my dearest friend, Professor Ptolemy Higgs, and I only hope that he won’t be offended when he sees it set down in black and white.
That of his companion who was seated at the table, his chin resting on his hand, listening to some erudite discourse with a rather distracted air, was extraordinarily different, especially by contrast. A tall well-made young man, rather thin, but broad-shouldered, and apparently five or six and twenty years of age. Face clean-cut—so much so, indeed, that the dark eyes alone relieved it from a suspicion of hardness; hair short and straight, like the eyes, brown; expression that of a man of thought and ability, and, when he smiled, singularly pleasant. Such was, and is, Captain Oliver Orme, who, by the way, I should explain, is only a captain of some volunteer engineers, although, in fact, a very able soldier, as was proved in the South African War, whence he had then but lately returned.
I ought to add also that he gave me the impression of a man not in love with fortune, or rather of one with whom fortune was not in love; indeed, his young face seemed distinctly sad. Perhaps it was this that attracted me to him so much from the first moment that my eyes fell on him—me with whom fortune had also been out of love for many years.
While I stood contemplating this pair, Higgs, looking up from the papyrus or whatever it might be that he was reading (I gathered later that he had spent the afternoon in unrolling a mummy, and was studying its spoils), caught sight of me standing in the shadow.
“Who the devil are you?” he exclaimed in a shrill and strident voice, for it acquires that quality when he is angry or alarmed, “and what are you doing in my room?”
“Steady,” said his companion; “your housekeeper told you that some friend of yours had come to call.”
“Oh, yes, so she did, only I can’t remember any friend with a face and beard like a goat. Advance, friend, and all’s well.”
So I stepped into the shining circle of the electric light and halted again.
“Who is it? Who is it?” muttered Higgs. “The face is the face of—of—I have it—of old Adams, only he’s been dead these ten years. The Khalifa got him, they said. Antique shade of the long-lost Adams, please be so good as to tell me your name, for we waste time over a useless mystery.”
“There is no need, Higgs, since it is in your mouth already. Well, I should have known you anywhere; but then your hair doesn’t go white.”
“Not it; too much colouring matter; direct result of a sanguine disposition. Well, Adams—for Adams you must be—I am really delighted to see you, especially as you never answered some questions in my last letter as to where you got those First Dynasty scarabs, of which the genuineness, I may tell you, has been disputed by certain envious beasts. Adams, my dear old fellow, welcome a thousand times”—and he seized my hands and wrung them, adding, as his eye fell upon a ring I wore, “Why, what’s that? Something quite unusual. But never mind; you shall tell me after dinner. Let me introduce you to my friend, Captain Orme, a very decent scholar of Arabic, with a quite elementary knowledge of Egyptology.”
“Mr. Orme,” interrupted the younger man, bowing to me.
“Oh, well, Mr. or Captain, whichever you like. He means that he is not in the regular army, although he has been all through the Boer War, and wounded three times, once straight through the lungs. Here’s the soup. Mrs. Reid, lay another place. I am dreadfully hungry; nothing gives me such an appetite as unrolling mummies; it involves so much intellectual wear and tear, in addition to the physical labour. Eat, man, eat. We will talk afterwards.”
So we ate, Higgs largely, for his appetite was always excellent, perhaps because he was then practically a teetotaller; Mr. Orme very moderately, and I as becomes a person who has lived for months at a time on dates—mainly of vegetables, which, with fruits, form my principal diet—that is, if these are available, for at a pinch I can exist on anything.
When the meal was finished and our glasses had been filled with port, Higgs helped himself to water, lit the large meerschaum pipe he always smokes, and pushed round the tobacco-jar which had once served as a sepulchural urn for the heart of an old Egyptian.
“Now, Adams,” he said when we also had filled our pipes, “tell us what has brought you back from the Shades. In short, your story, man, your story.”
I drew the ring he had noticed off my hand, a thick band of rather light-coloured gold of a size such as an ordinary woman might wear upon her first or second finger, in which was set a splendid slab of sapphire engraved with curious and archaic characters. Pointing to these characters, I asked Higgs if he could read them.
“Read them? Of course,” he answered, producing a magnifying glass. “Can’t you? No, I remember; you never were good at anything more than fifty years old. Hullo! this is early Hebrew. Ah! I’ve got it,” and he read:
“ ‘The gift of Solomon the ruler—no, the Great One—of Israel, Beloved of Jah, to Maqueda of Sheba-land, Queen, Daughter of Kings, Child of Wisdom, Beautiful.’
“That’s the writing on your ring, Adams—a really magnificent thing. ‘Queen of Sheba—Bath-Melachim, Daughter of Kings,’ with our old friend Solomon chucked in. Splendid, quite splendid!”—and he touched the gold with his tongue, and tested it with his teeth. “Hum—where did you get this intelligent fraud from, Adams?”
“Oh!” I answered, laughing, “the usual thing, of course. I bought it from a donkey-boy in Cairo for about thirty shillings.”
“Indeed,” he replied suspiciously. “I should have thought the stone in it was worth more than that, although, of course, it may be nothing but glass. The engraving, too, is first-rate. Adams,” he added with severity, “you are trying to hoax us, but let me tell you what I thought you knew by this time—that you can’t take in Ptolemy Higgs. This ring is a shameless swindle; but who did the Hebrew on it? He’s a good scholar, anyway.”
“Don’t know,” I answered; “wasn’t aware till now that it was Hebrew. To tell you the truth, I thought it was old Egyptian. All I do know is that it was given, or rather lent, to me by a lady whose title is Walda Nagasta, and who is supposed to be a descendant of Solomon and the Queen of Sheba.”
Higgs took up the ring and looked at it again; then, as though in a fit of abstraction, slipped it into his waistcoat pocket.
“I don’t want to be rude, therefore I will not contradict you,” he answered with a kind of groan, “or, indeed, say anything except that if any one else had spun me that yarn I should have told him he was a common liar. But, of course, as every schoolboy knows, Walda Nagasta—that is, Child of Kings in Ethiopic—is much the same as Bath-Melachim—that is, Daughter of Kings in Hebrew.”
Here Captain Orme burst out laughing, and remarked, “It is easy to see why you are not altogether popular in the antiquarian world, Higgs. Your methods of controversy are those of a savage with a stone axe.”
“If you only open your mouth to show your ignorance, Oliver, you had better keep it shut. The men who carried stone axes had advanced far beyond the state of savagery. But I suggest that you had better give Doctor Adams a chance of telling his story, after which you can criticize.”
“Perhaps Captain Orme does not wish to be bored with it,” I said, whereon he answered at once:
“On the contrary, I should like to hear it very much—that is, if you are willing to confide in me as well as in Higgs.”
I
