Lawrence laid down die pen." No, it doesn't,"  he said, eyeing Henry coldly." And as 
for the marriage, it can wait forever. Or until Julie decides for herself. Go home and 
tell that to my good friend the Earl of Rutherford! And tell your father I will liquidate 
no further family stock. Now leave me alone."
  
  Henry didn't move. He shifted the briefcase uneasily, his face tightening as he stared 
down at his uncle.
  
  "Uncle, you don't realize-"
  
  "Allow me to tell you what I do realize,"  Lawrence said," that you have gambled away a 
king's ransom and that your father will go to any lengths to cover your debts. Even 
Cleopatra and her drunken lover Mark Antony could not have squandered the fortune that 
has slipped through your hands. And what does Julie need with the Rutherford title 
anyway? Alex needs the Stratford millions, that's the truth of it. Alex is a beggar with 
a title the same as Elliott. God forgive me. It's the truth."
  
  "Uncle, Alex could buy any heiress in London with that title."
  
  "Then why doesn't he?"
  
  "One word from you and Julie would make up her mind-"
  
  "And Elliott would show his gratitude to you for arranging things, is that it? And with 
my daughter's money he'd be very generous indeed."
  
  Henry was white with anger.
  
  "What the hell do you care about this marriage?"  Lawrence asked bitterly." You 
humiliate yourself because you need the money. ..."
  
  He thought he saw his nephew's lips move in a curse.
  
  He turned back to the mummy, trying to shut it ah1 out-the tentacles of the London life 
he'd left behind trying to reach him here.
  
  Why, the whole figure looked fuller! And the ring, it was plainly visible now as if the 
finger, fleshing out, had burst the wrappings altogether. Lawrence fancied he could see 
the faint color of healthy flesh.
  
  "You're losing your mind,"  he whispered to himself. And that sound, there it was 
again. He tried to listen for it; but his concentration only made him all the more 
conscious of the noise outside. He drew closer to the body in the coffin. Good Lord, was 
that hair he saw beneath the wrappings about die head?" I feel so sorry for you, Henry,"  
he whispered suddenly." That you can't savour such a discovery. This ancient King, this 
mystery."  Who said that he couldn't touch the remains? Just move perhaps an inch of the 
rotted linen?
  
  He drew out his penknife and held it uncertainly. Twenty years ago he might have cut 
the thing open. There wouldn't have been any busybody officials to deal with. He might 
have seen for himself if under all that dust-
  
  "I wouldn't do that if I were you, Uncle,"  Henry interrupted." The museum people in 
London will raise the roof."
  
  "I told you to get out."
  
  He heard Henry pour a cup of coffee as if he had all the time in the world. The aroma 
filled the close little chamber.
  
  Lawrence backed into the camp chair, and again pressed his folded handkerchief to his 
brow. Twenty-four hours now without sleep. Maybe he should rest.
  
  "Drink your coffee, Uncle Lawrence,"  Henry said to him." I poured it for you."  And 
there it was, the full cup." They're waiting for you out there. You're exhausted."
  
  "You bloody fool,"  Lawrence whispered." I wish you'd go away."
  
  Henry set the cup before him, right by die notebook.
  
  "Careful, that papyrus is priceless."
  
  The coffee did look inviting, even if Henry was pushing it at him. He lifted the cup, 
took a deep swallow, and closed his eyes.
  
  What had he just seen as he put down the cup? The mummy stirring in the sunlight? 
Impossible. Suddenly a burning sensation in his throat blotted out everything else. It 
was as if his throat were closing! He couldn't breathe or speak.
  
  He tried to rise; he was staring at Henry; and suddenly he caught the smell coming from 
the cup still in his trembling hand. Bitter almonds. It Was the poison. The cup was 
falling; dimly he heard it shatter as it hit the stone floor.
  
  "For the love of God! You bastard!"  He was falling; his hands out towards his nephew, 
who stood white-faced and grim, staring coldly at him as if this catastrophe were not 
happening; as if he were not dying.
  
  His body convulsed. Violently, he turned away. The last thing he saw as he fell was the 
mummy in the dazzling sunlight; the last ming he felt was the sandy floor beneath his 
burning face. For a long moment Henry Stratford did not move. He stared down at the body 
of his uncle as if he did not quite believe what he saw. Someone else had done this. 
Someone else had broken through the thick membrane of frustration and put this horrid 
plot into motion. Someone else had put the silver coffee spoon into the jar of ancient 
poison and slipped that poison into Lawrence's cup.
  
  Nothing moved in the dusty sunlight. The tiniest particles seemed suspended in the hot 
air. Only a faint sound originated within the chamber; something like the beat of a heart.
  
  Imaginings. It was imperative to follow through. It was imperative to stop his hand 
from shaking; to prevent the scream from ever leaving his lips. Because it was there all