“You see, Clem! It is not to be wondered at that those men died so suddenly, or that the curator, who likewise handled mummy No. 49, himself succumbed. It proves, without the shadow of a doubt, that the curse of the Conjurers of Amen _did_ endure. Sesen can tell you....” “Steven, please lie down and stop talking. Don’t worry about things. Try to compose yourself.” As I sank dutifully back upon the pillows, I was aware of a soft and deliciously cool hand which gently pressed my throbbing head. A smiling face bent over me. My bewildered eyes wandered from a trim little white cap to a spotless white dress and shoes, White canvas shoes! “Where are her pretty gilded sandals?” thought I. I tried to speak to her. I even made an effort to catch the soothing hand at my forehead. At this the white figure vanished, and in its place, stood Braintree, the Seaforth’s doctor. “Great Scott, I have it. I am in the hospital! That was Susan....” “That’s just where you are, Steven. And I must ask you not to excite yourself about it. Here you are and here you have been for some time. Tribe, Dunn and I have slaved over you and won out, at last. “But who, may I ask, is Menna! No friend of yours, I’d swear! Susan is equally interested in some lady friend of your acquaintance, Sesen I think her name was! Well, never mind that now. Turn over and rest.” Then it was a dream; the vision of a fevered brain! Enana, Hanit, Sesen, Menna, and Renny—could I have been Renny—all were dreams! Hanit! Why such a person never existed. And Ramses! As yet he wasn’t born! I tried to smile at the busy little figure in white. I recognized her now. It was Susan Braintree, my Susan! I caught myself repeatedly murmuring: “Susan the Lily, Sesen the Lotus, one and the same name, one and the same person perhaps. Ah, my Beautiful Princess! I can smell the sweet unguents which Bhanar has sprinkled upon your dainty Wig, the myrrh upon your supple hands...!” Susan presses a little phial to my nostrils. A few short breaths and—I sleep.