can see it no more.”
“Seek it,” directed Abû Tabâh in a low voice, and threw more incense upon the fire. “Are you seeking it?”
“Yes,” replied the girl, who now began to tremble violently, “I am in a low passage which slopes downwards so steeply that I am afraid.”
“Fear nothing,” said Abû Tabâh; “follow the passage.”
With marvelous fidelity the girl described the passage and the shaft leading to the King’s Chamber in the Pyramid of Méydûm. She described the cavity in the wall where once (if Hassan es-Sugra was worthy of credence) the ring had been concealed.
“There is a freshly made hole in the stonework,” she said. “The picture has gone; I am standing in some dark place and the same hand again holds the ring before me.”
“Is it the hand of an Oriental,” asked Abû Tabâh, “or of a European?”
“It is the hand of a European. It has disappeared; I see a funeral procession winding out from Rikka into the desert.”
“Follow the ring,” directed Abû Tabâh, a queer, compelling note in his voice.
Again he sprinkled perfume upon the fire and—