of the door, leaving the two men standing there in stunned silence.
  
  It was Samir who spoke first:
  
  "This is Roman furniture. This is Cleopatra. Look at the coins, Lawrence, on the desk. 
With her image, and newly minted. Those alone are worth-"
  
  "I know. But there lies an ancient Pharaoh, my friend. Every detail of the case-it's as 
fine as any ever found in the Valley of the Kings."
  
  "But without a sarcophagus,"  Samir said." Why?"
  
  "This is no tomb,"  Lawrence answered.
  
  "And so the King chose to be buried here!"  Samir approached the mummy case, lifting 
the torch high above the beautifully painted face, with its darkly lined eyes and 
exquisitely modeled lips.
  
  "I could swear this is the Roman period,"  he said.
  
  "But the style ..."
  
  "Lawrence, it's too lifelike. It's a Roman artist who has imitated the 
nineteenth-dynastic style to perfection."
  
  "And how could such a thing happen, my friend?"
  
  "Curses,"  Samir whispered, as if he had not heard the question. He was staring at the 
rows of hieroglyphs that circled the painted figure. The Greek lettering appeared lower 
down, and finally came the Latin.
  
  " Touch not the remains of Ramses the Great/"  Samir read." It's the same in all three 
tongues. Enough to give a sensible man pause."
  
  "Not this sensible man,"  Lawrence replied." Get those workers in here to lift this lid 
at once."
  
  The dust had settled somewhat. The torches, in the old iron sconces on the wall, were 
sending far too much smoke onto the ceiling, but that he would worry about later.
  
  The thing now was to cut open the bundled human shape, which had been propped against 
the wall, the thin wooden lid of the mummy case carefully laid upright beside it.
  
  He no longer saw the men and women packed at the entrance, who peered at him and his 
find in silence.
  
  Slowly, he raised the knife and sliced through the brittle husk of dried linen, which 
fell open immediately to reveal the tightly wrapped figure beneath.
  
  There was a collective gasp from the reporters. Again and again the flashes popped. 
Lawrence could feel Samir's silence. Both men stared at the gaunt face beneath its 
yellowed linen bandages, at the withered arms so serenely laid across the breast.
  
  It seemed one of the photographers was begging to be allowed into the chamber. Samir 
angrily demanded silence. But of these distractions, Lawrence was only dimly aware.
  
  He gazed calmly at the emaciated form before him, its wrap - I pings the color of 
darkened desert sand. It seemed he could detect an expression in the shrouded features; 
he could detect something eloquent of tranquillity in the set of the thin lips.
  
  Every mummy was a mystery. Every desiccated yet preserved form a ghastly image of life 
in death. It never failed to chill him, to look upon these ancient Egyptian dead. But he 
felt a strange longing as he looked at this one-this mysterious being who called himself 
Ramses the Damned, Ramses the Great.
  
  Something warm touched him inside. He drew closer, slashing again at the outer 
wrapping. Behind him, Samir ordered the photographers out of the passage. There was 
danger of contamination. Yes, go, all of you, please.
  
  He reached out and touched the mummy suddenly; he touched it reverently with the very 
tips of his fingers. So curiously resilient! Surely the thick layer of bandages had 
become soft with time.
  
  Again, he gazed at the narrow face before him, at the rounded lids, and the sombre 
mouth.
  
  "Julie,"  he whispered." Oh, my darling, if only you could see ..."
  
  The Embassy Ball. Same old faces; same old orchestra, same old sweet yet droning waltz. 
The lights were a glare to Elliott Savarell: the champagne left a sour taste in his 
mouth. Nevertheless he drained the glass rather gracelessly and caught the eye of a 
passing waiter. Yes, anodier. And another. Would that it were good brandy or whisky.
  
  But they wanted him here, didn't they? Wouldn't be the same without the Earl of 
Rutherford. The Earl of Rutherford was an essential ingredient, as were the lavish flower 
arrangements, the thousands upon thousands of candles; the caviar, and the silver; and 
the old musicians sawing wearily at their violins while the younger generation danced.
  
  Everyone had a greeting for the Earl of Rutherford. Everyone wanted the Earl of 
Rutherford to attend a daughter's wedding, or an afternoon tea, or another ball such as 
this. Never mind that Elliott and his wife rarely entertained anymore in either their 
London town house or the country estate in Yorkshire-that Edith spent much of her time in 
Paris now with a widowed sister. The seventeenth Earl of Rutherford was the genuine 
article. The titles in his family went back-one way or another-to Henry VIII.
  
  Why hadn't he ruined everything long ago? Elliott wondered. How had he ever managed to 
charm so many people in whom he had no more than a passing interest, at best?
  
  But no, that wasn't the entire truth. He loved some of these people, whether he cared 
to admit it or not. He loved his old friend Randolph Stratford, just as he loved