“Well!” Danbazzar replaced the pencil in a breast pocket of his tunic. “This same inscription is cut in the rock before the entrance of the tomb!” “I have sometimes wondered,” said John Cumberland, “why it has been overlooked so long.” Danbazzar stared at him for a moment, and then: “Have you stopped to think,” he asked, “how many tombs there are in that valley? Why should those few people with powers to excavate open an obscure one? What’s more, the tomb is in an unfrequented spot, almost due north of the Tombs of the Queens and on the edge of the western valley, more than half a mile from the Tombs of the Kings. The nearest place ordinary tourists ever visit is the tomb of Queen Nefertari and that of Seth Ra, the wife of Seti the First. This was about where I figured to find it. Seven miles farther west, and about a mile and a half north of the caravan road from Farshût to Kûrna, Hassan has put up our men. There’s a small Hawwara village there, and the Sheik is a good friend of mine.” “When do we start?” cried Barry eagerly. “I can see no reason,” Danbazzar replied, “why we shouldn’t leave for Luxor in the morning. We shall be wise to take every advantage of the slack season before the tourist rush begins.” Barry watched the speaker fascinatedly. During his short stay in Cairo, he had been out to visit the Sphinx, that long-cherished ambition of Jim’s; he had penetrated to the interior of the Great Pyramid, and had wandered through the fascinating bazaar streets of the Mûski. He had known the whole indescribable atmosphere that creeps over the most modern and garish hotel in Cairo when night drops its cloak upon Egypt. Now, it seemed to him, watching Danbazzar, that of all the mysteries that the Nile has known, this man was the greatest. “And now, I suggest that we consult with Hassan,” Danbazzar went on. He stood up, clapping his hands sharply. From the shadowy mystery of the balcony, Hassan es-Sugra entered, a slim, impressive black figure. He bowed low upon the threshold. CHAPTER XI. LUXOR The Nile was high. Much of the Memnonia was impassable. The Colossi sat lonely in the midst of a great lake, when Barry came to Luxor. In this way he saw the City of the Sun under advantageous conditions. The Winter Palace Hotel, whose impudent modernity aspires to dwarf the majesty of the great temple, was in a comatose state. Its palatial suites which later in the season would echo Wall Street quotations, its public rooms where, anon, much talk would be heard about the situation in the English coalfields and the cheery optimism of Mr. Baldwin, these were empty. Empty was the dragomans’ bench before the entrance. No guttural German voices were raised in argument against the soft music of Arabic impostors, relative to the cost of donkeys from Kûrna to Dêr-el-Bâhari. The tourist steamers were missing; yet Barry did not miss them.