_A Message From Pharaoh._
On the morning following her visit to the opera, Betty sat at her
desk in the library, with a copy of the _Literary Digest_, which had
just arrived in the mail spread out before her. The waiting heap of
correspondence was forgotten, and she read and reread as if hypnotized
the chance advertisement which had caught her eye:
"Wanted:--Translator of Egyptian inscriptions and papyri of later
dynastic periods. Scholar conversant with Mallory method preferred.
Exceptionally high rates, tripling those ever previously paid in
America will be given for accurate authentic work. No immediate time
limit. Call office nine, National Egyptological Museum."
A gray haze of exuding frost arose from the bare dun lawns stretching
before the window and the cedars drooped their branches as if weary
of the long wait for spring, but she was blind to the somber prospect
before her. Instead rose gorgeous pictures of the East and her vision
was peopled with the glory of long-buried kings.
Her own precarious position, the inexplicable shadow which lay like a
pall over the house, even the dead man upon whom she had stumbled on
that never-to-be-forgotten night had faded alike from her thoughts, and
her eyes glowed with an eagerness almost fanatical.
If only she dared to reply in person to the advertisement! Aside from
the emolument, which might prove an asset by no means to be despised in
her straitened circumstances, the work would relieve her mind from the
terrific strain under which she had placed herself.
Why should she not avail herself of this opportunity to pursue a study
which possessed for her an irresistible fascination? In spite of her
preoccupation, time hung heavily upon her hands and she had come to
dread the many hours during which she was left to her own devices with
only the wretched treadmill of her thoughts to bear her company.
It might be that with the successful accomplishment of her strange
mission at the opera house she would enter upon a new phase of her
present situation, with exciting adventures in store for her, on like
mysterious errands, but she looked forward to that contingency with no
lightening of her spirit. It would be merely a part of the task which
she had assumed, and was constrained to carry through.
But to feel again the rustle of ancient papyrus beneath her fingers; to
decipher the messages pictured in quaint hieroglyphs by patient hands
long since turned to dust, that the unborn legions of the future might
sit at the feet of ageless philosophy; to delve once more into a past
which was of a bygone age even when three wise men journeyed out of the
East--the desire became an obsession which she tried vainly to exorcise.
She did indeed thrust the idea from her while the letters demanded
her attention, but it returned again with unabated force with the
first moment of leisure. Why should she not at least investigate the
advertisement?
At luncheon, Mrs. Atterbury herself precipitated her decision.
"My dear, I wish you would go to Jennings' Art Shop for me this
afternoon and select a Colonial frame for that tall mirror which hangs
in my room. They sent me a gilt monstrosity when I ordered by 'phone,
and I don't want the bother of going myself. If you walk straight
across town until you come to the park, and follow its wall around the
southern end to the east side you cannot miss it. The Egyptian Museum
is on the opposite corner. By the way, Professor Stolz tells me that
you, too, are interested in Egyptology. How did you ever acquire a
liking for that sort of thing in the middle west?"
"Through a neighbor, who had made a study of it in Egypt," Betty
replied readily enough. "It is really fascinating, like a grown-up
picture puzzle. But about the mirror, does the shopman know the size
you require?"
With the details of her commission carefully pigeon-holed in her mind,
the girl started upon her errand. She walked briskly, for she realized
that her time must be accounted for, and she had determined to use a
portion of it for her own ends. Reaching the park, she struck boldly
through it instead of following the longer way around, and no one who
had known its every path could have chosen a more direct course than
she, a self-confessed stranger.
The purchase was quickly consummated and she had turned to leave the
shop, when a figure barred her way. She glanced up to find herself
confronted by a tiny, fairy-like creature wrapped in sables with a
great bunch of livid purple orchids at her belt. Her hair shimmered
like spun gold beneath the fur toque and her face, innocent of
cosmetics, was exquisitely fair.
For an instant the stranger visibly hesitated and then as if resolutely
checking her impulse, turned and walked to a distant counter.
Betty, too, halted in uncontrollable surprise, then made her way to the
street as if in a daze. She had never, to her knowledge, encountered
the other before, yet the stranger's face had blanched at sight of her
and in the round, babyish blue eyes which for a fleeting moment had
met hers, she read unmistakable repulsion and an underlying desperate
fear. For whom had the woman mistaken her? She was veiled, but the
birthmark must have been plainly discernible. Could it be that her
disfigurement was so great as to cause such repugnance and almost
hysterical fear in a chance observer?
The sight of the museum, however, drove all thought of the odd
encounter from her mind, and as she ascended the low, broad steps
to the revolving entrance door she resolved to accept the proffered
opportunity, whatever the result should Mrs. Atterbury discover her
dereliction.
The gray-haired attendant directed her to an upper floor where in a
broad echoing marble corridor she found a double row of office doors.
Number nine was ajar, and when she knocked a pleasant, masculine voice
bade her enter.
The office was small, with files and glass cases lining the walls above
which hung framed sections of parchment, time-frayed and shrunken.
The westering sun shone through the single window full upon the desk,
behind which sat a boyish-looking young man, with merry twinkling eyes
and more than a suspicion of red in his chestnut hair.
Betty had been prepared to confront a sedate philologist of settled age
and perhaps stern demeanor, and she came forward rather shyly.
"I am looking for the person who advertised in the current issue of
the _Literary Digest_ for an Egyptian translator," she remarked.
The young man rose from the chair, his eyes still fixed on hers, and
she observed that they had narrowed swiftly with a keen intensity which
lent maturity to his expression.
"Please be seated." His tone was quietly courteous. "I placed the
advertisement in the magazine you mention. Do you understand the
Mallory method?"
"If you mean the system employed by Professor Mallory, of Cairo, and
the form of transliteration used by him so that the ancient phraseology
might be retained, I can claim to be thoroughly conversant with it."
Betty sank into the chair indicated, her breath ending in a little
gasp. For all her self-possession, the young man's impersonal but fixed
regard had a disturbing effect, and in the attempt to combat it her
manner grew strained. "I have made practical use of it in translations
for the Museum at Gizeh--"
She paused, biting her lip, but the young man appeared unobservant of
her sudden check.
"You have studied under Professor Mallory?" The question was casually
uttered, yet it brought a swift blush to her brow.
"I was a pupil of an associate of his." She spoke slowly as if choosing
her words with care. "You mention the later dynastic periods in
your advertisement; you refer doubtless to the era of the Persian
influence?"
"Precisely. One papyrus in particular which we wish translated as
literally as possible for purposes of record is believed to be a
message from one of the kings of the twenty-seventh dynasty, who was
called 'the Great Pharaoh'." The young man diverted his gaze at last,
as he fumbled in a desk drawer. "I have a copy here. He isn't the same
chap as the one mentioned in the Bible, whose daughter found Moses in
the bulrushes, you know."
Betty could scarcely believe her ears. The flippant display of
ignorance on the part of one who must be an important official of the
museum seemed incredible, and a dim suspicion came to her that she was
being made the victim of a hoax.
"I am aware of that fact," she responded frigidly. "The twenty-seventh
dynasty was inaugurated only some five hundred years before Christ. Two
of its rulers were known as 'the Great Pharaoh'; Xerxes and Artaxerxes.
By which was this papyrus believed to have been inscribed?"
"I will let you judge that." He smiled in winning friendliness, quite
unabashed by her icy tone. "To tell you the truth, I am not very well
posted on it."
If this were indeed a hoax, Betty determined to obtain some personal
satisfaction from it.
"Can you tell me, however, if an interlinear transliteration is
required, as well as a translation?"
The young man lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness almost
comic.
"I mean," she explained, dimpling behind her veil, "do you wish the
corresponding letter in our alphabet placed beneath each pictured
letter or hieroglyph, with the translation of the whole phrase on a
third line? That is the form used by Professor Mallory."
"Then I presume that is what will be required. I am not going to try to
impose on you by any false display of a knowledge I do not possess,"
he said with engaging candor. "As a matter of fact, I am lamentably
ignorant of Egyptology in general, but I happen to be a sort of
honorary member of the board of directors governing the museum, and the
task of finding a translator was delegated to me, with instructions to
obtain, if possible, a pupil of Professor Mallory for the work. The
official translator for the museum is in Egypt at the present time.
Here is the photographic copy of the papyrus in question."
He opened a portfolio and took from it several large sheets which he
passed to her across the desk. Her momentary resentment was forgotten
and a little exclamation of fervid interest escaped her lips as she
spread the pages out before her and threw back her veil the more
clearly to scrutinize them.
The young man leaned slightly forward studying her face, then quietly
he touched a button in the wall and the room was suddenly flooded with
light.
"That is better, isn't it?" he asked.
Betty glanced up, blinking in the sudden glare, then nodded
abstractedly and bent again over the hieroglyphic scrawl. Several
minutes passed while she sat absorbed, no sound breaking the stillness
but the occasional rustle of the papers beneath her hand. At length she
rearranged them with a sigh of satisfaction.
"This purports to be a message from Khshiarsha, or Xerxes, the first
ruler of the twenty-seventh dynasty to be called 'the Great Pharaoh'
and if the date of the original papyrus has been authenticated, it is
a wonderful find, and a valuable addition to Egyptiana. This copy will
serve perfectly for translation, but I should like very much to see the
original sometime, if it is in the possession of the museum----"
The eager words died on her lips, and her glowing face paled, then
flushed hotly. She had looked up to find that the young man's eyes were
fixed with an expression which she could not fathom upon the birthmark
on her cheek, and it burned her like a newly-seared brand. With a swift
gesture she lowered her veil.
"I will see that you have access to it." The young man rose. "I could
place it in your hands now, but the curator is out. However, if, as you
say, this copy is suitable for translation, do you care to undertake
the work? I cannot, of course, judge of your proficiency, but I am
willing to take it for granted."
"Thank you," Betty responded, simply. "I am confident that my
translation will be satisfactory. It will take me a few days to
complete it; shall I bring it here to you?"
"If you will, please. Should I not be here, leave it with the assistant
curator for Mr. Ross. The fee for translation will be fifty dollars.
Now, if you will give me your name and address----?" He paused
expectantly, and Betty's heart sank.
This was a contingency which had not occurred to her. To name her
present abode would mean that letters or instructions might be
forwarded to her there, and inevitable discovery on Mrs. Atterbury's
part would ensue with the probable consequence of immediate dismissal.
This risk despite the shadow of tragic mystery which enveloped the
house and her own undoubted peril should the extent of her knowledge
become known, she would not hazard. A determination stronger than fear
of death itself bound her to Mrs. Atterbury's service.
But the pause was lengthening, and the young man eyed her in puzzled
inquiry.
"My name is Shaw--Betty Shaw," she stammered, adding with a sudden
inspiration: "I live at 160 Wakefield Avenue. Have you any special
instructions for me, Mr. Ross?"
"None. I will leave the work entirely in your hands. You say you will
require a few days in which to complete it. Can you bring it here to me
by Tuesday afternoon, at this time?"
"I will try." Betty flushed behind her veil. "My time is not absolutely
my own, so I cannot make a definite appointment, but I shall make every
effort to be here."
"There will be more work when this is finished, you know; inscriptions
from tombs and that sort of thing," he added, as if on a sudden
inspiration. "By the way, have you done any translating from the modern
languages--French, German?"
Betty shook her head, and although the young man waited, she vouchsafed
no further response.
"Well, we are in no hurry for this." He opened the door for her at last
and held out his hand smilingly. "We only want to file the translations
before the originals are placed on exhibition. Good afternoon, Miss
Shaw."
Betty hurried from the museum, now grim and shadowy in the gathering
dusk and started south toward Wakefield Avenue with the precious
transcript clasped tightly in her muff. Late as it was she felt that
she must arrange to have her change of address concealed should
the exceedingly frank young man with the laughing eyes attempt to
communicate with her. His personality had impressed her so strongly
that the oddity of the whole interview did not present itself to her
mind. If the translations to be placed on record in a National museum
were left to the discretion of a young man who was avowedly ignorant
of the work, it was a proceeding which aroused no suspicion in her
mind. She knew nothing of the directorship of similar institutions
in America, and gave it no thought. Her chief concern was that her
subterfuge should not be discovered.
The work itself, fascinating though it would prove, shrunk to
insignificance beside the interest the strange young man had aroused
in her. Isolated as was her voluntarily assumed position, hedged in
by mystery and distrust and even danger, the candid, disinterested
friendliness of his attitude had made an appeal to which her lonely
spirit responded joyously. The crafty, scheming expression which
sometimes hardened her face was gone as if it had never existed, and
her eyes glowed with a new unconscious happiness as she turned the
corner of Wakefield Avenue, and ran lightly up the dingy steps of the
once familiar house.
Meanwhile, the young man upon whom her thoughts were centered had also
left the museum and was hastening across the park as fast as a taxi
could carry him. Blue eyes, brown hair, education, refinement, youth;
every attribute tallied with the rather vague description furnished to
him, and the knowledge of Egyptology which the girl had displayed,
unless it were the most improbable of coincidences, seemed the last
detail needed to prove the identification complete.
And yet his client had made no mention of the one salient point which
would render the girl who had just left his presence distinctive in a
multitude; the strange scar or birthmark, like a clutching hand upon
her cheek.
The sincerity of Madame Dumois' search, whatever her ultimate motive
might be, was unquestionable. She could serve no object by deliberately
eliminating so conspicuous a detail from her description, and it was
incredible that she could have forgotten it, had the young woman she
sought possessed such a means of recognition.
His taxi slewed recklessly through the mud as it rounded a corner into
the North Drive and he glanced idly out of the window at a square stone
house, half-hidden in a grove of cedars past which he was being rapidly
whirled. A figure which appeared to be loitering beside the gate turned
at the sound of the motor and for an instant his face loomed with
almost grotesque distinctness against the enveloping dusk.
Herbert Ross uttered a sharp exclamation, and starting forward in his
seat, reached for the speaking tube. The next moment he had checked
the impulse and sunk back once more, but his round, candid eyes had
narrowed to mere slits in each of which a steely point glittered and
his jaw was set in a grim line of dogged relentlessness.
Some half-mile further down the Drive, his taxi turned in at the modest
ivy-clad gate of an estate smaller than its pretentious neighbors, but
surrounded with an air of solid, unchanging antiquity which they could
not boast.
A white-haired butler opened the door and ushered Herbert Ross
ceremoniously into the drawing-room. It was a long, narrow apartment,
stiff and ugly with the prim austerity of the mid-Victorian period from
which it obviously dated, and the conservative handful of coals in the
grate served only to accentuate the chill and gloom in the lurking
shadows beyond its proscribed radius.
Madame Dumois appeared with businesslike promptitude.
"Have you news for me, Mr. Ross?" She regarded him shrewdly as she
extended her hand. "Or are you going to try to wheedle some more
information from me? If you are, you may spare yourself the trouble. I
admit that the surprise of encountering a detective who talked Persian
poetry loosened my tongue the other day but you have all the data I
can give you to help you locate the young woman, and what takes place
between us when you have found her, will be my affair."
"Are you sure that I really have all the data, Madame Dumois?" he
asked earnestly. "Is there not something that you have forgotten or
purposely withheld, which would be a distinctive means of recognition?"
"I don't know what you mean!" Her voice was guarded, but her eyes
snapped with sudden fire. "You have a description of the young woman's
appearance, together with a lot of quite irrelevant detail which I was
a babbling fool to disclose--"
"Have I?" he insisted. "You have given me a description which would
fit probably four-fifths of the young women one meets, without a
single distinguishing feature. Has she none? Think, please. The
smallest scar, or physical peculiarity would be of inestimable value in
identification."
He watched her narrowly, but her expression did not change an iota.
"She is unfortunately not branded, like Western cattle!" The old lady
snorted contemptuously. "Nor is she, as far as I know, six toed like
a cat. She is just an average, normal, young person, with an abnormal
amount of duplicity."
"Then she possesses no scar, or birthmark?" Ross inquired slowly.
"Good heavens, no!" Madame Dumois exclaimed. "I wouldn't consider her
actually pretty, but she has no disfigurement or blemish unless she has
been injured recently."
"How recently?" He shot the question at her, but she was on her guard.
"It would have to be a comparatively fresh scar." She smiled grimly
at his discomfiture. "No, Mr. Ross. The young woman for whom I am
searching has absolutely no feature to distinguish her from a thousand
and one others. I see your point, and I regret that I can give you no
fuller information concerning her."
She rose as if to terminate the interview, and he was constrained to
accept the hint.
"You still could aid me greatly, Madame Dumois, if you would." The
detective spoke in his most persuasive manner. "Let me see the
photograph of her, which I am sure you possess."
The old lady drew herself up to her full commanding height.
"There are no grounds for your assurance, sir," she declared coldly. "I
have no photograph of the young woman."
"Then I will not detain you longer." He bowed. "I cannot accost a
stranger, claiming her as the girl you seek, unless I can be absolutely
certain of my ground, no matter how conclusive my suspicions are."
"You mean that you have found some one who answers the description,
only that she has a scar?" Madame Dumois spoke with rigid control.
"Take me where I can see her, and I will soon tell you whether your
suspicions are correct or not."
"Unfortunately, that would be impossible." Mr. Ross shook his head
gravely. "If I should prove to have been mistaken, explanations might
involve you in the very notoriety you are seeking to avoid. But if you
can obtain a likeness of her the question will be settled once and for
all."
He paused and there was a brief silence while the old lady seemed to
hesitate. At length she said grudgingly:
"I will try to get one. In the meantime, Mr. Ross, do not lose sight of
the person you suspect."
He reassured her on that score and departed. He was confident that
his client would produce the photograph at his next interview with
her, but a grave doubt filled his mind that the girl who had come to
him that afternoon was the one sought. The old lady's astonishment at
the suggestion of a scar or birthmark had been unfeigned, and that
single incontrovertible fact would overthrow the whole structure of his
theory. The case which he had assumed practically blindfold seemed no
nearer a solution and no other translator had risen to the bait offered
by the advertisement who could by any possibility have been associated
with his subject.
Meanwhile, Betty had concluded a satisfactory arrangement with her
former landlady and was hastening homeward. A confused babel of voices
arose as she crossed the avenue, and amid the raucous shouts one phrase
beat upon her brain:
"Wuxtry! Wuxtry! Latest news about the big murder! Coroner's inquest
adjourned. Wuxtry!"
She purchased a paper from the first newsboy who accosted her, and
stopped in the rosy reflected glow from a drugstore window to scan the
headlines. The light shining through a crimson globe dyed the page a
sinister hue and from it there stared out at her the face of a man in
the prime of life, with a square, determined chin and fine eyes, albeit
there clustered about them the unmistakable lines of world knowledge
and satiety.
Beneath it in double type she read:
"Breckinridge inquest adjourned. Coroner holds case open for further
evidence. Rumor that detectives are working on new and startling clue.
Close friend of George W. Breckinridge, millionaire clubman whose body
stabbed to the heart was found in a secluded spot on Vanderduycken
Road, declares that he has for some time been under a cloud--"
The letters ran together and blurred before Betty's eyes, and crumpling
the sheet convulsively, she dropped it at her feet. Then as if suddenly
conscious of the conspicuous spot in which she stood, the girl slipped
quickly away into the shadows. Her pulse pounded in her ears and her
brain seemed reeling, but one fact stood out in terrible, relentless
clarity; the pictured face was that of the man who had lain dead in the
dining-room of the house among the cedars.