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Ruthlessly ignoring the pain in his chest, Elliott hurried down the corridor. He reached the side door in time to see the female just disappearing from view at the foot of a service stair. Quickly he turned back, glancing under the display cases. There lay the vial, still gleaming in the grey light. Going down on one knee, he managed to get hold of it; and closing its cap, he put it in his coat.

Then, fighting a wave of dizziness, he crept down the stairs after the female, his numbed left leg almost tripping him. Halfway down he saw her--bewildered, staggering, one clawlike hand raised as if groping in the dimness.

A door opened suddenly, leaking yellow light into the passage; and a servant woman emerged, her hair and body draped in the Moslem manner by a garment of black wool. She carried a mop in her right hand.

At once she saw the skeletal figure approaching, and she let out a shrill scream, the mop falling from her hands. She fled back into the lighted room.

A low hiss came out of the wounded one and then that awful roar again as she went after the serving maid, skeletal hands out as if to stop the piercing scream.

Elliott moved as fast as he could. The screams stopped before he reached the door of the lighted room. As he entered, he saw the body of the servant woman slumping, dead, to the floor. Her neck had apparently been broken and the flesh torn from her cheek. Her glassy black eyes stared at nothing. And the ragged wounded one stepped over her and moved towards a small mirror over the washbasin on the wall.

A wretched agonized sobbing broke from her when she saw her reflection. Gasping, shuddering, she reached out and touched the glass.

Again, Elliott almost collapsed. The sight of the dead body and the ghastly creature before the glass were more than he could bear. But a ruthless fascination sustained him, as it had all along. He must use his wits now. Damn the pain in his chest and the panic rising like nausea in his throat.

Quickly he closed the door of the room behind him. The noise startled her. She wheeled about, hands poised again for the attack. For a moment, he was paralyzed by the full horror of what he now beheld. The light from the ceiling bulb was merciless. Her eyes bulged from their half-eaten sock

ets. White rib bones gleamed through a huge wound in her side. Half of her mouth was gone, and a bare stretch of clavicle was drenched in oozing blood.

Dear God, what must her suffering be! Poor, tragic being!

Giving a low growl, she advanced on him. But Elliott spoke quickly in Greek:

"Friend," he said. "I am a friend and offer you shelter." And as his mind went blank on the ancient tongue, he switched to the Latin: "Trust in me. I shall not let you come to harm."

Not taking his eyes off her for a second, he groped for one of several black cloaks hanging on the wall. Yes, what he wanted--one of those shapeless robes worn by Moslem women in public. It was easily large enough to drape her from head to toe.

Fearlessly, he approached her, throwing the cloak over her head and winding it over her shoulders, and at once her hands went up to assist, closing it over her face save for her frightened eyes.

He ushered her out into the corridor, closing the door behind him to conceal the dead body. Noises and shouts were coming from the floor above. He could hear voices coming from a room at the far end of the hall. Spotting the service door to his right, he opened it, and led her out into the alleyway, where the bright sun came down upon them both.

Within moments, he was clear of the building. And they had entered the great endless crowd of Moslems, Arabs and Westerners one saw everywhere in Cairo, thousands of pedestrians moving in all directions, despite the blast of motor-car horns and the progress of donkey-drawn carts.

The woman stiffened when she heard the motor horns. At the sight of a motor car rocking past her, she drew back, crying through clenched teeth. Again, Elliott spoke to her in Latin, reassuring her that he would take care of her, he would find her shelter.

What she understood he could not possibly guess. Then the Latin word for food came from her in a low, tortured voice. "Food and drink," she whispered. She murmured something else, but he did not understand. It sounded like a prayer or a curse.

"Yes," he said in her ear, the Latin words coming easily now that he knew she understood them. "I shall provide all you require. I shall take care of you. Trust in me."

But where could he take her? Only one place came to mind. He had to reach old Cairo. But did he dare put the creature into a motor taxi? Seeing a horse-drawn cab passing, he hailed it. She climbed willingly up to the leather seat. Now, how was he to do it, when he could scarce breathe and his left leg was almost useless? He planted his right foot firmly on the step and swung himself up with his right arm. And then, near to collapse as ever he'd been in his life, he slumped down beside the hunched figure and told the driver where he must go with his last breath.

The cab shot forward, the driver shouting at the pedestrians and cracking his whip. The poor creature beside him cried brokenheartedly, drawing the veil completely over her face.

He embraced her; he ignored the cold hard bone he could feel through the thin black cloth. He held tight to her and, gradually catching his breath, told her again in Latin that he would care for her, that he was her friend.

As the cab sped out of the British district, he tried to think. But shocked and in pain, he could achieve no rational explanation for himself for what he'd witnessed or what he'd done. He only knew on some inchoate level that he'd seen a miracle and a murder; and that the former meant infinitely more to him than the latter; and he was set now upon an irrevocable course.

Julie was only half-awake. Surely she was misunderstanding the British official who stood in the door.

"Arrested? For breaking into the museum? I don't believe it."

"Miss Stratford, he's been wounded, badly. There seems to be some confusion."

"What confusion?"

The doctor was furious. If the man was badly wounded, he should be in hospital, not in the back of the jail.

"Make way," he shouted to the uniformed men in front of him. "What in God's name is this, a firing squad?"