A white-robed, red-sashed and red-fezed houseboy led him across the
tiled entrance into the long room where McLean was concluding a
conference with two men.

"Not the least trace," McLean was saying. "We've questioned all our
native agents--"

Afterwards Ryder remembered that indefinite little pause. If the two
men had not lingered--if McLean had not remembered that he was an
excavator--if chance had not brushed the scales with lightning
wings--!

"Ever hear of a chap called Delcassé, Paul Delcassé, a French
excavator?" McLean suddenly asked of him. "Disappeared in the desert
about fifteen years ago."

"He was reported, monsieur, to have died of the fever," one of the
men explained.

McLean introduced him as a special agent from France. His companion
was one of the secretaries of the French legation. They were trying
every quarter for traces of this Delcassé.

Ryder's memory darted back to old library shelves. He saw a thin,
brown volume, almost uncut....

"He wrote a book on the Tomb of Thi," he said suddenly. "Paul
Delcassé--I remember it very well."

Now that he thought of it, the memory was clear. It was one of those