She wanted nothing so much now as the quiet interior of her Rolls-Royce limousine with 
the glass shutting out the noise of the world around her.
  
  "Now, I'm going to say this only once, Julie,"  Alex said as he helped her down the 
stairs." But it comes from my soul. Don't let this tragedy postpone the marriage. I know 
your feelings, but you're alone in that house now. And I want to be with you, to take 
care of you. I want us to be husband and wife."
  
  "Alex, I'd be lying to you,"  she said," if I told you I could make a decision now. 
More than ever I need time to think."
  
  She couldn't bear to look at him suddenly; he seemed so young always. Had she ever been 
young? The question would have made Uncle Randolph smile perhaps. She was twenty-one. But 
Alex at twenty-five seemed a boy to her. And it hurt her so much not to love him as he 
deserved to be loved.
  
  The sunlight hurt her eyes as he opened the door to the street. She brought the veil 
down from the brim of her hat. No reporters, thank God no reporters, and the big black 
motor car there waiting with the door open.
  
  "I won't be alone, Alex,"  she said gently." I have Rita and Oscar there. And Henry's 
moving back into his old room. Uncle Randolph insisted upon it. I'll have more company 
than I need."  Henry. The last person in the world she wanted to see was Henry. What an 
irony that he had indeed been the last person her father saw before his eyes closed in 
death.
  
  The reporters mobbed Henry Stratford as he came ashore. Had the mummy's curse 
frightened him? Had he glimpsed anything supernatural at work in the little rock chamber 
where the death of Lawrence Stratford had taken place? Henry fought his way through 
customs in silence, ignoring the noisy, smoky flashes of the cameras. With icy impatience 
he glared at the officials, who checked his few suitcases and then waved him past.
  
  His heart thudded in his ears. He wanted a drink. He wanted the quiet of his own home 
in Mayfair. He wanted his mistress, Daisy Banker. He wanted anything but the dreary ride 
with his father. He avoided Randolph's eyes altogether as he climbed into the back of the 
Rolls.
  
  As the long cumbersome saloon forced its way out of the thick traffic, he caught a 
glimpse of Samir Ibrahaim greeting a group of black-dressed men-undoubtedly busybodies 
from the museum. What a fortunate thing that this corpse of Ramses the Great concerned 
everyone far more than the corpse of Lawrence Stratford, which had been buried without 
ceremony in Egypt, just as Lawrence had wished.
  
  Good Lord, his father looked dreadful, as if he'd aged overnight some ten years. He was 
even a little disheveled.
  
  "Do y" u have a cigarette?"  Henry asked sharply.
  
  Without looking at him his father produced a small thin cigar and a light.
  
  "The marriage is still the essential thing,"  Randolph murmured almost as if he were 
speaking to himself." A new bride simply doesn't have time to think about business. And 
for the time being, I've arranged for you to stay with her. She cannot remain alone."
  
  "Good Lord, Father, this is the twentieth century! Why the hell can't she remain 
alone!" 	'
  
  Stay in that house, and with that disgusting mummy on display in the library? It 
sickened him. He closed his eyes, savored the cigar silently, and thought of his 
mistress. A series of sharp, erotic images passed quickly through his mind.
  
  "Damn it, you do what I tell you,"  his father said. But the voice lacked conviction. 
Randolph gazed out the window." You'll stay there and keep an eye on her and do what you 
can to see she consents to the marriage as quickly as possible. Do your best to see that 
she doesn't move away from Alex. I think Alex has begun to irritate her slightly."
  
  "Small wonder. If Alex had any gumption ..."
  
  "The marriage is good for her. It's good for everyone."
  
  "All right, all right, let's drop it!"
  
  Silence as the car moved on. There was time for dinner with Daisy, and a long rest at 
the flat before he hit the gambling tables at Flint's, that is, if he could force a 
little immediate cash out of his father...
  
  "He didn't suffer, did he?"
  
  Henry gave a little start.
  
  "What? What are you talking about?"
  
  "Your uncle?"  his father asked, turning to him for the first time." The late Lawrence 
Stratford, who has just died in Egypt? Did he suffer, for the love of God, or did he go 
quietly?"
  
  "One minute he was fine, the next he was lying on the floor. He was gone within 
seconds. Why do you ask about something like that?"
  
  "You're such a sentimental young bastard, aren't you?"
  
  "I couldn't prevent it!"
  
  For one moment, the atmosphere of that close little cell came back to him, the acrid 
smell of the poison. And that thing, that thing in the mummy case, and the grim illusion 
that it had been watching.
  
  "He was a pigheaded old fool,"  Randolph said almost in a whisper." But I loved him."