Sherlock Holmes and the Sacred Sword

"You wouldn't know of him, sir. Minor eighteenth dynasty pharaoh. But he was very young when he became ruler of Egypt and died at an early age as well. Ruled for a mere nine years as I recall. I'm not so good on dates and numbers."

"I'd say you were doing quite well," commented Holmes with approval. He continued: "All right, where are we? The message refers to a tomb. What would be important about that?"

"A tomb unknown to grave robbers, Mr. Holmes. That would be a rare bird indeed, for the pharaoh's possessions would be in it. The German expedition uncovered thirty graves of pharaohs and not a one of them that hadn't been looted."

"Then this Tutankhamen tomb would be valuable?"

"Unbelievably," was Gray's immediate response.

"And the reference to doom?"

"That can be read two ways. In a religious sense, the whole idea of the elaborate burials was to allow the pharaohs to make their trip to eternity in peace. Don't quote me, sir, but I've a thought that the despoiling of their graves would interrupt their progress to the hereafter."

"Seems logical," I commented.

"And the other meaning?" inquired Holmes.

"Political. After his death, Akhenaten the heretic was expunged from Egyptian history since his one-god theory was not accepted. Tutankhamen rejected the one-god idea, thereby avoiding the risk or doom of being removed."

"Well, the tomb seems to be of Tutankhamen, but where would it be? You mentioned the German expedition."

"That was Karl Richard Lepsius and his people."

"Where did he find so many graves?"

"Same place that was such a happy hunting ground for Balzoni. Wady Biban al-Maluk, the Arabs call it. The Valley of the Kings."

"Might not the boy pharaoh be there?"

Gray shook his head. "Lepsius's reputation as an archaeologist is enormous, and he felt that nothing was left in the valley. There's been no serious excavation work there since his time."

Holmes's eyes had that opaque look I recognized. "I read that book of Balzoni's you mentioned. As I recall, he stated more or less the same thing."

"That's right, Mr. Holmes."

"But that's it, you see. Puzza, an obscure follower of the Italian adventurer is dying. He cannot return to the Valley of the Kings, and he has no heirs. His possessions were disposed of at a public sale. He leaves an obscure rhyme. It was a jest, a bit of irony from a dying man, for he knew something that the great Balzoni did not, nor Lepsius either. He knew there was an undiscovered tomb."

Holmes's eyes sharpened, and he regarded Gray with that faint smile of triumph. "Might I guess that the tomb of Rameses Sixth is in the Valley of the Kings?"

There was a startled look on the Colonel's face. "Dead on, sir!"

"At the feet of Rameses could mean beneath his crypt, I think."

Before Holmes even looked at him, Orloff was on his way out of the room.

As Gray and I exchanged a puzzled glance, Holmes chuckled.

"Mr. Orloff is a great believer in anticipation, a quality cherished by my brother."

Gray took a breath. "That would be Mr. Mycroft Holmes, sir?"

Holmes nodded.

"And the Rapp you mentioned is Sir Randolph Rapp?"

Since the Colonel was looking at me, I agreed.

"If you'll pardon the thought, there're some heavyweights involved in this matter."

Holmes was caught completely by surprise and chortled. "I follow your thought, Colonel, and you are more right than you know. However, the gentlemen in question are in London whereas you are here, and I am grateful that you are."

Colonel Gray's features grew redder yet, and he looked as though he had just received the Victoria Cross from Her Majesty. I'm sure he was thinking that it had all been worth it, even wet-nursing a seasick general practitioner who seemed fated to have unusual experiences.

Chapter Fifteen

The Sheik Reappears

Things happened fast after that. Orloff, with that uncanny ability to anticipate the plans of Sherlock Holmes, put official wheels in motion. I began to suspect that Mycroft had dispatched a covey of his operatives to Egypt to act as backup for his top agent in the field. It was arranged in short order that we were to leave Cairo and head up the Nile to Luxor by rail. Orloff was to remain in Cairo to keep his finger on the pulse of the people, but he informed my friend that a contingent of the Sutherland-Argyle Regiment were on maneuvers around Luxor prior to being shipped to India. I rather gathered that a detachment of the Scottish infantry would be available to Holmes if needed, and such proved to be the case.

It was obvious what had prompted Holmes's move. I had not forgotten the departed Cruthers or the fact that he had been investigating an archeological party in the Valley of the Kings prior to his return to England and death. Then there was that dagger he had concealed on his person, which my friend had identified as property of royalty. With the information that Loo Chan's cipher provided, it seemed realistic to assume that Chu San Fu had located an undiscovered tomb, though how this fitted in with his exciting Mohammedan unrest throughout the Middle East eluded me. Holmes wished to certify the possibility of a new discovery in the Valley of the Kings prior to the great Mohammedan conclave in Cairo. I found it somewhat alarming that there had been mention of members of the Sutherland-Argyle Regiment in connection with this matter and wondered just what Holmes expected to find in the Valley of the Kings.

When we finally did reach Luxor, site of the ancient Thebes, it was evident that Orloff had made ample use of the cable. In the government buildings we were informed that the Scottish troopers were already over the river on the west bank awaiting Holmes's arrival. I was again wan and indisposed, for the swaying train had not benefited my touchy stomach. Though nauseous, I was fascinated by the lush green of the fertile Nile plain, more evident because of the stark grimness and desolation beyond it rising gradually to towering cliffs. Small wonder that the Egyptians have through the centuries loved and cherished their narrow belt of incredibly fertile land, surrounded as it is by a nothingness of rock and sand. It was at the foot of the distant cliffs, the Theban hills, that the historic valley lay in which were entombed so many of the Nile's greatest rulers. There was a look of sadness, almost apprehension, on Holmes's face as he conferred with me after Gray attended to details regarding the crossing of the river and the troops placed at the disposal of the detective.

"Now, ol' clap, we must come to a brief parting of the ways. I know our sea voyage did not sit well with you, nor the train trip ether. Gray tells me this valley is a desolate and forbidding place indeed. Best you remain here until we reconnoiter the area and find out what's going on."

My mouth automatically began to form protests at the mere thought of being left behind when the case was coming to a head, but strangely it was Colonel Gray who weighed down the scales.

"Doctor Watson, you must come to my aid. I'm well aware that Mr. Holmes can take care of himself, but no matter how you cut it, I'm responsible. Not only for him but for those soldiers who are a bit new to this area and only have a vague idea of where they are save that this is a training area on the road to India. Let's put it this way: if every man isn't tip-top, we're at a disadvantage."

What could I say? As a medical man I well knew I was ill-equipped to fudge over rocky and hilly terrain trying to match steps with vigorous young Highlanders. Holmes's whipcord body and fencer's legs could manage it, but I saw in my mind's eye a middle-aged general practitioner gasping for breath and falling behind as the column surged forward. I nodded in agreement with Gray's words and tried to summon some esprit de corps to suit the situation.

"Well, it's a rum show, but—you chaps watch out for yourselves, will you?"

Holmes, for the first time that I could remember, avoided my eyes, but his hand rested briefly on my shoulder and there was a reassuring pressure from his long, tremendously strong fingers. Then he and Gray were gone.

A young lieutenant, but recently from Sandhurst I judged, who really hadn't the vaguest idea of what was going on, also had the good taste not to try to expand his knowledge of the situation. He took me and my belongings to the Luxor Hotel and volunteered to show me round the modern city that stood in the place of the former capital, Thebes. I declined his kind offer and, after a bath and change of clothes, made my way to the hotel bar for a stiff brandy and soda, which I willed to stay peaceably in my stomach. There is much to be said for assertive action, and after several growls of protest, my intestinal tract reflected a comforting warmth. Since success had favored my efforts, I repeated the dosage and decided to have a look round on my own. There were no claims on my time until Gray and Holmes returned with what information they could glean from the distant hills.

Luxor was now a modern city and a far cry from the river port that had flourished as the capital of so many pharaohs of the old civilization. As I left the hotel in an aimless fashion, I determined to try to detect what remnants of former grandeur had withstood civilization's onrush and were still in evidence. However, my sightseeing was fated to be of short duration. I was passing the entrance to a mosque when a tall figure left the citadel of religion, turning in my direction so that we were face to face, and an acknowledgment of coincidence was impossible to avoid. It was the desert chieftain whom I had encountered near the Sphinx.

I confess being taken aback at this unexpected meeting, but the Arabian exhibited no surprise. Rather, his greeting was accompanied by a shrug, a gesture of his acceptance of Kismet.

"Ah, the good Doctor Watson. Our paths cross again. What brings you south from Cairo?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing," I responded guardedly. Holmes chided me on occasion as being the most revealing of men, and I had grown more cautious through the years.

"My journey to Cairo was, as anticipated, a fruitless one. Another witless tale spewed from idle tongues in the bazaars." He sighed and shook his head. His bearded face and predatory, sharp features reminded me of a desert eagle owl, free and fierce.

"Men with idle hands and empty pockets do tend towards mischief. But come, Doctor, motivations are a subject you hear much of. Let us seek refuge from the fading sun, and I shall secure some coffee for you unless you prefer tea."

In a most casual manner, as though our meeting had been planned, the tall Arabian was ushering me to a table at a café nearby, and I admitted that the shade cast by its awning was welcome. Whoever my chance acquaintance was, he secured prompt, nay obsequious, service, and we were soon enjoying coffee served in the Turkish manner in small cups. It was viscous and thick, but strong with a sweetness my taste buds were unaccustomed to.

"We have now met twice, Doctor, and both times you were separated from your most illustrious companion. I trust that Mr. Holmes is in good health."

Well, I thought, this fellow is certainly well informed. My suspicions were aroused, of course.

"Holmes is, at the moment, on other business," I replied. Two can play the information game, and I decided to take a stab at it.

"Sheik, you are most familiar with me and my friend. Have we met at another time? In England, perhaps?"

The bearded face registered a negative. "As you easily deduced, I was educated in your native land. However, I did not meet Mr. Holmes there."

My nostrils quivered at this, and the scent was the musky odor of doubt. Where would Holmes have met an Arabian sheik, pray tell? I had used that title as a quest for a name, but my companion had accepted it without comment. Then, of a sudden, my thoughts reversed. During the period that Holmes was thought dead, his wanderings had taken him to Khartoum, where he had visited with the Khalifa, a meeting that resulted in information communicated to the Foreign Office. I had always entertained private thoughts regarding his being in the Sudan at that particular time. My friend had never gone into detail regarding this part of his mysterious absence from England, though he had often spoken of his explorations during the same period when he passed himself off as the Norwegian "Sigerson."

"You are then of the Sudan?"

An affirmative nod joined forces with a smile. "I see you have pieced some facts together, Doctor. I am from the south and do know Sherlock Holmes. I was able to be of some service to him at one time, and," he added with a candor unusual for those of these parts, "the reverse is also true. Do I detect some concern on your part for your friend's safety? This land is known to me and I am, if you recall, obliged to you."

This put matters in a different light, for I had heard that even the greatest rascals in Arabia were scrupulous regarding a debt of honor. I had an impulse to match his frankness and decided to give in to it.

"Holmes is with an expedition going to the Valley of the Kings."

"The Scottish soldiers," he said instantly. Conscious of the return of suspicion to my face, he explained. "My men are camped on the west bank awaiting my arrival. We noted the Highlanders there." He thought for a moment. "Now what would the king of sleuths wish to find in the gateway to Amenti?"

"Amenti?"

"An Egyptian word referring to the underworld. Though Wady Biban al-Maluk is certainly a place of mystery. Actually that desolate valley under the cliff at Deir al-Bahri was selected in a search for secrecy."

It was painfully obvious that I was following none of this, and the sheik poured me some more coffee.

"Forgive me, Doctor, but tales of the ancient land are endlessly told round campfires under the desert sky. It was the great king, Thutmose First of the Eighteenth Dynasty, who made the decision. The age of the pyramids was over, for their very size was a magnet to the grave robbers, and no secret doors or false passages could outwit them. So the great military pharaoh decided to construct a secret tomb wherein his mummy might remain, inviolate, for the after-life. He selected this valley beneath the cliff, which he could see from his capital, Thebes. His tomb, constructed by the architect Ineni was a hidden thing, and its secret was preserved until the nineteenth dynasty. How this was done but six miles from Thebes amazes me."

I had difficulty remaining in my seat. "Six miles! Why, I thought this Valley of the Kings was at least a day's march away!"

The sheik displayed his perspicacity. "Had you known it was so near, you would have attempted the journey?"

"Why—yes," I sputtered.

"Perhaps I've misled you, Doctor. The entrance to the valley is six miles from the west bank, but the place itself is sizable. Fully forty Egyptian monarchs were buried there, and some of the tombs are enormous. If I knew where Mr. Holmes was headed . . ."

"I don't think he knows himself."

"But you feel he may be in some peril?"

My memory stirred and I responded automatically. "All things are possible in the caravan of life. Holmes said that recently."

The man startled me with a burst of laughter, and he slapped a knee under his robe forcibly. "He has not forgotten. It was I who told him that." He seemed to reach a decision. "Come now, Doctor, you would be with your friend, if possible?"

"My dearest wish."

"Then it shall be fulfilled. Dearest wishes are the divining rods of destiny. The Scots are gone by now, for they would wish to reach the valley before dark, but even their ground-eating, in-cadence march cannot rival the swiftness of the finest Arabians on these plains. Let us depart, for we have an appointment with Anubis, the jackal god of the dead!"

Chapter Sixteen

The Charge of the Light-Horse Irregulars

In looking back on those later years of my association with the greatest detective the world has ever known, I cannot but wonder if madness had not become my lot. Here I stood on the west bank of the Nile but a few miles from stark and foreboding cliffs beyond which stretched the vast Sahara. I was better than three hundred miles from Cairo, and that city was, by design and style of life, a million miles from where I belonged. My habitat, by training and inclination, was Harley Street, where my conflicts should have been women with real or imaginary ailments and sniveling tots who needed to have their noses blown. Instead, I stood beside a scurvy-looking band of ruffians as sinister in appearance as their steeds were magnificent. What knew I of them or their leader either, despite his open and ingratiating manner? And yet there had been that moment in Luxor when he had spoken of Holmes and I had seen that flash in his eyes. A picture plucked from the scrapbook of time and projected like a magic lantern slide onto the mirror of his mind. I had seen that look before—in the green eyes of Wakefield Orloff and the brown ones of von Shalloway of the German police—in the bland eyes of Slim Gilligan and the roguish ones of Burlington Bertie. I'd have staked my last shilling that the sheik belonged to that esoteric fraternity, the friends of Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

Upon our arrival at the Arab's camp, that grimy Bedouin who had assisted in my bandaging of the sheik descended upon me, all grins, and jabbering in Arabic.

"Mahoot is quite taken by you, Doctor Watson," said the chieftain. "He refers to you as the 'man of magic.'"

"I would have use for the arts of Cagliostro at this moment," I admitted, looking towards the towering cliff that seemed so near. "Nightfall is upon us. Can we make the valley now?"

For an answer, the sheik swung into the saddle of a superb Arabian stallion, signaling to his men as he did so. Mahoot, who seemed to derive a savage joy at the prospect of action, assisted me onto another Arabian, and in a trice the entire group were mounted and ready.

"Our horses are sure-footed, Doctor, and the rocky terrain we shall soon encounter holds no terrors for them. But be alert, for Arabians swerve quickly."

The sheik had no doubt noted the difficulty with which I had gained my seat. As we started out at a slow canter, which accelerated into a flowing gallop, I felt comforted that my saddle was much larger than the English type. There was but one rein, a curb undoubtedly, which made things easier for me, and I tried not to hold in my animal too tightly but let it take the lead, which it did, matching speed with the sheik's horse.

The set of tropicals that I wore featured large coat pockets, rather like a bush jacket. I transferred my trusty Smith-Webley, which I had with me, fortunately, shoving it into my belt where it would be more available. The band of fierce-looking Arabs that accompanied me made my firearm unnecessary in anything but a major crisis, especially since every one of my unusual companions was armed to the teeth. One's mind plays strange tricks. Here I was racing over flat and lush terrain, for all the world like my hero, General Gordon, surveying his defenses at Khartoum before that ill-fated and final battle. What was I thinking of? I blush to mention that I was wondering what the sedate members of the Bagatelle Club might think if they could see me now.

The graceful gallop of our steeds ate up distance, and in a short while the ground began to slant upwards. Fertile soil had faded away to sand, which was now replaced by rock, though the narrow road we followed was reasonably clear of obstacles and passable. Ahead of us loomed the stark cliffs of the Theban hills, and I knew that we were upon the entrance to the remote valley.

We curved to the right in the lee of the cliffs and our pace slackened to a fast trot as we followed a serpentine course. Then the valley was before us. But a short way back, the land was cultivated and there were date palms and greenery and the black, rich soil brought by Nile floods. Now all was limestone and flint with naught growing, a place of desolation. It was much larger than I had anticipated, though I sensed this rather than noted it visually since the sun was now gone and the last traces of it in the sky had disappeared. The moon was low and its light not revealing, and I wondered how the horses picked their way between boulders and outcroppings, but they did, for the desert was their element. Obviously this strange place was the result of violent flood waters that through eons of time had cut this crease in the cliffs that had become the place of the dead.

Then we heard it. There was no mistaking the sound. Gunfire! The entire party reined up, and we paused to consider the next move.

The sheik was gazing into the darkness, and he exchanged words with several of his followers before turning his bearded visage towards me.

"A rather brisk battle, Doctor, in the vicinity of a half-moon of graves almost due west."

With a small-scale war in progress, I did not feel that the withholding of information was practical.

"Holmes is in search of an undiscovered tomb of one of the pharaohs. Possibly he and the troopers found it."

"Only to discover that it was guarded, hence the gunfire. What now?"

I regarded him with a startled expression. "Why, we reconnoiter the situation."

"Well said," was his brief reply, and he whirled his horse and pressed forward at such a rate that I was hard pressed to keep up with him. Behind us the Bedouins formed a tight group, their eyes wide and their teeth flashing in the moonlight. Close by, Mahoot was sniffing at the air as if to catch the welcome smell of gunpowder. I recalled tales I had read of the American West. Was it not General Lou Wallace who had described the Indians of the American frontier, such as the Sioux and the Cheyennes, as the finest light cavalry in the world? That may be, but it occurred to me that the horse was not indigenous to the Americans but came by way of the Spanish conquistadores, whereas I was with those who had ridden their mounts since the memory of man and, at the moment, would have matched my companions against any mounted irregulars in the world.

The sound of the firing was louder now, and the sheik slowed his horse to a walk and then reined in at the top of a crest. From his saddlebag he secured a very modern pair of binoculars with which he surveyed the scene ahead of us.

"The tombs of Seti First and Rameses Tenth lie there," he said, indicating a southerly direction. "The battle is, as you can see by the gun flashes, to the right."

"Near the tomb of Rameses Sixth," I said automatically, accepting the binoculars from him.

I noted that he gave me a surprised look. "Quite right, Doctor. How did—?"

"Something I heard," I explained quickly, viewing the night scene.

The moon had risen and visibility had improved. We were, I judged, in the western end of the valley, and ahead the desolate Eocene limestone and bedrock slanted upwards towards a projecting bastion of rock. Well up the slope were heaps of stone, removed no doubt from the numerous tombs of the area and interspersed with faults and fissures. The flashes of gunfire indicated that the Scottish soldiers and Holmes were shooting upwards towards the rocky escarpment that dominated the section. Well hidden behind large boulders just below the crest, another group was returning their fire.

Lowering the glasses, I noted that the sheik's head was shaking in a manner that registered disapproval of the scene before us.

"The Queen's soldiers are using their standard Enfield rifles."

"Of course," I muttered. To me a shot was a shot, but such was not the case with my experienced companion.

"The others have Winchester repeating carbines. The twelve-shot model, I'd say, along with some Martini rifles." I just stared at him, amazed that he could deduce so much purely by sound. Then it passed through my mind that Holmes on several occasions had done the same thing relative to handguns.

"My point is, Doctor, that the troops can scarcely risk a rush up the slope towards their concealed adversaries. The Winchesters would chop them to pieces."

There was a heavier boom in the distance, and I surveyed the area of conflict again through the glasses.

"Why doesn't Gray pull his men back? They could regroup and attack from another angle."

Another, louder boom punctuated the sheik's reply. "On top of one of those rocks is an elephant gun. Being long-range, it could make things costly if the British retreated."

"Then they are pinned down."

"And the moonlight is getting brighter every moment, which does not improve the situation."

I peered through the binoculars, my mind desperately searching for inspiration. What would General Sternways have thought if faced with a tactical problem such as this? The General had regaled Holmes and myself with stories of his quite illustrious career on several occasions after the sleuth had recovered his daughter's famous pendant of Ceylonese rubies. It was the geography I viewed that prompted a sudden rush of words.

"Sheik, could we not circle to the south and come upon that hillock from the rear? Whoever is up there is dug in below the crest, and if we charged over it, we'd certainly have them at a disadvantage."

"True," replied the desert chieftain with a quick smile of approval. "But consider, we could have them between two fires but would be exposed to two fires ourselves."

"That can be remedied," I said with confidence. From the side pocket of my jacket I extracted my notebook that was with me always. The pen with which I had written endless prescriptions was, of course, in my handkerchief pocket. "Sheik, could not one of your men make his way upwards to the British with a note? At a signal, Holmes could have the troopers hold their fire as we attack from beyond the hill."

"The cry of the jackal," responded the Arabian promptly. "The gunfire has frightened them from the area, so there is no possibility of an error, and Mahoot is quite good at emulating the sound of the carrion beast."

As he spoke, I scrawled rapidly on a piece of notepaper, trying to summon the words that would explain our plan briefly. The sheik was rattling to one of his men and I caught the name, Holmes, repeated at least four times. The Bedouin dismounted, secured the message from my hands, and darted forward into the open, flitting from boulder to boulder and making use of every furrow cut by primeval floods in the rocky terrain to approach the Sutherland-Argyles undetected. Obviously our messenger was well aware of the menace of the long-range elephant gun and taking suitable precautions. The rest of our party had also dismounted now and were busy affixing pieces of leather to their horses' hooves, securing them with thongs of rawhide. As I vacated my saddle, Mahoot performed that feat for my steed. With a cunning bred of centuries of desert warfare, the Bedouins were muffling the hooves so that our progress over the bedrock of the area would not be revealed by sound. This sensible precaution prompted a sudden thought.

"Sheik," I stammered, indicating towards the soldiers, "your messenger! Will not the troopers mistake him for the enemy?"

"When he is close enough he will call out Holmes's name. Surely that will alert the British that he is friend not foe."

I was reassured. "Holmes will take care of it." Now we remounted and were able to follow the crest that concealed us from the area of hostilities, in a southerly direction and at a good rate. The ground sloped away and kept us under cover as we rode in a half circle to approach, as planned, from the rear. Rifle fire, punctuated at infrequent intervals by the ominous boom of the elephant gun, continued. I imagined that Colonel Gray was keeping the opposition busy, hoping for a cloud over the now-brilliant moon that would allow him to dispatch a man to secure reinforcements and extricate his party from the difficult situation in which they found themselves. Well, Colonel, I thought with some pride, the reinforcements are already on the scene, as you will learn shortly. I noted the riders around me checking their weapons and began to wonder just what I would do in the coming melee and also if this stratagem would work. General Sternways had stated more than once that the effectiveness of a cavalry charge was in part visual. The specter of a wall of horsemen thundering towards a position was enough to strike terror in the stoutest defender's heart. But, he had added, mounted units were highly susceptible to ambush, and a sound knowledge of the terrain was essential. Dear me, all we knew was that we were to charge over a crest of stony outcropping, and what lay beyond this natural fortification and the boulders sheltering the snipers we knew not. At that moment, my morale was at a low ebb.

Suddenly, the sound of gunfire, now quite close, picked up its tempo. The messenger has arrived, I thought. Gray has his men pouring it on to cover our approach and capture the complete attention of the enemy. Had I been truly of the military, I would have considered a commendation for Colonel Gray.

My thoughts were cut short. The moment was upon us.

The sheik and his men were grouped at the base of an incline, and I thanked my stars that we had arrived undetected at our present position. The chieftain and his riders were regarding me quizzically, and suddenly it dawned on me that they were awaiting orders. I was in charge of this mad escapade. A physician, a man of peace, trained to save life and not to take it, was expected to head a group of desert nomads in a quasi-military maneuver in this remote, dried-out valley of death. My heart quailed.

Then a voice drummed in my ears. "This motley crew is here on your errand, ol' chap, and if the rush is blunted and the field is lost, it is you who must accept the consequences and blame. So on with it, you bag of aging bones!"

"Sheik," I whispered with more conviction than I felt, "we'll spread out and rush the top in a line, which will give us maximum firepower as we clear the ridge and, possibly, mislead the enemy as to our numbers as well. Have Mahoot give the cry of the jackal, then the British fire should cease and I'll give the signal."

Already the chieftain was relaying, in Arabic, soft words to his men to form a row of white steeds, which they did with, alacrity. Bathed by the luminous moon, their white robes fanned by a faint wind, and seated on their steeds whose nostrils flared, they made an impressive sight pictured against the stark cliffs in the background. The moment produced an adrenalin flow into my blood, and for a wild second I imagined that this villainous-looking crew was transformed into the cream of chivalry and that we could charge inexorably to the gates of hell and back! I scarce knew what Holmes was up to, but the cause had to be right, and God supports the forces of light and those with the fastest guns.

Mahoot's evil-looking mouth opened and the howl of the jackal rose from his lips. In a moment there was a sudden cessation in the heavy firing, and I knew this was it. Seizing my trusty Webley in one hand, I rose in my stirrups, one arm aloft to lower and signal the charge. But my mount, feeling my weight shift forward, took this to be the moment and bolted for the top of the hill. I slammed back in my saddle and from my surprised mouth there came a cry that I'm told was a satisfactory blending of the rebel yell of Stuart's Confederate cavalry with the ear-splitting cry of one of Chief Crazy Horse's mounted braves. I think the Arabs were as startled as I was, but they picked up the refrain and we cleared the crest for all the world like a mass of screaming centaurs infected with the madness of whirling dervishes.

My steed held his lead over the rest and we made the top in advance of the main body. I had cocked my weapon, an insane thing to do on horseback, and was bouncing like a rubber ball at every leap of my noble Arabian. As a result I lost both my stirrups and my Webley blasted off into the night, not aimed at anything. I shoved the weapon into my belt again, gripping the pommel of the saddle desperately but to no avail. I was thrown loose from my horse but still clung to the saddle with a grip fused by raw panic. Both feet hit the ground and I bounced with my heels flying upwards and was amazed when they came in contact with two Egyptians who must have been working their way back up the hill.

They were not alone, having two companions who at the moment were being run down by my horse, whose mouth was open and snapping at anything within range. The two I'd hit with my heels went rolling down the hill, and my steed's progress was impeded by the men in his path. Then my feet hit the ground again as my Arabian rose on his hind legs to stamp at those unfortunates before him. Nothing could shake my grip on the saddle since I felt it was my last link with sanity in a world gone mad. My body slid sideways and I was hanging by the pommel with my legs on the steed's vertically inclined rump. Then the Arabian's front legs came down and there was a cry of anguish from those beneath his devastating hooves, but the beast's impact with the ground snapped me forward and of a sudden I was back in the saddle, and my mount and I were plunging down the hillside towards the rear of the rocks that had been the snipers' lair. But there was no answering fire or men to shoot at or run down. Streaming from the rocks and down the incline was a band of turbaned rascals whose hands were raised or who were industriously throwing away their guns as they rushed towards the wall of bayonets that had come forth to intercept them. Casting frenzied looks over their shoulders, they made a dash for the Scottish soldiers as though their only hope of salvation was behind the thin red line.

By this time, lurching in my saddle like an inebriated man, I managed to slow down my mount, and Mahoot was beside me to seize the bridle. He peppered the air with a flow of Arabic liberally interspersed with the only word I could understand, which was "Allah."

Then the sheik was by my side.

"A memorable engagement. Your running down those men near the crest rescued us from a potential crossfire, and the enemy has been captured without the loss of a man."

No doubt I sputtered something, but I imagine it was unintelligible.

"My good Doctor, I read that you served with the Northumberland Fusiliers, but I misunderstood your function with that gallant regiment. I thought you were with the medical corps. An obvious error."

Before I could explain to the sheik that his original idea had been completely correct, Holmes had raced up towards us and was assisting me from the saddle.

"Dear Watson, I doubt if I shall ever carry firearms again. You outdid yourself as a marksman on this night." I could only gaze at him dumbly as I fingered portions of my legs in hopes that they were still intact.

"Right after the signal of the jackal's howl, we ceased firing, of course, and then you came over the crest. Their sharpshooter, who had made life hellish for us with his long-range piece of ordinance, suddenly straightened up on the top of the rock that was his lair and looked backwards. Then I heard the bark of your Webley. You caught him right on, Watson, and he went tumbling from his perch. The others of your group were just appearing as you rode down and dispersed the four men who had gone back up the hill, for ammunition, no doubt. It was a chilling sight, with bodies falling right and left before your onslaught, and you were moving so fast you appeared half-man, half-beast."

Colonel Gray joined us during Holmes's words. "It was a combination of things that did in those beggars for fair," he stated, indicating behind him where his troops were securing the thoroughly quailed enemy. "Half of them are shivering and muttering about Anubis and won't even look back up the hill. After the howl of the jackal and the doctor's appearance, and most unusual it was, they must have seized on the thought that 'twas the jackal god of the dead who was descending upon them. Took all the fight out of them, it did."

In a weary manner I began to inform the group of their host of misconceptions but was not allowed to. The results were important, and the execution of little interest now. It was Holmes, calm and assured as always, who took charge. The great sleuth had made note of the sheik, and he acknowledged his presence now. "It has been some time," he stated laconically.

"Indeed, Mr. Holmes. I trust Allah has smiled on your efforts during the interval."

"He smiled tonight. Your presence was most opportune."

"Doctor Watson, to whom I owe much, enlisted the aid of my band and myself."

My friend's keen eyes rested on me for a moment with surprise fighting a twinkle for supremacy. "I've said on occasion that you do amaze me, ol' chap, and this is no exception. But now, because of your triumph, fate has indeed lent us a hand, and we'd best move fast to take full advantage of it."

As the sheik and Colonel Gray regarded him intently, I could see my friend's machinelike mind sorting the pieces and placing them in order for presentation. His gaze centered on the Colonel.

"These Scottish troops, but recently from their homeland, have only a vague idea of where they are, I believe." As the Colonel nodded, a smile of satisfaction touched Holmes's lips. "We shall keep it that way. When they return to their regiment and are dispatched to India, the story is that they had a brief skirmish with rebellious tribesmen, which was terminated by the arrival of a friendly band of Arabians. I think that sounds plausible enough."

The sheik contributed some information. "The men you have captured, they are from Kurna." He spat expressively on the rock. "The place of the grave robbers, which is close by to the south and east."

"I see," said Holmes. Then his attention shifted back to Gray. "Colonel, have your men keep close watch on the prisoners, for we can't have any escape."

"My men will gladly assist," said the sheik with a grim smile. "They have no love for the thieves of Kurna."

Holmes accepted this. "Then what is to be seen here shall be viewed by just the four of us," he said. "If you can secure torches, Colonel, we have some exploring to do."

It was shortly thereafter that we left the temporary camp set up by the Sutherland-Argyle and their unusual allies, the sheik's band. At Holmes's request, Colonel Gray, who was familiar with the valley, led us towards the tomb of Rameses Sixth which, according to the cipher of the Italian Puzza, was our marker in this strange rocky fastness.

What Holmes sought he found close to the entrance to the tomb of the Sixth Rameses. It was a narrow opening in the valley floor a short distance away, shielded by a low mound of rock that concealed it from the passing eye. It was certainly unprepossessing, but there was a stone step, unmistakably, and below it another. Holmes ignited one of the torches Gray had brought, descended a short distance, and then turned back towards the three of us with a strange look on his face.

"Sixteen steps downward I make it, right through solid rock. Now we shall learn what it is the Chinaman found."

He turned again towards the tomb, and we eagerly followed in his footsteps.

The sunken stairway descended steeply, I estimated at a forty-five-degree angle. At the bottom there had been a doorway, that was evident, but it had been removed, and the torchlight revealed a passageway that slanted downward without steps.

We pressed down the passage and progressed about thirty feet when we found ourselves face to face with a door of stone blocks festooned by seals that, as Gray explained, were proof that the tomb had not been violated by plunderers. This remark promoted amazement within Holmes.

"Do you say that this doorway has not been opened?"

Colonel Gray shrugged. "I'm no Egyptologist, sir, but from the seals and the way the stones fit, I would think that it has been this way for thousands of years."

In the light of the torches, it was obvious that the sleuth was thinking intently.

"He came this far and no further. Not one unplundered tomb has been found in all of Egypt, and the Chinaman got this far and then stopped. I fear that tears it as far as my theory is concerned."

Holmes was speaking as though to himself, and it was the sheik who broke in on his thoughts.

"What did you expect to find?"

"That the Chinaman, for obviously this archeological treasure was uncovered at his instigation, had opened this crypt untouched throughout the ages and found one or more of the golden tablets."

The desert chieftain's bearded face was expressive, and it was plain to see that Holmes's words struck no responsive chord with him.

"Actually," admitted the sleuth, "faced with the cold light of fact, my theory seems a bit far-fetched. And incorrect, if we are to believe Colonel Gray here. Therefore, let us backtrack, gentlemen. If Chu San Fu did not open the tomb, I see no reason why we should, and many reasons why we should not."

I confess it was with a sense of disappointment that I followed my friend back up the strange corridor hewn from solid rock and mounted the sixteen ageless steps towards the desert night sky. What secrets lay beyond that doorway that led to the past? Something about that thought had a familiar ring, but other plans were brewing, and my attention was distracted.

As we stood on the valley floor at the entrance to one tomb and surrounded by a multitude of others, Holmes was sunk in thought and seemed despondent. The sheik expressed a reasonable question, "What would you have us do?" at the same time that Colonel Gray inquired, "What now?"

Their simultaneous and same question drew a half-smile from Holmes and shook him from his mood of the moment.

"We are holding the tiger's tail, gentlemen. For the good of the Empire, it would be better if this tomb had not been found. What I would like to do is push back time and have it remain undiscovered. At least, until the present crisis is past."

I was incapable of following Holmes's reasoning, but the sheik found nothing unusual in his words.

"It can be done. Colonel Gray's British troops can seal off the valley using the excuse of military maneuvers. The Egyptians hired to guard the place can be pressed into service to refill the passageway and stairs, and in a short while the entrance will be no more. A simple job in this place where there has been so much excavation."

"What of the workers?" I asked, and then regretted it. For expediency I might better have not touched on the subject.

The sheik's wise smile served as a reminder that this was another part of the world to me, with customs and habits that I could never completely understand.

"My men and I will leave for the south and the campfires of our home. If we take others with us, it will not be the first time, and their lot will be no worse than it is now."

His words were reasonable and reassuring, but I sensed considerable elasticity in them as regards what would actually happen. However, Holmes did not seem disposed to inquire further, and I decided not to, either.

Our journey into the Valley of the Kings had been a bizarre affair, fraught, as it proved, with danger and complications, but its resolution was simple enough.

The following day, Holmes and I went with the Scottish soldiers and Gray to the entrance of the valley and, leaving the Colonel with the men, made our way back to Luxor. Prior to our departure, the sheik and Holmes had a private conversation that I would have given much to have been in on. The connection between the desert chieftain and the great detective puzzled me no end. Actually, I tried to lead conversations round to this matter on a number of occasions but got nowhere and remained ignorant of the situation until '96, when the reconquest of the Sudan began under Kitchener.

Holmes's mood of thoughtfulness, induced by the regrouping of facts, was supplanted by an air of impatience and activity. We wasted no time returning to the Nile and crossing it, where he made fast tracks for the Luxor army headquarters to dispatch cables. Then we gathered our belongings to return to Cairo. Gray was to follow on a later train.

En route, Holmes explained that he had persuaded the military to hasten orders for the Sutherland-Argyles' departure to India, and I could understand his concern regarding this. He wanted the troopers that had accompanied us on a transport before they could wander round Luxor and mention their singular engagement in a strange valley and its unusual conclusion. That Holmes wished all knowledge of the unknown tomb suppressed completely was most apparent, though his concern regarding this eluded me. Through the years he and I had played games regarding the progress of a case, and I must admit that he kept me on my toes with his varied moods and moments of loquacity followed by taciturn periods when he was so sunk in thought that he could barely summon a "good morning" and at times could not or would not do that. However, there is a limit to one's patience, and on the train back to the Egyptian capital, I determined to wrestle some sense from him regarding recent events and his apparent change of ideas. Much to my surprise, I found him not averse to discussing the case.

"After due consideration, good fellow, I must chide myself for being overly dramatic. This ancient land and its history is a never-ending mystery. But let us pass over that, for it has to be facts that are our sure tools. We know that Chu San Fu is a deep-seated rascal and a raving megalomaniac as well. Not an inappropriate mental state for a would-be empire-builder, I might add." This statement was accompanied by a thin smile. "He has caused a groundswell that has passed through the Mohammedan areas and will evidently reach its crest in Cairo at a meeting of the leaders of this widespread religion. Now the Chinaman cannot pass himself off as a true-blue follower of the prophet, for Mohammedanism has made no inroads in the Far East. Therefore he has some other scheme in mind, for it is his own aggrandizement that he is planning. Of that we can be sure. You recall that the hieroglyphics and the secret writings as well are recondite inasmuch as they reproduce visually not only words but ideas. The golden tablets matter has distracted me no end for they are, as of now, the only exhibits of the secret writings in any detail."

"Andrade being the one man who can translate them," I added as Holmes fell into a silence.

"Do not forget Memory Max, ol' fellow. I pictured this tool of Chu San Fu as capable of deciphering them, and I may still be right about that. Now don't laugh at me, but I did entertain the thought that these secret writings, until now undecipherable, might contain the key to some unknown power that would provide an explanation for the colossal monuments created by ancient Egypt, the construction of which we cannot as yet explain."

"Good Heavens, Holmes, you feared that some age-old force or process, possibly astronomical in source, might fall into the hands of a criminal madman?"

"It does sound like the awesome villainy from some transpontine piece, does it not? But the idea did occur, perhaps inspired by the unexplained mysteries on every hand in this strange land. I'm much relieved to be proved wrong."

"But how do you deduce that you are?"

"The tomb we found was unopened. Were Chu San Fu in pursuit of an ancient force, would he not have forced the door to that crypt in hopes of finding one or more additional golden tablets in the unpillaged tomb?"

Unable to detect a flaw in this reasoning, I nodded. "So we must return to basics. Chu San Fu is here in Egypt to incite the Moslems to a religious crusade, another rising of the Crescent. Of that I am sure. His possession of the Sacred Sword is enough to gain, nay command, the attention of Mohammedans throughout the world. It is the Chinaman's ticket to the show, as 'twere. What have the golden tablets to do with his plan? In keeping with the parlance of those lurid American novels that you read, what is his secret weapon?"

"Well, Holmes—"

"And why would he, clued by Puzza's cipher, discover the tomb, dig to the very entrance, and then abandon the project? That makes no sense at all."

"Hmm. You did mention American stories. This entire matter of tombs is rather reminiscent of Western folklore relative to lost mines."

Holmes had been gazing out of the window of our car and suddenly turned to me. "In what way?"

"There's the matter of the Lost Dutchman mine in Arizona, you know. The prospector who discovered it is said to have brought in ore of an amazingly high grade. But he died or disappeared, and the mine has never been found. They are still looking for it, by the way. Then there's the Lost Englishman's mine. Rather the same story. A remittance man supposedly found the mother lode but then, at the death of his brother, was called back to his homeland to assume the family title and never returned."

"That I find unbelievable," said Holmes.

"And a bit too close to the Dutchman story. Personally, I think both tales were inspired by some glib confidence man in hopes of doing a salting job."

"Can we go over that last part again, Watson?"

A memory caused me to chuckle, and then I was prodded by the finger of guilt.

"See here, Holmes, the Empire faces a crisis, and I'm relating tall tales that may have no basis in truth."

"But stories have a root source, good chap, and sometimes it is of interest. Do inform me as to this 'salting' that you refer to."

"Well, it is a swindle scheme, pure and simple. An attempt to sell a worthless mine at an inflated price, though it backfired on one rascal. Happened in Colorado, you see. Chap called Tabor was an unsuccessful proprietor of a general store who grubstaked two miners."

"Grubstaked? You have picked up a most colorful vocabulary."

"Supplied two prospectors with goods for a share in their findings."

"Oh."

"Well, the two men that he extended credit to discovered the 'Little Pittsburgh' mine, which was the richest find in Colorado up to that point. Within a short time, Tabor bought out his partners and became a multimillionaire. But his sudden affluence did not increase his business acumen. He would buy anything, and soon became known as an easy mark."

"A what?"

"To put it bluntly, Holmes, a sucker. Some fellow in a far-off place called Leadville had a mine that had proved worthless, so he planted valuable ore in it, a process known as 'salting,' and then took Tabor to view the premises."

"Making sure that he found the 'salted' ore, I take it."

"Exactly. Tabor fell for the bait and purchased the mine. Paid better than one hundred thousand dollars for it, as I recall."

"I noted that this story promoted some humor in you, but it seems a sad tale of chicanery to me."

"It's not over, Holmes," I said somewhat smugly. "Tabor put a crew to work on the mine, and his foreman reported back to the tycoon that they had been had, that the mine was worthless. But Tabor was undaunted. 'Dig some more,' he said. 'I've a great name for it: the Matchless.'"

"Ever hopeful, I see."

"Possibly inspired. They dug ten feet down and discovered a vein that made the 'Little Pittsburgh' seem pale by comparison. The 'Matchless Mine' financed H. A. W. Tabor's honeymoon to Europe, during which he is rumored to have spent ten million dollars!"

Holmes's jaw actually dropped. "My dear Watson, the sum you mention is mind-boggling. I wonder what the man who salted the mine . . ."

He was in the process of lighting a cigarette and held the match for a long moment, its flickering light reflected in his keen eyes. Then he completed the operation slowly.

"Salted the mine. By godfrey, Watson, that's it! At the risk of being repetitious, may I say again that you do possess the innate ability to say the right thing at the right time. Now, I must think."

I could not get another word from him during our return trip to Cairo. He was in such a deep study that I did not dare try.

Chapter Seventeen

Holmes Seems Irrational

Following our active adventure in the Valley of the Kings, a long trip by rail was no antidote for my aches and pains, and the moment that Holmes and I returned to the welcome surroundings of our hotel, I found myself incapable of seriously thinking about the matter at hand, as critical as it was. A quick bath and I was between sheets and sunk in deep sleep. Night had fallen when I finally arose, considerably refreshed though stiff as a board. When I dressed and made my way to the sitting room of our suite, I was unprepared for the scene that greeted me.

Only Holmes was in evidence. Since he is tireless when on a case, I had not expected the sleuth to indulge in a siesta but rather a room crowded with colonial officialdom, discussing the next step in this most peculiar situation, which had strong overtones of international complications. There were evidences that Holmes had conferred with many, but to find him deserted when at the critical point of an investigation did bring me up short. I wondered if some new and unanticipated piece had been introduced to the complex chessboard that faced the great detective.

Holmes's pipe was going, emitting clouds of acrid smoke that served as evidence that his superb mind was toying with facts in search of a realistic pattern and a solution to the problems the pattern presented.

"Ah, Watson, you do appear much the better for your rest. Whilst you were so engaged, I've been able to resolve the necessary staff work attendant on the resolution of this sticky wicket we have chanced upon."

I stifled a yawn and my senses sharpened. Could it be that Holmes would map out his plan of action, a step that he had seldom taken in the past?

"You did indicate during our journey by rail that an idea had come to you."

"It has, prompted by your chance remark. Happily this inspiration has stood up before a searching analysis."

Holmes rose to his feet and began pacing the room as he had so often within the familiar confines of 221B Baker Street.

"The Government has seen fit to accept—endorse, sponsor, if you will—an unofficial investigation into the problem of an Arabian uprising. I don't believe we need to underscore again the far-reaching damage that this outbreak might cause. We can accept the inclusive phrase that 'the situation is fraught with peril.' Alas, I must place some of the blame on my shoulders."

"Oh, come now, Holmes, this madman's scheme, whatever it is, was not of your doing."

"But his ability to do it, is. In a previous case of ours^* I swore that I would smash Chu San Fu. Had I but held true to that idea, we might not be in Egypt now."

^*The case of the Golden Bird.

"But Holmes, you broke Chu's hold on Limehouse and Soho."

"We closed him down. But he has, phoenix-like, risen again from the ashes of his defeat. The Chu San Fu's of our world, Watson, are like a deadly bacillus. They can be rendered impotent by isolation, but if allowed to break free, they are just as capable of epidemical infection and death as before. Extermination becomes the sole solution, as extreme a policy as that may be."

There was in Holmes's words a fatal conviction, and they produced a feeling of discomfort in me. His tone displayed an unusual fervor, alien to his normal cold and analytic manner.

"I have little reason to plead Chu's cause—"

"Nor I," said Holmes before I could elaborate on my thought. "The snake's fangs have to be removed. As I stated but a moment ago, this affair bears the name of an unofficial investigation, and after some thought I have decided to adhere to the title. We shall do what needs to be done, our way, my good chap. Can I interest you in dinner, prior to our departure for the native quarter of this strange city?"

Of course, I was dumbfounded. "Holmes, you jest. Chu San Fu in his intellectual dotage may have fallen prey to a Caesar complex, but he is not stupid."

"True, Watson. You are too old a hand to make the error of underestimating an opponent, and so am I."

"You reinforce my thoughts," I cried. "You are a marked man. The Chinaman knows that only you have the imagination and the ability to anticipate his moves and divert them. I would think, nay, I know, that right now his first thought is to stop Sherlock Holmes."

"Let us hope so, ol' chap. Dinner?"

From experience I knew that I had to bite back my remonstrances. Holmes had allowed the orchestra of his voice to play the overture, but I was going to have to wait for the first act of the opera of his composition.

What we had for dinner I cannot tell you. I was so consumed with worry that I ate without noticing the fare, certainly not according to my fashion. But one must admit that I had cause for concern. Holmes's tone when he discussed Chu San Fu and his second coming, as 'twere, had an ominous quality. That he would risk himself to stop the master criminal from instigating an uprising, I was sure. Therefore, it behooved me to stick to him like the proverbial plaster and to provide whatever assistance my trusty Webley and I could. Holmes was not impetuous or rash. He seldom made a move that was not well considered in advance, but I could not anticipate what scheme he had in mind to bring the Oriental to heel. For all I knew his meticulous mind had evolved a foolproof plan, but I could scarcely picture one that would not involve personal risk, and I promised myself that the danger would involve the both of us.

As for myself, the world would hardly recoil in horror if mischance befell one John H. Watson, M.D. The picture of Her Royal Majesty being overcome with shock and grief did not come to my mind, nor did tremors spreading through the Empire. But all of these things I could envision should Holmes fall before a miscarriage of chance, and I vowed that if the bullet engraved with his name was fired and I was able to step between it and my friend, I would do so gladly. Because of him, I had lived a richer life to this moment than most are blessed with at their final hour. Surely I could say farewell to my existence with the heartening thought that it had all been worthwhile. Indeed, had I the ability to relive it, I would have it no other way than what chance, fate, or a divine blueprint had plotted for me.

Such thoughts, though grim in nature, did produce a heartening effect and lent starch to my manner and rigidity to my backbone. When Holmes and I strolled out on the veranda of the hotel, savoring our after-dinner cigars, I was a bit lightheaded and imbued with an air of fatalism and a spirit of being ready, come what may. My current of energy was somewhat short-circuited when I realized that I had felt much the same way on that well-remembered night when we waited in darkness and silence in Oberstein's house at 13 Caulfield Gardens to spring the trap on Colonel Valentine Walter. What was it Holmes had said prior to the conclusion of that case, certainly of vast importance to the Empire? Oh yes: "Martyrs on the altar of our country."

Suddenly I felt quite deflated as I recalled that on the evening in question Holmes had been wrong. Colonel Walter had not been the bird he planned to snare. Good heavens, suppose my friend had made a miscalculation regarding this matter?

"I say, ol' chap, you were standing rather like this when you saw the lawyer, Loo Chan, hastening down Sharia Kamel, were you not?"

"Quite, Holmes," I responded.

"In the direction of the Ezbekiyeh Gardens, I believe you said."

"Right. Do you suppose that he set himself up like a stalking horse to draw me into the net?"

"Doubtful," replied Holmes. "Rather fancy that he found you dogging his footsteps and decided to gather you in as a hostage. But your quick thinking regarding that matter turned the tables, did it not?"

"Come now, Holmes, that decision was forced on me. Would never have had the chance but for that flowerpot or whatever it was that struck down the Manchurian who had grabbed me."

"I've given that a bit of thought, Watson. You do seem to operate under a lucky star, for which I am grateful. Let us try and retrace your steps when you were shadowing the lawyer. Possibly, the area of his hiding place may be revealing."

"Loo Chan is well on his way to Macao by now," I said, and then realized this was an inane remark.

"But Chu San Fu remains, and he may have gone to earth in the same area. The native quarter certainly seems like the section he would choose."

I fell in with Holmes's scheme, having little choice really. But I was not fooled. This was no spur-of-the-moment thought of his since he had mentioned such a trip prior to dinner. Had I planned on an investigation of the old town in search of the criminal hideout, I would have had a detachment of the local police with me, something that Holmes had the authority to do with the carte blanche conferred upon him by the foreign office. But then I recalled that, for reasons of his own, he had decided to go it alone without the benefit of the local establishment.

My nighttime excursion into the byways of Cairo was of recent vintage and I had little trouble following my previous path. Again, in a remarkably short time, the lights and sounds of the small European quarter were behind us and we were into the ancient city, much of it as it had been when it was called "Babylon-in-Egypt," and just as crowded, huddled, and secret as when first erected by Chaldean workmen. I recounted to my friend my actions when following the Oriental lawyer, though I did not mention my thoughts regarding what I hoped to do or my considerable doubts as to my ability to do anything. Holmes's keen eyes were darting everywhere, and that peculiar sixth sense of his regarding directions was, I sensed, associating our progress with whatever knowledge he had of the local geography.

Finally we arrived at the alley-mouth down which Loo Chan had disappeared and into which I had ventured from a different direction. Holmes surveyed the scene, his aquiline nose held in such a manner that had its shape been different, I would have sworn he was sniffing the breeze to scent the spoor of his dedicated enemy.

"Come, ol' chap," he said suddenly, "we shall backtrack. The next street over, if I read the signs right, would eventually lead us to the vicinity of the Mosque of al-Ashar, which is our one clue in this muddled mess. Chu San Fu intends to go there if I am correct as to his plan. So let us reconnoiter in that direction."

We reversed ourselves and went back another block before making a right-angle turn on a fairly sizable side street. The squat and squallid dwellings were reproductions of each other for a block and then, for half of another. Then Holmes drew me to a stop in the shadow of a one-story building, indicating the other side of the street.

"Really, the only edifice of any size that we've seen for some time, Watson."

It was that. Contrary to its neighbors, it was set back from the street and rose four stories. The ground floor was not visible, being shielded by an imposing wall, the top of which was armed with shards of glass set in cement. There was no gleam of light from its windows, and the whole structure had an abandoned and dilapidated appearance.

"Surely not a residence, Holmes, in this or former times."

"I suspect it served, during part of its history, as what our American cousins would call a 'pokey.' Are those not bars on some of the upper windows?"

There was moonlight to aid our investigation but I could not make out the ironwork that Holmes referred to. Small wonder, since his night vision was of the keenest whilst mine did not exist. The aged edifice had certainly caught Holmes's attention, and after a half-minute or so during which he subjected it to the closest scrutiny, he motioned to me and we continued our way down the dingy street but paused again after a dozen or so steps.

"Hmm, this is opportune, Watson. An alleyway running on the far side of the establishment. That will provide us with the opportunity of viewing it from another angle."

I was about to remonstrate but instead was forced to follow my friend's long strides, which took him to the end of the block where we crossed the street and came back upon the place that so intrigued him. Again Holmes took refuge in the shadows of a doorway close by the alleyway.

"See here," I said, puffing a little, for our pace had been swift. "Doesn't this strike you as a bit too easy? Not a soul about. Not even the howl of a mongrel to disturb the silence."

"No mystery there, Watson, for the native population are long abed."

"But we haven't the foggiest about what may be within this former jail or whatever it was."

"Perhaps nothing at all, but we are duty-bound to find out, are we not?"

Guiding me with his hand, for the alleyway was dark, Holmes directed our footsteps within it. On our right was a continuation of the wall that fronted the house, and I noted that its crest was also guarded by broken glass, which would have made it difficult indeed for anyone trying to climb over it. My heart sank, for this had all the elements of a trap into which Holmes was marching with purpose and propelling me as well. Somehow my earlier heroic thoughts seemed dim though the passage of time had been a short one. Then it crossed my mind that if this strange building was so well designed to resist outsiders, it could hardly serve as an effective device to lure us within.

That comforting thought was promptly dissipated when Holmes came to a halt but a moment later.

"Here we have it, Watson. A gate through the wall, which in times past and perhaps even now serves as an entryway to the alley."

"Now listen, Holmes, if that gate happens to be unlocked I'm not taking another step. This whole matter bears too close a resemblance to that Watney Gas Chamber adventure."

The faint luminosity of the night sky allowed me to catch the flash of Holmes's teeth as they were revealed in a broad smile, not at all in keeping with the peril of the situation facing us.

"My dear chap, excitement has caused you to mix fact and fantasy. You know full well that my exploits in the Watney Gas Chamber, as heroic as they seemed to countless theater-goers, were but reflections of the ample imagination of that American dramatist."

"And besides," he added, "the gate is locked, which may allay your fears though I find it inconvenient."

As he searched in his pocket, I felt another stab of fear. Of course, Holmes had with him one of those efficient devices, possibly designed by Slim Gilligan, that would make short work of the lock facing us. But my friend's actions seemed to follow an irrational path. A mysterious building by its very dimensions certain to stand apart from its fellows, an area wherein Holmes's enemies were known to have been—the whole matter shrieked "Ambush!" Here was the master of deduction blithely being taken in by a deception like a youthful Inspector Hopkins rushing down a false trail. It just didn't make sense.

Holmes had a thin piece of steel in one hand and had already inserted it in the large keyhole of the door facing us.

"The lock is an old one, Watson, but I think we can force its secret from it."

"Without a doubt, Holmes, but is this not madness? The street entrance is an impossibility without a scaling ladder, but here we have a convenient alley gate dangling before our eyes like the enticing lure on a fisherman's line. Does it not strike you that we are about to be reeled in?"

"Come now, we must not overdramatize. Ah, I think I have it!"

There was a long, regretful-sounding click, and Holmes withdrew his picklock and tested the handle of the door, which turned, and I heard the creak of hinges. Then another sound intruded itself upon my ears. Footsteps at the far end of the alley. I moved closer to Holmes, in the protective shadow of the wall, and my anxious eyes searched the dim passage ahead of us. There were two ominous silhouettes in the distance, and the distance was not as far as I would have wished it to be. "Good heavens, Holmes, it is those two giant Manchurians."

The sleuth's thin face was cocked to one side. He had already spotted the shapes that were closing in on us and was registering on something else. There was the sound of stealthy footfalls behind us as well.

"Holmes, we've been lured here and now, like game-beaters, they are flushing us into the trap."

"Well, Watson, we have no alternative at the moment."

He had the gate open in a trice and we flitted through it with the haste of desperation. As Holmes closed the portal, I leaned my considerable weight against it and he worked his picklock feverishly. The sweetest sound I could imagine was the click that signaled that the door was secure, for a moment at least.

"Come, ol' fellow, if we have bought ourselves a bit of time, let us make use of it."

I followed on his coattails, for it was infernally dark within the grounds of this ancient place and I could but depend on Holmes's ability to operate with proven efficiency while under the blanket of night.

His half-trot took us in the direction of the building, which now loomed before us with all the ghostly charm of the House of Usher! Evidently he spied no exit from the grounds, and I of course could see little at all. As we circled round the building, I did note that the front was devoid of a veranda or porch, consistent with the architecture of the area. On the far side of the building there was a section where the darkness seemed deeper, and Holmes made for it. It was a recessed door, and again he resorted to his burglar tool. Now I heard sounds in the distance and assumed that the Manchurians and whoever else was with them had gained access to the yard area. If Holmes could open the door to the building, perhaps we could secrete ourselves within and avoid capture. This time there was no telltale sound of tumblers, but of a sudden the door came ajar and I thanked fate for the time Holmes had spent studying the techniques of various robbers, many of whom he had brought to justice.

We slipped into the completely black interior of this deserted pile that had led to our undoing. But the last card was not played, and Holmes and I had been in a few other fixes that were just as desperate. His long fingers were on my wrist guiding me forward when there was a sudden burst of blinding light. Then I heard a sibilant voice that was easy to identify.

"Good evening, gentlemen. How pleased I am that you chose to drop in."

Suddenly a weight struck me from above and I was borne helplessly to the ground, thrashing as I fell but to no avail. It was not human hands that had seized me but a netlike object, which I judged to be of some sort of metal. Its weight alone kept me pinned to the ground, and the shock of its impact certainly dulled my senses. But not so much that I was unable to screw my head round and, through the blaze of lights, I saw the wizened and yellow face of Chu San Fu standing above me. In his hand was a glass container that he emptied with a smile that was more contemptuous than humorous. From its narrow mouth came a flow of crystals that seemed to explode as they fell round me. Then there was a faint mist and a peculiar scent in my nostrils, and I lost consciousness.

Chapter Eighteen

Shadow on the Walls

My first thought was that my eyelids had been glued. I tried to open them but they resisted me. Then I accepted the fact that my lids were just too heavy. It was all too much of an effort. One's mind does exhibit strange quirks. I knew not where I was or how long I was slated to be anywhere, and at this low point of my existence I suddenly as though guided by a mystical power found myself following the path of logic. It was all wrong. Everything was wrong, and it had been from the beginning. Not our being taken by Chu San Fu, but before that.

The coming of the now-dead agent, Cruthers, to our chambers had been the beginning, of course, and his mention of the name of our arch-enemy had been the first alert. The additional information supplied by Mycroft Holmes had sketched the outlines on the canvas of the case, and then Deets's appearance at our door had added revealing brush strokes. Holmes, with his usual brilliance, had joined the two cases into one, but from that point it was as though we had been led by the noses. He had anticipated the taking of the Sacred Sword but, to my astonishment, had allowed the theft to be committed, and now this religious relic was in the hands of the enemy.

We had preceded Chu San Fu to Venice but had allowed him to depart from the Jewel of the Adriatic with his accomplice, Memory Max, whilst we followed a will-of-the-wisp to Berlin. Holmes had outdone himself again by deducing the unknown grave in the Valley of the Kings, and we had routed Chu's henchmen guarding the place. But again we had vacated the field, none the better, as far as I could see, for our triumph. Holmes had indicated on the train back from Luxor that he had finally secured whatever information he had been seeking but, upon our return, had not availed himself of the considerable forces at his beck and call but had instead taken off with none but me at his side, walking full tilt into a trap. Was this the work of he who was hailed as the finest mind in England?

The Anglo-Saxon has been accused of insatiable curiosity and sometimes of flights of fancy, but at this moment it was the practicality inherited from my staunch forbearers that intruded itself forcibly on my thoughts.

Watson, I thought, you are naught but Boobus Brittanicus. For years, your claim to fame has been that of biographer, and has your inimitable friend ever let you down? It is he who is the master of logic, not you. If, as Holmes has generously stated, it has been your faith that has spurred him on then stand fast. Remember Wellington's men at Waterloo. What of Nelson's sailors at Trafalgar? Did they lack faith as that immortal seadog got himself shot to ribbons on the road to glory? Stand fast!

My eyes opened in more ways than one. I was lying on a pallet and looking at the slats of what was evidently a bed above me. It was a double bunk, singularly an arrangement much used on a man-of-war. Aside from a slight giddiness, my principal feeling was that of guilt at the path my thoughts had been following. Logic, indeed! I had been drugged in some manner and had been suffering mental aberrations as an aftereffect. Any doctor could diagnose that.

With a groan I swung my feet to the floor and assumed a sitting position.

"Ah, Watson, you have rejoined the land of the living."

How welcome were the familiar tones of my friend, and my bleary eyes located him beside a barred window that, along with a door mounted on metal hasps, seemed the only openings to the limited area that surrounded us.

"Where are we, Holmes?"

"In a cell, considerably removed from the ground level."

As he spoke, Holmes was actively engaged in some manner at the window, and I stumbled to my feet to lend what assistance I could.

"Rest easy, ol' friend, until you regain your equilibrium," said the sleuth.

He had a piece of timber between two of the bars and was using it as a lever. There was a strained sound to his voice, and the muscles of his arms and shoulders were tight under his jacket. I well recalled that day in '83 when my friend had straightened out the steel poker, bent into a curve by the villainous Grimesby Roylott, with one sudden effort. I knew the strength he was exerting. Suddenly, he relaxed with a smile.

"This is an ancient structure and I sense that I'm making some progress with these bars. But a moment, Watson, and we shall try together."

"Where did you—?"

"One of the slats on the bed," he replied, anticipating my question and gesturing with the wooden piece in his hand. "Whereas the passage of years decreases the strength of masonry, seasoning increases that of wood. I judge this slat has supported the backs of many prisoners in years long gone."

I was looking out of the window now and could see that we were four stories up, at the top of the building. I noted Holmes's scarf attached to one of the bars and saw that it fluttered limply in the occasional wind that fanned our place of captivity. Suddenly my eyes blurred, and I had to rub them for a moment and shake my head before they came back into focus.

"When I saw Chu San Fu and his infernal phial of crystals, I was able to gasp some untainted air and did not receive the full shock of the gas he subjected us to," explained Holmes.

"What did the beggar use?"

"Haven't the faintest. The Chinese are an ancient race, and I imagine they have a few tricks that our pharmacies, for all their modern developments, might find of interest. Our laboratories as well."

Holmes was rubbing his thin, amazingly strong arms, and his manner, to anyone not used to his calm acceptance of adversity, would have been infuriating. I found it reassuring.

"Look here, if you think we can budge one of those bars, I'm ready for action. But considering our height from the ground, it seems like labor lost."

"A possible exit of any kind could be helpful. Here, ol' chap, let us give it a go."

I was able to position my hands over Holmes's and we put our backs to it. I could feel the iron bar shifting slightly. Then the veins in my friend's forehead stood out for a brief moment, and there was a grating sound. "Enough, Watson. We have it!"

I was puffing and gasping, but the lower part of one bar was disengaged from its long resting place and was free. A moment more and Holmes had the top of the round metal piece loose as well and was hefting it in his hand.

"Iron is a formidable weapon. The age of copper and brass was the golden one for Egypt. When the Hittites appeared with iron weapons, the great decline set in."

"You have some plan for our escape?"

"At the moment, no. Our incarceration came as a surprise. I was counting on Chu San Fu's overweening ego to keep us on the scene if only to tell us how clever he is."

"Then you expected to be captured?"

"Always a possibility, Watson. One that occurred to you as well, but you followed my misguided footsteps nonetheless. Dear, loyal friend."

For a brief moment Holmes regarded me with that half-smile that in others might have seemed supercilious, but I divined his thoughts and was deeply touched by them.

"Well," I said with buoyed spirits, "if we can remove one bar, two should not be beyond our capabilities."

But it took us another five minutes, and hard labor it was before we had the second bar out of the window. "What now?" I asked, taking in deep breaths of air. "We would need wings to go out the window, so we have little choice but to await what fate has in store for us. However, it is not such a terrible situation. Obviously, Chu had us removed to this cell because other matters claimed his undivided attention. I suspect that sooner or later he will order us brought to his presence to gloat a bit before he gives his henchmen the high sign to do us in. The Chinaman has all the instincts of an Oriental despot and, if born in another time, would wish himself to be no less than a Mandarin."

Holmes indicated the door to our cubicle. "You will note the barred grate, Watson. I tested that while you were still unconscious. Should a guard drop by to check on our behavior, I've a thought in mind. You might be attempting to maneuver your way through the window. If he were to enter to prevent an escape and I were behind the door, I could certainly cosh him with one of these iron bars."

I was gazing at him in astonishment, entranced by the ingenious escape plan that he had rattled off in his matter-of-fact manner. Then he shook his head.

"It's a thin reed, Watson, forced on me by the chill wind of desperation."

"But why? Sounds like a capital idea to me."

"If the man or men have any sense, they will not enter this cell without both of us plainly visible. Possibly Chu San Fu is served by idiots, but I doubt it. Like calls to like."

"That went past me, Holmes."

"The Chinaman has rallied the remnants of his once-considerable underworld empire in this last-ditch effort. He must be using a considerable amount of what we might call 'local talent.' I'll wager that from the bazaars and low haunts of Cairo he has secured the most accomplished of the scoundrels at hand. Possibly my scheme should be abandoned in the hopes that we will be taken to Chu and can wreak some havoc in the ranks of the ungodly then."

As my friend mused, I had crossed to the door and was peering out of the narrow grating into the dark corridor beyond. I never did learn if Holmes decided to try his scheme or not, for suddenly there was a voice. It was close; it did not come from the corridor; and I wheeled round as though I had received an arrow in my posterior, half expecting to find some form that had materialized in our cell. But there was only Holmes, and I must say he looked as amazed as I felt.

"Holmes . . . you iss in der? Nicht war?" The voice was low in tone, almost a whisper, but its timber gave it a carrying quality. Wildly, I looked round the cell for some flue or vent but could locate none.

"Come verrunter und help me get into dis here place." My friend had sprung to his feet and rushed to the window. As I followed in his wake, he cautioned me back.

"Watch the door, Watson. An intrusion at this time would be inconvenient."

I obeyed him promptly, my mind in a whirl. The voice came from outside the window. Holmes had said we couldn't get out of there without wings. How then could anyone get in? I stole a quick glance from my station at the grate and saw Holmes pulling a thin, wiry form through the opening. There was something strange about his appearance, and for the moment I could not divine what it was. But help was at hand, and with considerable effort I forced myself to gaze into the corridor and listen intently so that I could warn Holmes if anyone approached.

"How is it without, Watson?"

"No sign of light. No sound either."

"Then I guess we're safe for the moment."

Whether Holmes meant that I could abandon my post or not I did not know, but I could not help returning to the center of the room, such was my curiosity regarding this most unusual happening.

Our visitor was removing strange-looking, rubberized objects that were attached to his hands with a glove arrangement. I noted that there were similar devices on both knees and on his feet as well.

"Who are you, sir?" I stammered.

"Zo, who else could climb up here—four flights and flat as a fancuchen! Pretty goot job if I zay zo myself."

"Shadow Schadie," exclaimed Holmes, and his smile was half mirth and half admiration. "The only man who can walk up walls."

"Vell, maybe not der only vun, but der only vun in Cairo."

"But what are you doing in Egypt?" I heard the words but didn't realize I was saying them, I was so amazed.

"It's der payoff," was Schadie's reply as though he were discussing the price of a mutton chop. "You go to der clinker und you see mine son und I don't know vat you say to him but der vord iss oudt. He iss gonna be all right up here in der noggin."

The famous thief was tapping his forehead and there was the light of excitement in his deep-set brown eyes.

"Dey iss stickin' him in der booby hatch because he ain't got all his stuff upstairs put now he iss makin' big recovery. Dose doctors, dey don't know vat to dink, but dey iss lettin' him oudt from der nut farm."

"I wondered about that," said Holmes. "Then Heinrich Hublein is your son."

"Vot kinda detectiff iss you? You should haf known dat right along. Shadow Schadie is der only man vot can valk up vails. Zo you dink some clunker iss comin' along vat can do it? Nein, he iss mine son. It's in der genes. Dot's how he done it."

Such was the conviction and intensity of the thief's words that he did set me back on my heels, but then he paused for a moment and continued in a more reasonable tone.

"But I vill tell you diss. Vork hard he must haf to master der technique. Dis kinda t'ing, it iss not zimple."

"Well," said Holmes, and his calm acceptance of this strange story did grate on my nerves a bit. "I'm delighted to learn that your son has regained his sanity, but that still doesn't explain your opportune presence in Cairo."

Schadie regarded him suspiciously. "You iss Sherlock Holmes, no?"

The sleuth's upraised palm halted more words from the German. "Wait! You told me—the payoff. Inasmuch as young Heinrich is now sane, you feel an obligation to Doctor Watson and myself and followed us to Cairo."

"Now dat's, der kind off deductions vot I'm expecting from you." There was a glint of humor in the second-story man's eyes.

"Then I'll attempt one more. It was you who followed Doctor Watson when he visited the native quarter before. In a dark alley, not far removed from this place, you sandbagged a giant Manchurian who had captured him."

"About Manchurians I don't know. But he vas a big fellow undt he vas a Chink."

"Holmes, how did you ever figure that out?" I blurted.

"Oh, come now, Watson. Who ever heard of flowerpots in Cairo? You know we can carry this lucky star thing of yours just so far."

I did bridle a bit, I must confess. "That's all very well, Holmes, and we've had a nice discussion, but how are we going to get out of here? Mr. Schadie may be able to walk up walls, but I don't think he can walk through that door there."

"Dot's a fact," admitted the German.

"Now there is good reason to feel the plan we discussed will work, Watson. The advent of our welcome ally here will allow both of us to be in view and seemingly harmless."

Suddenly the sleuth tensed and his head cocked to one side in the familiar manner that indicated his abnormally acute sense of hearing was at work.

"Quick," he whispered, "over by the window, Watson."

I understood his intent immediately. From the window I would be in full view of anyone looking in through the grate in the door. Also, my form would conceal the fact that the bars had been removed. As I crossed to the aperture, Holmes handed one of the iron bars to Shadow Schadie and indicated, in dumb show, for the German to stand where the open door would conceal him. Evidently he did not have to signal Schadie what to do with the bar at his disposal.

In another moment, Holmes had joined me by the window.

"Rather glad I fastened this neckpiece since it signaled our cell to Schadie," he said in a calm voice, his dexterous fingers unknotting the material, which he placed in a coat pocket. I could hear the footsteps that had alerted Holmes plainly, and then a face peered through the grate. Whoever it was played a lantern through the opening and into the room, and its rays rapidly found the both of us by the window. There was an exchange of Arabic from without, and then the sound of a key in the lock. The lantern remained trained on us unwaveringly. The door was opened with confidence, and the man with the lantern entered first. After him came another Arabian with an ominous-looking Mauser automatic that he held with a familiar air.

I was surprised to see one of his race with a handgun since cold steel is their most natural weapon, but Holmes had said that Chu would have recruited the most proficient of the ruffians available.

As the man with the gun gestured towards us, Holmes stepped forward as though to speak, and suddenly his right foot came up. The toe of his shoe caught the wrist of the Arab, and the Mauser spun into the air. There was a clunk in the background, and the lamp fell to the floor followed by a body. The gunman's mouth opened, but before he could utter a cry of pain or alarm, there was another soft clunk and his eyes rolled as he fell like a wet sack of grain, joining his comrade on the hard floor.

It had been but the work of a moment and the resultant sounds had been inconsequential. The door was open, our guards were unconscious, and we were free.

Holmes retrieved the lamp from the floor with a sweep of his arm, and then he had the Mauser as well.

"We're going down, Schadie. This place is crawling with Chu San Fu's people. I think we can consider your payoff as made in full, so if you want to leave the way you came, why not?"

"I could do dot," replied Schadie. "But dot dere iss a Cherman gun vot you got, undt I know how to use it."

Holmes tossed the Mauser to the thief, who caught it effortlessly. "You are so good at following people, best to lag behind. If Watson and I are apprehended, they won't be looking for a third man."

"Zo—I'm der ace up der hole. Vell, ve giff it a try."

Chapter Nineteen

The Clash of Two Minds

One has to become acclimated to rapidly changing situations when associated with the world's greatest detective. While I accompanied Holmes down the dark corridor outside our former cell, my brain spinning like a child's top, I was able to retain a grip on reality by virtue of the fact that positions had been switched in a similar manner in past cases as well. Only a few moments before, we had been the imprisoned ones, and now it seemed we were cast in the role of the stalkers.

Holmes had kept the lamp, and its illumination guided us to a flight of stairs leading downward. Nowhere were there light fixtures or furnishings, and the building was but a deserted shell that housed the apparatus of Chu San Fu.

"What exactly are we doing, Holmes?" I queried in a soft whisper not only inspired by a desire for secrecy but by our stark surroundings as well.

"Searching for confirmation. Since a metalworker requires heat, I feel that will be available in the furnace area of this extensive rum."

Holmes did not elaborate on this thought and as we progressed downward, our ears attuned to any sound, it hardly seemed the time to badger him. The myriad questions that fluttered through my mind like aimless butterflies could remain unanswered for the moment. My principal concern was some means of removing ourselves from the crumbling walls of masonry that surrounded us, producing much the same depressing sensation that I had suffered through within the great pyramid.

Shadow Schadie must have been following in our wake, though no sight or sound served as a clue to his presence.

It occurred to me that if this ruin was teeming with the followers of the Oriental master-criminal, we were marching round in a most free and open manner. As though to confirm this thought, when we rounded a corner leading to the second landing, Holmes and I found ourselves face to face with a pair of villainous-looking Arabians.

Holmes immediately began speaking, quite loudly, in the fluent German that, along with other languages, he had mastered during his boyhood travels on the Continent: "These words are for your ears, Schadie. We are facing two more Arabs, no doubt looking for the other two in the cell. Delay them by all means, ol' chap."

With a half-gesture, Holmes acknowledged the presence of the Arabs who were gazing at us in surprise and then shouldered past them, leading me by the elbow.

I noted one of the Arabians shrug at the other, and then they continued up the stairs we had just vacated. As they disappeared, I let out a deep sigh.

"What, by all that is holy, did you do, Holmes? Hypnotize them?"

"Merely assumed that this is a multilingual establishment, Watson. A potpourri of dissidents, opportunists, and mercenaries of crime, not all known to each other. Those Arabs are looking for our two guards who have not returned, and I instructed Schadie to dispose of them."

"Rather imagine he will. Seems like an efficient chap though he was critical of your methods, Holmes."

"We shall not take umbrage at Mr. Schadie's manner, Watson. After all, he can walk up walls and did so in our behalf."

There were now sounds, previously inaudible, in this rambling wreck of a place. They were not distinguishable but merely joined forces with the feel of people present somewhere. One in particular remained constant, and it was towards this that Holmes directed our footsteps.

"Internal combustion engine of some sort, Watson. From the narrow stairwell and the lack of traffic, I would say we are descending the back stairs, which should lead to the area that we seek."

It did so somewhat faster than I anticipated, though we did not encounter any more stray members of the criminal conspiracy that we were in the middle of, and unarmed at that. With the thought that Schadie might be occupied elsewhere with the disposal of the two ruffians we had met on the stairs, I felt the lack of a backup person in this mad adventure. I was casting a worried glance over my shoulder when I felt Holmes tense at my side. In front of us loomed a door, and there was a definite indication of light on the far side. Holmes extinguished the lamp that had guided us, and we made for the portal.

It proved unlocked. Holmes eased the door open, and the first thing I saw was an iron railing. Peering over the sleuth's shoulder, I could see a large room with its floor at a lower level. Now the cyclical sound of an engine was quite apparent. This had to be the boiler room of the building, and the door through which we peered opened on a narrow catwalk running its length. I assumed that further on there was a flight of iron stairs leading to the basement level. What captured my eyes was a number of men busily engaged in some process, the purpose of which I could not divine.

In the center of the sizable area was a table, much like that of a draftsman, and seated by it on a high stool was a tall man of advanced years. He was peering with a hand glass at a gleaming object that I estimated was four feet in length and at least two and a half feet wide. The basement chamber was brightly lit and the tablet, for such it was, glistened. Its reflected light was that which, through the centuries, has driven men to prodigious efforts and to deeds that promote a shudder. It was the yellow gleam of gold that has fired the furnaces of greed throughout history. But the tablet, whose worth in rare metal must have been enormous, seemed of no concern to the man at the table. He was studying the inscriptions that covered it and referring to a number of photographs spread out on the table along with several lithographs.

"Memory Max," whispered Holmes. "Possibly it was his name that led me down the wrong trail. I recalled his fame as one of those rare photographic-memory types and did not consider relevant that he was also a master forger."

Holmes's words would not have been audible five feet from where we were standing. Perhaps it was a subconscious recognition of the fact that his name had been used that caused the man at the table in the basement to suddenly raise his head, and then, to my horror, he turned and was looking straight at us. The light of the large room penetrated through the half-open door that was our observation post, and I saw Memory Max suddenly spring to his feet in alarm, his mouth opening to sound a warning.

Holmes closed the door quickly, seizing me by the arm and propelling me back along the corridor that we had traversed.

"We were spotted, Watson, worse luck. But all is not lost. Let us strategically make ourselves known of our own volition."

We were rushing towards the front of the building. Then it dawned on me what Holmes intended to do.

"Good Lord, you are not just going to brazenly burst in on Chu, are you? Let us take to our heels, Holmes."

"We're outnumbered and surrounded, ol' fellow. When all is lost, attack! A theory that you used quite effectively in your adventure with Loo Chan, if you will recall."

Holmes had me there. I had blundered in on the Chinese lawyer and created enough surprise and consternation to bluff myself out of a messy corner. Possibly it would work again, though I sensed that Holmes was motivated by another and deeper purpose.

We were in a wide hall now that seemed to run the length of the building, and through open doors several men registered on our pell-mell rush past them. I did not take time to note their appearance or nationality.

Then we were in the main room of what had to have once been a government building. It was two stories in height and seemed too imposing for a common jail, but perhaps that was a function assumed by the edifice later in its varied history. It was brightly lit. The tall windows that stretched along the front wall of the building were all cunningly covered by a felt-like material that provided an effective blackout. In direct contrast to the building's abandoned appearance, this place seemed as populated as St. Pancreas or Waterloo Station. The whole busy scene was dominated by a huge chair on an upraised section of the floor in which sat the bewhiskered Chu San Fu.

"Well," I thought, "he's come as close to a throne as he could. Or would," was my second thought, for I was betting on Sherlock Holmes.

Our sudden entrance caused a universal cessation of activity, and this core of Chu's criminal conspiracy became as silent as a pharaoh's ancient tomb.

"We are delighted to drop in on you again, Chu San Fu," said Holmes in his most casual manner.

As he advanced towards the several steps leading up to the Chinaman's elevated position, I could do naught but follow and hope that I seemed as unconcerned as my friend did.

The Oriental's amber eyes shifted quickly to the door through which we had come.

"Where are your guards?" said Chu San Fu. There was a flicker of worry in his eyes.

"Disposed of, but let's not dwell on that. We had to come face to face. That was your intent all along so that you could inform me that, at the last cast of the dice, it was you who had scored the winning point. Well, I am the bearer of sad tidings. It is all over. It's not going to work at all."

I am sure that better than half the men in the room didn't understand a word Holmes was saying and the rest couldn't divine what he was getting at. But such was the conviction of his manner, so bright was the triumphant light in his commanding eyes, that they remained motionless, transfixed, as was I for that matter. A room populated by the dregs of the underworlds of half a dozen nations was suddenly dominated by two personalities. The rest of us might as well have been pieces of furniture. The resolution of this monstrous matter now rested in the clash of two minds, and every man jack of us knew it. The whole affair was reduced to its basic elements. The evil genius of the crime czar, Chu San Fu, and the brilliance of my friend, Sherlock Holmes.

Chu's frail and aged form seemed to have shrunk within the ornamental Chinese robe that he wore, but this was but the reaction of a moment. Then his lips twisted in an evil smile as he realized again his position of strength.

"You speak bold words, Holmes, for a man in the clutches of his sworn enemy."

"You know me well enough to realize they are not idle ones. I'll give you high marks, Chu, for not fearing the devil himself. Had I, some time back, outlined your plan and its scope, I would have been laughed out of Whitehall and Scotland Yard as well. The very grandiosity of your scheme lent it a protective cover, for it savored of the dreams of a madman."

"There have been other so-called madmen," replied the Oriental stroking his long white chin whiskers, separated into two strands as was his custom. Holmes dismissed his words with an imperious wave of his hand.

"Spare us the recitation of conquerors like Genghis Khan and Napoleon, for that monologue has been oft-used. You are making ready for your revelation at the Mosque of al-Ashar."

I had been waiting for it and rejoiced in the viewing. It came as I knew it would. That sudden stab of fear in the closely guarded eyes of the Oriental.

"You know of that?" he asked, and there was a quaver in his voice.

"I know of it all. The tomb is now covered, and the entrance to the Valley of the Kings is guarded by an army detachment."

Chu San Fu sprang to his feet instinctively and then sank back into his imposing chair, steeling himself to recover his control and his dignity. Holmes had often said that the grip of a criminal on his underlings was in large part psychological, and the Chinaman was aware of this as well.

"How did you find the tomb?" he asked in a flat tone.

"Followed the trail that led you to it," was Holmes's glib response. "No difficulty there, but I will admit that the golden tablets and the great store you placed in them threw me off a bit. However, a remark by my associate, Watson, brought me back on target."

"How much do you actually know?" Chu's query was delivered without any show of emotion. Centuries of Oriental stoicism had taken charge, and his face was now as impassive as a sheet of burnished bronze. I also suspected that for the first time he was actually considering the possibility of defeat.

"I don't know," said Holmes, "how long you have nurtured this scheme, nor is it important. You took a series of facts and had the imagination to fuse them into a unity—your plan being to rewrite history. Events dealt you a nice set of cards. First, you had a basic truth. This Nile Valley is the origin of recorded history, and no one will deny it. There are myths and folklore about other civilizations, but they left no mark of their passage nor monuments of their greatness that can predate this birthplace of civilization. All that comes from ancient Egypt is marked first in the book of man. That was the base of the power pyramid that you strove to create."

"The next fact you seized upon was the pharaoh Akhenaten's attempt to establish a Utopia at Tell el-Amarna built round a one-god religion, long before Christianity, of course. Possibly that is what sparked the idea in your mind."

Chu San Fu gave no indication one way or another but simply gestured for Holmes to continue. I could not decipher his emotions at this point.

"Many knew or suspected that the Sacred Sword had been placed in the hands of Captain Spaulding as a safeguard against a fanatical religious uprising, and you decided to secure it as your opening gun. By spreading the word throughout the Mohammedan world that you will appear with the fabled sword, you have drawn an audience of religious leaders, but the sword is only the beginning."

"It was the decoding of the secret writings by Howard Andrade that opened the road to authenticity. It gave you the cloak to conceal the mark of the charlatan. No one but Andrade has been able to decipher those obscure symbols. You have two of the golden tablets, and it is known that they provide examples of the writings, another fact that you planned to use to your advantage."

"You planted Memory Max with the Englishman, depending on his photographic memory to record the key to Andrade's discovery. Then you spirited Max here with the tablets to remove the original hieroglyphics and forge a new message upon them. Little is known of the pharaoh Akhenaten. The Egyptians attempted to obliterate him from their written history. But you plan to write that history to suit your purpose. In your version, duly forged on the golden tablets, the god Aton, espoused by Akhenaten, will bear a striking resemblance to the Allah of Mohammed. Akhenaten will be recorded as the first prophet, making Mohammed the second, and it will be foretold that the third prophet will come from the east, bearing the sword of he who preceded him."

"You hope to shake a widespread religion to its core. Especially since the golden tablets will be found within the only unrifled tomb of a pharaoh as yet discovered. Your thought was to plant them within the tomb, of course, then have the royal grave covered and its location revealed by you in a vision before the gathering of Moslems in the mosque. Once the tomb is found and the tablets discovered, the world of archaeology will see to it that Andrade is summoned to translate them, which he will eagerly do, being an unsuspecting tool. The whole fabrication will defy doubt—the tablets being genuine, the tomb as well, and the message of the coming of the third prophet being revealed by an unimpeachable source. Really, the detail of the plot is admirable. However, it won't work now."

Chu San Fu had been watching Holmes with unmoving eyes. Several times there had been a restless shifting among his followers, who formed the mute audience for Holmes's re-creation, but the Oriental had halted them with a slight gesture of one of his thin and bony hands. Now he replied in a businesslike voice, much more chilling to me than an emotional outburst, since it indicated that his first-class brain was still working efficiently and had not given way to panic or frustration.

"You have blunted my capabilities, Holmes, but not destroyed them. The tomb idea was a major part of my plan, but it can be abandoned. The golden tablets can be discovered in some other manner, though not as convincingly, that I'll admit."

Holmes was shaking his head. "Come now, you intend to appear as the rumored messiah. You cannot pass yourself off as anything but Chinese. Mohammedanism spread as far as India but no further east, so that is one mark against you immediately."

"Holmes, you are thinking hopefully, not rationally. Prophets spring from faith, not countries. The man who has the Sacred Sword is the one who will grasp their attention. When I appear and it is verified that I have the authentic sword of Mohammed, then all the various sects of the Islamic religion will be prepared to listen and to accept."

"I must agree," was Holmes's surprising response. "I suspected some time ago that the sword was vital to your plans, though I had but a dim idea of what you were up to. Therefore, Watson and I were observers the night your men stole it from the Mayswood farm."

Chu San Fu's restored confidence received a jarring blow from this revelation.

"Doctor Watson was within the house, that I know, but you were not there."

"Correction. I was. You used four men. They came in over the balcony to the secret room they already knew about. They placed the sword aboard the early freight to London and from there it was taken to the hold of the Hishouri Kamu to be transported here."

Each statement from Holmes was like a body blow to the Oriental. His calmness was a departed thing, and his jaw hung loosely.

"If you knew all that—"

"Now it is beginning to dawn, is it not? Do you think I would have let you take that sword and the commanding position that it would bring to you? Two nights before you raided the Mayswood Farm, my men performed the same function. They took the real relic and left a duplicate in its place."

I believe I was as astonished as the Chinaman. Chu sprang to his feet, crossing to a small table adjacent to his chair on which was a teak case fully five feet long. As he feverishly opened it, I realized why Slim Gilligan and Slippery Styles had been down country before my arrival. Holmes had been one step ahead of his adversary all along.

It was Chu San Fu who had been led by the nose and down the path of deception.

Chu was removing a curved weapon, more of a scimitar I would have said, from the teak case. Its hilt was festooned with shiny stones, and it certainly was an impressive object.

"Regard the jewels in the handle," suggested Holmes. "It's a nice job, for three deft but dishonest men worked better than twenty-four hours without stop to create it. But the jewels are glass, Chu. The Mohammedans who will inspect that relic are not without knowledge, and they will label it as spurious in short order."

"No!" cried Chu San Fu, and in his voice was the anguish of a thousand tears. "It cannot be!"

"Your eye tells you that it is, but your mind refuses to accept it."

Holmes's voice had that whiplash quality that I remembered from other times. His inexorable flow of facts, one hard on the heels of the other, had worn down his adversary, and it was now the man from Baker Street who held the upper hand.

"Your dreams of a unified Islam stretching from India to the Atlantic with you as its spiritual leader have, like the murky visions induced by an opium pipe, faded into nothingness. But you recoil and demand proof, so I will give it to you. The night is long upon us, but by now a special edition of the newspaper Al-Ahram is on the streets. It has picked up, from the Reuters' wire, a story already well circulated in England and elsewhere. The Sacred Sword of the prophet Mohammed was recently stolen from its hiding place but has been recovered through the efforts of a consulting detective named Sherlock Holmes and is in the hands of the British Government for safekeeping. Right now the story is spreading like wildfire throughout Cairo, and those religious leaders who responded to your siren song are making ready to return to their own lands. The show is over. The theatre is empty, and your drama has failed."

There was a nervous tick that evidenced itself on one side of Chu San Fu's mouth, and his eyes had a wild and frantic look about them that sent tingles down the short hairs on the back of my neck. Evidently Holmes noticed it too, for his next words were delivered in a calmer manner.

"You know I am right, but you still won't accept it. So be it. Just have one of your men secure a copy of the special edition and you will have proof."

Chu San Fu was breathing deeply, and by what means he signaled his wishes I could not see, but suddenly Holmes and I were seized by the men surrounding us and placed in two chairs. A dirty-looking Lascar proceeded to tie my hands and lash me to the chair, and I noted that one of the giant Manchurians was doing the same thing to Holmes. Another signal from Chu, and a ferret-faced half-breed made for the door.

By the main entrance was an obese Chinese who swung up a wooden bar that had nestled in two large metal "L" shapes firmly secured to the stout door. Peering through a peephole, the fat Oriental then unlocked it and the half-breed slipped through in search of a newspaper as suggested by Holmes. The round guardian of the gate then relocked the door and placed the wooden bar across it again. I judged that it would take an explosion to break that bar, and this thought was of little comfort. When Holmes's story was confirmed, what was our fate to be? Or had Chu already, in the back of his mind, thrown in the sponge? Possibly he was planning our end with considerable gusto even now. I cast a quick glance in the direction of the crime overlord but the Chinaman was back in his chair, his chin resting on a knotted fist, staring into space with unseeing eyes as though in deathly fear of what was to come. The other men in the room were exchanging information in soft tones and in a variety of tongues, and there was an aura of confusion as the whole group waited for the proof that Holmes had promised.

It seemed no time at all before there was a nervous tattoo on the outer door. The rotund Chinaman swung the bar from its sockets and began to unlock the door when inbred caution caused him to glance through the peephole. Suddenly he twisted the key back to the lock position just as the brass-studded wooden barrier swayed from a thunderous blow that sent the Chinaman reeling. He lunged forward again when there was another tremendous crash and the door was sprung from its hinges and propelled vertically back into the room, taking its guardian right along with it. Behind the wall of wood was Tiny with his perennial grin and baby face, and a welcome sight he was. Close by the squat colossus was Burlington Bertie with a short billy club swinging from his right hand.

Still holding the door, which must have weighed better than seven stone, Tiny extended his arms and the fat Chinaman flew to one side, hitting the wall with a resounding crash. Then the door was over Tiny's head and he launched it into the crowd of men in the room like a projectile. There were screams as the object felled at least three, possibly more. The two giant Manchurians, unlike the rest of the ruffians, were not frozen in their tracks, for they were bred for conflict.

The first one was headed for Tiny in a trice, aiming a massive blow at the boy's head. Tiny's open palm caught the Manchurian's fist in midair, and then his hand closed and there was a crunch of broken bone as Tiny's other hand caught the wrestler under his chin. Suddenly the Oriental strongman was in the air, and Tiny swung in a full circle and let go, allowing a tangle of arms and legs to spin through the air before crashing to the floor and taking two other scoundrels with it. The Manchurian's brother had rushed Burlington Bertie but never reached him for the Cockney tangled up his legs with an artful foot As the second bodyguard collided with the floor, Bertie's billy club swung in a short arc and there was a sound like an axe making contact with a ripe melon and the second Manchurian was skidding towards the now-open door with blood pouring from his mouth.

The attack had been so sudden and violent that I could not keep track of events. The room was a frenzy of screams and groans, with some trying to retreat before the onslaught of the lads from London. Chu San Fu had been petrified, like the others, for a moment. Now he was on his feet. The wild look in his eyes was akin to that of a drug-inflamed dervish as he scrambled to the teak box to secure the sword that he had considered his passport to a life of greatness.

I was trying to gain my feet, a difficult task when tied to a chair. I noted that Holmes's chair had been tipped over in the melee and my friend was attempting to bring himself upright on his knees. By now, Chu San Fu had the sword in his hands. I knew that he intended to take the cause of his downfall with him in this final conflict. Out of the corner of my eye I saw one of the felt curtains that shrouded a great window fall of a sudden into the room. There was a crash of glass, and then a body was fighting itself clear of the blackout material. Chu was headed for Holmes, the sword swinging from his scrawny arms, when there was a blast of sound. I felt the wind of a high-velocity bullet that flashed past my face. Suddenly the sword in Chu San Fu's hand disappeared and I realized that the Mauser bullet had caught the weapon at its broadest part and shattered the blade. Chu staggered back, still holding the ornamental hilt. There was a thin sliver of steel left, a mere fragment of the former weapon but still deadly. The wild-eyed Oriental recognized this fact and made for my hapless friend as I screamed a warning and tried to push myself in his path. Then, out from the tangle of blackout material sprang Wakefield Orloff, that deadly steel-rimmed hat in his hand. His quick eyes and uncanny reflexes seized the situation at a glance. One amazing wrist flipped in what seemed almost a casual gesture, and his hat was spinning through the air. The rigid brim caught Chu San Fu on the back of the head, causing a crunching sound. The Oriental's body was toppled by the impact, and he fell right on top of what was left of the counterfeit sword. There was a grunt, then a convulsive shudder, and a sliver of steel slid up through the back of the now late criminal mastermind. The sword had proven to be his passport to another world.

The charge of Tiny and Burlington Bertie, augmented by Orloff, was too much for those left standing, and men were fighting each other in their attempts to escape towards the rear of the house—anything to remove themselves from those awesome instruments of vengeance that had descended upon them. Orloff was beside Holmes, his throwing knife severing the bounds that secured the great detective, and a moment later he had me freed as well. Then there came a backup of thoroughly cowed criminals who had run headlong into a police squad that had entered through the rear of the building. I saw more uniforms at the front door and realized that the battle was over and the field was ours.

In the confusion of captured criminals, police, and elements of the army, I searched vainly for Shadow Schadie, for I had not forgotten the Mauser bullet that had nearly creased me but had stopped Chu San Fu's fatal mission for that magic moment before Orloff went into action. But Schadie had simply disappeared, not so strange for one who could walk up a wall.

Chapter Twenty

Aftermath

Dawn was not far removed when we were finally able to enjoy a quiet moment back in our suite at Shepheard's Hotel. The remnants of Chu San Fu's organization were incarcerated, and certain cables had been dispatched to London. Colonel Gray, at Holmes's orders, had been placed in charge of the windup of the affair and had shielded us from numerous congratulations from the army and civilian authorities. It was generally accepted that the crisis was over, and we had been able to drag ourselves from the area of decision-making.

Tiny and Burlington Bertie were snoring lustily in an adjacent room as Orloff joined Holmes and myself for a libation. Though I usually did the honors, on this occasion it was the sleuth who presided over the bottles. It was mighty comforting to sit at peace with the world for a change with a brandy and soda in my hand.

Holmes and I had carefully refrained from making mention of Orloff's crashing through the window of Chu's headquarters and his split-second rescue of my friend and possibly myself as well. This would have but embarrassed him. There were still matters of policy, and Orloff posed them promptly.

"What of the tomb in the Valley of the Kings?"

"That whole matter is best suppressed," stated Holmes quickly. "The boiling pot has subsided, and if we wish to keep it that way, let us have no sensational discoveries or anything else to draw attention to this area for the moment."

Orloff nodded. "Gray's men circulated the rumor of the false prophet quite well, and now that Chu San Fu will just disappear, the whole furor will die down."

"Well, of course," I interjected, "the story in the newspaper should have disposed of it already. The sword being in England and—"

I allowed my voice to dwindle to a stop, for both of my companions were regarding me strangely and possibly with a suggestion of mirth.

"Good fellow," said Sherlock Holmes, "do always believe me. However, I must confess that there was no story in the Al-Ahram or any other paper. As far as we are concerned there is no Sacred Sword. My tall tale was simply a ruse to have Chu dispatch one of his men outside the building. This was the prearranged signal for Tiny and Bertie and Orloff here to hit the place, backed up by the locals. I realized that we might be in a tight spot and wanted our lads on the scene first should a rescue be required. A good thing I did."

The truth was finally seeping through my lethargic brain. "We were followed from the hotel then."

Holmes nodded. "And not just by Shadow Schadie. It was, to use the jargon of the American underworld, 'a loose tail.' We made ourselves available in the area where I suspected that Chu San Fu was hidden and let whatever was to happen, happen. Once Orloff knew where we had ended up, he moved in with the reinforcements."

"And waited for the appearance of one of Chu's men before rushing the building."

"Exactly. There were holes in the plan, but it was the best I could come up with. Obviously, you felt I was courting capture, Watson, and you were right. Chu had to be disposed of in some manner. That he went by his own hand proved convenient."

I did not choose to comment on this. The Oriental had fallen on the remnants of the sword and had been skewed by it, but I had heard the sound of Orloff's reinforced hat when it hit the man. Possibly he was dead before he reached the floor. But such conjecture served no purpose and I dismissed it from my mind.

"Then it's back to London?" asked Orloff.

"By way of Berlin," replied Holmes, to my astonishment. "I have a little duty to perform there, and Gray is giving me a hand."

Holmes had risen from his chair and was looking out the window towards the street and the star-studded Egyptian sky just now tinted with the first rosy hue of the coming day.

While I was digesting this new idea, Orloff returned to a subject he had mentioned previously.

"There's liable to be another offer of knighthood. Will you accept this time?"

"Little chance. I rather fancy I ruffled some feelings with my first refusal. In any case, I have already been amply rewarded for this singular adventure."

I was about to question Holmes regarding this when he turned towards Orloff and me suddenly.

"You know, it was the scheme of a Mad Hatter, but it would have worked."

"Oh come now, Holmes," I remonstrated automatically.

"You have been too close to it, ol' fellow. Never mind your thoughts. What of the dockworker in London, the tailor in Paris, the German baker and their cousins everywhere? They read of the discovery of an unknown tomb, the first of its kind ever revealed to the eyes of modern man. The seals on the inner door are as they were when the crypt was closed over three thousand years ago, and inside are the golden tablets with a new concept of the first prophet of Allah."

"How would Chu have worked that?" asked Orloff shrewdly.

"The inner door was of stone. Chu could have effected an opening and slid the tablets through into the interior of the tomb. I imagine that such an opening, not large enough for a man, could have been concealed readily enough. I tell you it would have shaken the foundations of more religions than that of Islam. You forget the spell that this strange land can weave. What of the man you mentioned, Watson, Charles Piazzi Smythe of our century, not without impressive credentials? He was Astronomer Royal of Scotland, you know, and was absolutely convinced, and convinced untold others, that the measurements of the inside of the Great Pyramid foretold the entire history of the human race."

I suppressed a yawn and rose to my feet.

"Come now, Holmes, you've solved this problem, so let us not spend good time on might-have-beens. This adventure is over."

A Retrospection

I was wrong, for Holmes's adventures seldom end swiftly. Conclusions take a while, as they did in the tragic Birlstone matter and others that I could mention. Holmes and I did return to Baker Street by way of Berlin. In the German capital, the sleuth returned the two golden tablets to their legal owner, Herr Mannheim, the great collector. The industrialist got them back in their original form since Holmes, aided by Gray, had convinced Memory Max that he had best obliterate his forgeries and return the original secret writings to their surface. Holmes can be very persuasive when he's of a mind. Herr Mannheim decided to drop his charges against the misguided Heinrich Hublein and some six months later, due to the great influence of the steel tycoon, young Hublein was released from jail. As to whether he became reconciled with his father, Shadow Schadie, I do not know. Sometimes, in the dark of night, I shudder at the thought that Holmes and I might have loosed two men who could walk up walls on an unsuspecting public. But it did seem like the sporting thing to do at the time.

The final resolution to the case came round the time of Hublein's release. I was looking for our checkbook and, without thinking, opened the upper-left-hand drawer of the desk, which was usually locked for Holmes kept private papers within.

Right on the top was a sheet of notepaper carefully mounted between two pieces of glass. I observed that it was resting on what I assumed was the letter from Irene Adler. I had no intention of viewing Holmes's confidential mementos, but I could not fail to recognize the paper and the ink-scrawled words upon it, for I knew them by heart.

Holmes: At the cry of the jackal, I shall attack from the rear with a detachment of light horse.

Yours for victory,

Watson.

Now I knew what Holmes meant when he said he had been amply rewarded for our singular adventure.