safe, so precious it is. Drink with me. Captain, to the monarch you have come to Gibraltar to serve—to his majesty, King George the Fifth!"
Almer lifted his glass, but Woodhouse appeared wrapped in thought; his hand did not go up.
"I see you do not drink to that toast. Captain."
"No—I was thinking—of 1932."
"So?" Quick as a flash Almer caught him up. "Then perhaps I had better say, drink to the greatest monarch in Europe."
"To the greatest monarch in Europe!" Woodhouse lifted his glass and drained it.
Almer leaned suddenly across the table and spoke tensely: "You have—something maybe—I would like to see. Some little relic of Alexandria, let us say."
Woodhouse swept a quick glance around, then reached for the pin in his tie.
"A scarab; that's all."
In the space of a breath Almer had seen what lay in the back of the stone beetle. He gripped Woodhouse's hand fervently.
"Yes—yes. Nineteen Thirty-two! They have
