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or, to be more precise, tombs; not one but four of the God’s Wives had found their final resting place there. When danger threatened their burials, the essential items had been removed and hidden away—the mummies in their inner coffins, the canopic jars containing the viscera, and other small, portable objects of value. One of the coffins was of solid silver, the face delicately shaped and serene, framed by a heavy wig and crown. The other coffins were of wood heavily inlaid with tiny hieroglyphs and figures of deities shaped of semi-precious stone. Delicately sculptured masks of silver and gold had covered the mummies’ heads. The canopic jars, four for each princess, were of painted calcite with the sculptured heads of the four sons of Horus, each of whom guarded a particular organ of the body. Ranged along the tables like a miniature army were hundreds of ushebtis, the small servant statues which would be animated in the afterworld to work for the deceased—some of faience, some of wood, and a few of precious metal. An amazing amount of material had been crammed into that little chamber: vessels of alabaster and hard stone, silver and gold, a dozen carved and painted chests, and the contents of the latter—sandals, linen, and jewelry. Glittering gold and burnished silver, deep-blue lapis, turquoise and carnelian shone in the glow of the electric lights.
    “Astonishing,” Lacau murmured. “Formidable. I commend you—all of you—on a remarkable work of restoration.”
    “It did take all of us,” I said, remembering one exhausting afternoon I had spent crouched in a corner of the chamber stringing hundreds of tiny beads. They lay in the order in which they had fallen after the original cords had rotted, and by restringing them on the spot I had been able to preserve the original design. “However,” I went on, “much of the credit belongs to Signor Martinelli. And we are very grateful for the assistance with the photography given us by Mr. Burton of the Metropolitan Museum. How he inserted his cameras into that narrow space was little short of miraculous. You know, monsieur, that the entire chamber was packed full, yet he managed to get a series of overhead views before we removed anything.”
    “Yes, I have spoken with him,” Lacau said, nodding. “A complex arrangement of long poles and cords and le bon Dieu only knows what else! We are deeply indebted to him and the Metropolitan Museum.”
    How indebted? I wondered. Enough to allow a certain number of artifacts to go to America, through Cyrus, whose collection would eventually be left to a museum in that country?
    Martinelli, who had not yet received the praise he considered his due, drew Lacau’s attention to a piece of fabric stretched out across a long table. The entire surface was covered with beads and gold sequins that sparkled in the light. A long sheet of glass, raised a foot over it by steel supports, protected it from dust and air currents.
    “This is unquestionably my masterpiece,” he said without undue modesty. “It was folded several times over and the fabric was so fragile, a breath would blow it away. I stabilized each layer with a chemical of my own invention before turning it back and exposing the next. No, monsieur!” as Lacau extended his hand. “Do not touch it. I am still debating as to the best method of preserving it permanently. I am not sure that even I can render it sturdy enough to be transported.”
    Lacau’s eyes rested greedily upon the garment, for that is what it was—a robe of sheer, almost transparent, linen, bordered at hem and neck with four-inch strips of elaborate beading. He would certainly claim it, for the Museum had nothing remotely like it—nor had any other museum anywhere in the world.
    “Perhaps Mr. Lucas could suggest a solution,” Lacau said, adding, presumably for Martinelli’s benefit, “he is the government chemist.”
    “I know who he is,” said the Italian. His disgust was so great as