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Good Lord, are you losing your reason! Never mind that it's handsome! It just tried to strangle Henry! Quickly she darted around the table, groping behind her with outstretched hands as she moved towards the front drawing room doors.

It stopped as it reached the table. It looked down at the silver coffeepot and the overturned cup. It picked up something off the tray. What was it? A wadded handkerchief. Had Henry left it there? Quite unmistakably it pointed to the spilt coffee, and then in a soft, resonant and distinctly masculine voice it spoke:

"Come and have a cup of coffee with me, Julie!" it said.

Perfect British accent! Familiar words! Julie felt a shock course through her. This was no invitation from the thing. Why, it was imitating Henry. Same precise intonation. That's what Henry had said!

It held out the handkerchief, which it had opened. White powder, sparkling as if full of tiny crystals. It pointed to the distant row of alabaster jars. The top was missing from one of the jars! And again it spoke with the same flawless, crisp English accent:

"Drink your coffee, Uncle Lawrence."

A groan escaped her lips. The meaning was unmistakable. She stood there staring, the words echoing in her head. Henry had poisoned her father and this creature had witnessed it. Henry had tried to poison her. With all her spirit she tried to deny it. She tried to find some reason that it could not be so. But she knew it was so. Just as surely as she knew this thing was alive and breathing and occupying space before her, and that it was the immortal Ramses come to life out of those decayed wrappings, standing before her in the drawing room with the sun at its back.

Her legs were going out from under her. No way to prevent it, and the darkness was rising. And as she felt herself slip downwards, she saw the tall figure dart forward, and she felt the strong arms catch her and lift her and hold her quite firmly, so that she felt almost safe.

She opened her eyes, and looked up into its face. No, his face. His beautiful face. She heard Rita scream from the hallway. And the darkness rose again.

"What the hell are you saying!" Randolph was not really fully awake. He struggled out of the tangle of covers, reaching for his crumpled silk robe at the foot of the bed. "You're telling me you left your cousin there alone in that house with this thing!"

"I'm telling you it tried to kill me!" Henry roared like a madman. "That's what I'm telling you! The damned thing got out of the coffin and tried to strangle me with its right hand!"

"Damn it, where are my slippers! She's alone in that house, you fool!"

Barefoot, he ran into the hall and down the stairway, his robe ballooning behind him.

"Hurry, you imbecile!" he shouted to his son, who hesitated at the top of the steps.

She opened her eyes. She was sitting on the sofa, and Rita was clinging to her. Rita was hurting her. Rita was making little whimpering sounds.

And there was the mummy, standing right there. Nothing about it imagined. Not the dark lock of hair fallen down on his smooth broad forehead. Or his deep shadowy blue eyes. He had torn loose more of the rotted stuff that covered him. He was bare to the waist, a god, it seemed at the moment. Especially with that smile. That warm and embracing smile.

His hair seemed to be moving as she looked at it, as if it were growing before her eyes. It was fuller and more lustrous than it had been before she fainted. But what in God's name was she doing, staring at this creature's hair!

He drew a little closer. His bare feet were free of the cumbersome wrappings.

"Julie," he said softly.

"Ramses," she whispered back.

The creature nodded, the smile lengthening. "Ramses!" he said emphatically, and he made her a very subtle bow with his head.

Dear God, she thought, this is not merely a man gifted with beauty; this is the most beautiful man I've ever seen.

In a daze, she forced herself to climb to her feet. Rita clung to her, but she struggled free of Rita, and then the mummy--the man--reached out and took her hand and helped her to stand.

The fingers were warm, dusty. She found herself staring right into his face. Skin like the skin of any other human being, only smoother, perhaps softer, and full of more high colour--like that of a man who had been running, the cheeks faintly flushed.

He turned his head sharply. She heard it too. Voices outside; argument. A motor car had pulled up in front of the house.

Rita made an awkward dash to the window as if the mummy were going to stop her.

"It's Scotland Yard, miss, thank God for that."

"No, but this is a disaster! Bolt the door at once."

"But miss!"

"Bolt it. Now."