Only if you believe my story—every word of it—and still love me the way a man should love his woman can I come to you, my" She broke the title of endearment off half uttered and rocked back on the rug. Her shoulders bent as though the weight upon them was too heavy for their lovely frailty, and as she spoke there was an eery undercurrent to the tone that sent a shiver tingling up his spine. More like a person in hypnosis who relates impressions to an audience than a waking speaker she impressed him, for her words were unaccented and mechanical, as though an unseen hand were playing on a gramophone whose sounds were relayed through her lips.
We'd been probing all the land around Saqqara for three months (she began), for Prendergrast who had charge of the expedition had a theory that a Middle Empire tomb was hidden somewhere there, and had visions of a find to make Lord Carnarvon's discoveries in the Valley of the Kings look like the sweepings from a kitchen midden. Marentch never drove the Israelites as Prendergrast drove us, for our funds were running low and he had to show some definite signs of progress if we were to get a fresh appropriation. Everybody in the camp, Arabs, fellaheen and white men, were fed up with the ceaseless grind, and when I got my week-end leave I almost stepped upon myself, I was in such a hurry to dash down to Cairo. Loughbury lent me his old Sunbeam, a rattle-trap of missing parts and rusty iron with brake bands almost worn away and an engine suffering from incurable asthma, but faster than a camel and fairly easy on the driver, if his nerves were steady.
The winter season was in full flood, but I found a room at Shepherd's and luxuriated in a real bed, a tub-bath and fresh linens. All Saturday I did the rounds, the service clubs, the hotel bars, and the nine-hole golf course. I slept late Sunday morning, then went out to fill up all the gaps I could, for heaven only knew how soon I'd get another leave. I think I'd taken several whiskey-sodas too much when I realized how late it was and hustled into riding-khakis, cranked the engine of my bag o' junk and set out for Saqqara in a rush. Traffic was so heavy on the boulevards that I was almost frantic, for every time I stopped my engine died, and as my starter wasn't in commission I had to get out and hand-crank it, risking a smashed wrist from backfire. Finally I swung into the native quarter, where, though the streets were narrower, the traffic was much lighter and everybody moved aside each time I blew my horn.
I was tearing through an empty alley, doing forty-five, or maybe fifty, when right before me drove an old-time hack—one of those one-horse black boxes like they used to use at funerals in America before the war. An Arab driver sat upon the box, and with him was the biggest, blackest, fattest Negro I had ever seen. I recognized him as a kapusi aghast, or guardian eunuch, and by that token knew the coach contained a woman from some wealthy Cairene's harem. "Look out!" I shouted as I blew my horn. "Pull over to the left—the left, you fool!" But the coachman jerked his reins and drew his carriage to the right, turning it broadside to me. I cut my engine off and jammed my brakes down hard, but the worn-out bands refused to hold, and with a crash of smashing glass and splintering wood I cannoned full-tilt into the old carriage.
