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There was only this moment of dancing with him, round and round, beneath the soft iridescent chandeliers. The music surged; the other dancers seemed perilously close around them; but Ramses' steps were perfect for all their great breadth and strength.

Wasn't it enough that he should be a mystery? she thought desperately. Wasn't it enough that he'd torn the veil away completely? Did he have to be irresistible? Did she have to fall so hopelessly in love?

Far away, from the deep shadows of the darkly panelled bar, Elliott watched them dancing. They were going into the third waltz now, and Julie was laughing as Ramsey led her recklessly and madly, driving the other dancers out of his path.

No one seemed to take offense at it. Everyone respects those who are in love.

Elliott finished his whisky, then rose to go.

When he reached Henry's door, he knocked once and then opened it. Henry sat hunched over on the small couch, a thin green robe wrapped around him, his legs naked and hairy beneath it, his feet bare. He appeared to be trembling, as if he were terribly cold.

Elliott was appalled suddenly at the heat of his own anger. His voice came out hoarse and unfamiliar.

"What did our Egyptian King see?" he demanded. "What happened in that tomb when Lawrence died!"

Henry tried to turn away from him, in a pathetic moment of hysteria, as if he could claw his way through the wall. Elliott turned him around.

"Look at me, you miserable little coward. Answer my question. What happened in that tomb!"

"I was trying to get what you wanted!" Henry whispered. His eyes were sunken. There was a great bruise on his neck. "I was ... trying to persuade him to advise Julie to marry Alex."

"Don't lie to me!" Elliott said. His left hand clutched at the silver walking stick, ready to lift it, to wield it like a club.

"I don't know what happened," Henry pleaded. "Or what it saw! It was wrapped up in the damned mummy case. What the hell could it have seen! Uncle Lawrence was arguing with me. He was upset. The heat ... I don't know what happened. Suddenly he was lying on the floor."

He slumped forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. "I didn't mean to hurt him," he sobbed. "Oh, God, I didn't mean to hurt him! I did what I had to do." He bowed his head, fingers meshed in his dark hair.

Elliott stared down at him. If this had been his son, life would have no meaning. And if this miserable creature was lying ... But he didn't know. He simply could not tell.

"All right," he murmured. "You have told me everything?"

"Yes!" Henry said. "God, I have to get off this ship! I have to get away from it!"

"But why does it despise you? Why did it try to kill you, and why does it seek to humiliate you?"

There was a moment of silence. All he heard were Henry's desperate broken gasps. Then the thin white face was turned up again, the sunken dark eyes imploring him.

"I saw it come alive," Henry said. "I'm the only one other than Julie who really knows what it is. You know, but I'm the one who saw it. It wants to kill me!" He stopped, as if he feared losing control altogether. His eyes were dancing as he looked at the carpet. "I'll tell you something too," he said, as he slumped back again on the couch. "It's unnaturally strong, that thing. It could kill a man with its bare hands. Why it didn't kill me the first time it tried, I don't know. But it could succeed if it tried again."

The Earl didn't respond.

He turned and left the stateroom. He went out onto the deck. The sky was black over the sea, and the stars were, as always on a cloudless night over the ocean, wonderfully clear.

He leaned on the railing for a long time, and then drew out a cheroot and lighted it. He tried to reason things out.

Samir Ibrahaim knew this thing was immortal. He was travelling with it. Julie knew. Julie had been swept off her feet. And now in his sheer obsession with this mystery, he had let Ramsey know that he knew as well.

Now, Ramsey clearly felt affection for Samir Ibrahaim. He felt something for Julie Stratford, though what that something was, still wasn't clear. But what did Ramsey feel for him? Maybe he would turn on him as he had on Henry, "the only witness."

But somehow that didn't make sense. Or at least if it did, it didn't frighten Elliott. It only fascinated him. And the whole question of Henry continued to puzzle him and repel him. Henry was a convincing liar. But Henry wasn't telling the whole truth.

Nothing to do but wait, he figured. And do what he could to protect Alex, his poor vulnerable Alex, who had failed so miserably at dinner to conceal his growing hurt. He had to help Alex through this, make it clear to his son that he was going to lose his childhood sweetheart, for there was no longer the slightest doubt of that.

But oh, how he himself was loving this. How secretly and completely it thri

lled him. The truth was, no matter what the outcome, he was experiencing a rejuvenation because of this mystery. He was having the best time he'd had in years and years.

If he leafed back through the happy memories of his life, there had been one time only, when simply being alive had been this wondrous and strange. He'd been at Oxford then; he'd been only twenty; and he'd been in love with Lawrence Stratford, and Lawrence Stratford had been in love with him.