"Did you really?"  Henry turned sharply and peered into his father's face." He's left 
everything to her, and you loved him!"
  
  "He settled plenty on both of us a long time ago. It ought to have been enough, more 
than enough-"
  
  "It's a pittance compared to what she's inherited!"
  
  "I won't discuss this."
  
  Patience, Henry thought. Patience. He sat back against the soft grey upholstery. I need 
a hundred pounds at least and I won't get it like this.
  
  Daisy Banker watched through the lace curtains as Henry stepped out of the cab below. 
She lived in a long flat above the music hail, where she sang every night from ten P.M. 
until two in the morning; a soft ripe peach of a woman with big drowsy blue eyes and 
silver blond hair. Her voice was nothing much and she knew it; but they liked her, they 
did. They liked her very much.
  
  And she liked Henry Stratford, or so she told herself. He was certainly the best thing 
that had ever happened to her. He'd got her the job below, though how she could never 
quite work out; and he paid for the flat, oral least he was supposed to. She knew there 
was quite a bit owing, but then he was just back from Egypt. He'd make it right or shut 
up anyone who questioned him about it. He was very good at doing that.
  
  She ran to the mirror as she heard his tread on the stairs. She pulled down the 
feathered collar of her peignoir and straightened the pearls at her throat. She pinched 
her cheeks to work up the blush just as his key turned in the lock.
  
  "Well, I'd just about given up on you, I had!"  she bawled as he came into the room. 
But oh, the sight of him. It never failed to work on her. He was so very handsome with 
his dark brown hair and eyes; and the way he conducted himself, so truly the gentleman. 
She loved the way he removed his cloak now and threw it carelessly over the chair, and 
beckoned for her to come into his arms. So lazy he was; and so full of himself! But why 
shouldn't he be?
  
  "And my motor car? You promised me a motor car of my own before you left. Where is it! 
That wasn't it downstairs. That was a cab."
  
  There was something so cold in his smile. When he kissed her, his lips hurt her a 
little; and his fingers bit into the soft flesh of her upper arms. She felt a vague chill 
move up her spine; her mouth tingled. She kissed him again and when he led her into the 
bedroom she didn't say a word.
  
  "I'll get you your motor car,"  he whispered into her ear as he tore off the peignoir 
and pressed her against him so that her nipples touched the scratchy surface of his 
starched shirt. She kissed his cheek, then his chin, licking the faint stubble of his 
beard. Lovely to feel him breathe this way, to feel his hands on her shoulders.
  
  "Not too rough, sir,"  she whispered.
  
  "Why not?"
  
  The telephone rang. She could have ripped it from the wall.
  
  She unbuttoned his shirt for him as he answered.
  
  "I told you not to call again, Sharpies."
  
  Oh, that bloody son of a bitch, she thought miserably. She wished he was dead. She'd 
worked for Sharpies before Henry Stratford had rescued her. And Sharpies was a mean one, 
plain and simple. He had left his scar on her, a tiny half-moon on the back of her neck.
  
  "I told you I'd pay you when I got back, didn't I? Suppose you give me time to unpack 
my trunk!"  He jammed down the little cone of a receiver into the hook. She pushed the 
phone back out of the way on the marble-top table.
  
  "Come here to me, sweetheart,"  she said as she sat on the bed.
  
  But her eyes dulled slightly as she watched him staring at the telephone. He was broke 
still, wasn't he? Stone broke.
  
  Strange. There had been no wake in this house for her father. And now the painted 
coffin of Ramses the Great was being carried carefully through the double drawing rooms 
as if by pallbearers, and into the library, which he had always called the Egyptian room. 
A wake for the mummy; and the chief mourner was not here.
  
  Julie watched as Samir directed the men from the museum to
  
  place the coffin carefully upright in the southeast corner, to the left of the open 
conservatory doors. A perfect position. Anyone entering the house could see it 
immediately. All those in the drawing rooms would have a good view of it; and the mummy 
himself would appear to have a view of all assembled to pay him homage when the lid was 
lifted and the body itself was revealed. The scrolls and alabaster jars would be arranged 
on the long marble table beneath the mirror to the left of the upright coffin, along the 
east wall. The bust of Cleopatra was already being placed on a stand in the centre of the 
room. The gold coins would go in a special display case beside the marble table. And 
other miscellaneous treasures could now be arranged any way that Samir saw fit.
  
  The soft afternoon sunlight poured in from the conservatory, throwing its intricate 
dancing patterns over the golden mask of the King's face and his folded arms.
  
  Gorgeous it was, authentic obviously. Only a fool would question such a treasure. But 
what did the whole story mean?
  
  Oh, if only they were all gone, Julie thought, and she could be alone now to study it. 
But the men would be here forever examining the exhibit. And Alex, what to do about Alex, 
who stood beside her, and gave her not a moment to herself?
  
  Of course she'd been glad to see Samir, though it had stirred her own pain to see the