“Tell him to come along at once,” John Cumberland directed, “or, if he’s engaged, put him through to me in the library.” A few minutes later they were engrossed in study of the extraordinary letter; and from the well-laden shelves Barry, at his father’s instance, had taken Budge’s standard work on the language of Ancient Egypt, Erman’s _Egyptian Grammar_, and other handbooks on the subject. “It’s going to be a hard job for me, Barry,” John Cumberland confessed. “But it would be easy for Rittenburg or Danbazzar. It’s hieratic writing, of which I know very little.” “Is it--” Barry began, trying to steady his voice, “is it the sort of writing _she_ might be expected to use?” “Undoubtedly,” his father answered. “It was the form of writing employed by the priests and scribes. The papyrus and the formula are written in this style. But the characters in both are much more carefully drawn.” “For heaven’s sake, let’s begin. Does it read from left to right or right to left?” “That’s the trouble,” John Cumberland replied. “Sometimes it reads one way and sometimes the other!” “Can you find any clue--or any word you recognize?” “That’s what I’m looking for,” his father murmured, bending over the page of hieroglyphs.… And for the greater part of an hour he looked, seeking aid in his researches from the pages of Budge, Petrie, and others. But he had made no progress whatever when Dr. Rittenburg arrived. As the library door opened and the round, red face of the distinguished Egyptologist was thrust into the room, Barry rose from the table with a cry of welcome. Dr. Rittenburg bent forward, his large, round spectacles shining as he peered in the direction of the students. As is the way of the human brain, an idea suddenly presented itself to Barry now, in this hour of intense anxiety--that Dr. Rittenburg was a reincarnation of Mr. Pickwick. Greetings were very brief, and: “I must ask you, Rittenburg,” said John Cumberland, “to treat the matter about which we want to consult you as strictly confidential.” “Certainly, certainly,” Dr. Rittenburg agreed. “Count on me. What’s the problem?” Barry held out the letter. “This!” he replied. Dr. Rittenburg glanced at him curiously, noted his condition of tremendous nervous excitement, then changed his large, round spectacles for a larger pair, equally round. He seated himself and bent over the writing. John Cumberland and Barry stood before the high, carved mantelpiece watching him. Courtesies were forgotten. They had not even offered the doctor a cigar. For perhaps five minutes he peered down intently; then: “H’m!” he murmured. “Very curious, if I may say so. Very, very curious.” He looked up. “Can you read it?” Barry demanded. “Certainly I can read it!” the savant returned brusquely. “But as I assume you have not asked me to do so merely as a test of my ability, may I inquire who wrote it?” An eager answer was on the tip of Barry’s tongue when his father checked him with a gesture.