I noted the rich tapestries; the massive teakwood furniture; the floor of rare hardwoods partly masked by Chinese and Indian rugs. And on the walls were arms of infinite variety: wavy-bladed kresses, kampilans, simitars; halberds, assegai, lances; maces and battle-axes in endless number, all grouped in clusters. Some of these arms were burnished, but many bore dark, ominous stains.

And thus, we roamed through the house, from one apartment to another, I am wondering at the beauty, the grotesquerie, the oddness of the furnishings and adornments, d’Artois regarding all with an appraising glance that revealed nothing of whatever interest he might have felt.

Strange gods in bronze and onyx and basalt glared at us, brandished their distorted arms in futile rage, mouthed threats with their twisted lips; resented our presence in every way possible to inanimate things; inanimate, yes, but enlivened with the spiritual essence absorbed from their centuries of devotees. But no mummies. Nevertheless, d’Artois studied his surroundings. But nothing seemed to arouse his interest, until …

“Ah…look!”

He indicated a tiny darabukeh, a small kettledrum whose body was of grotesque carven wood, its head of a strange hide–strange to me, at least.

“Curious, yes. But what has this to do with mummies?”

“Nothing at all. But I fancied that drumhead …”

A smile concluded his remark. Now what the devil significance had that little tom-tom?

“But no mummies, Pierre.”

“True. But one can picture a man’s mind from the house he keeps. Fancy then the odd brain that twists in the skull of de la Tour de Maracq!”

And thus, room by room, we searched the château proper, servants’ quarters, basements, passages and all. Toward the end of our tour, we stumbled upon a stairway which led to an apartment which we had overlooked.

It was a large room of contradictory appearance: a study, if one judged from its desk, table, bookcases; a bedroom, surely, if gaged by the lordly canopied bed of antique workmanship; or a museum, if one drew conclusions from the ornaments.

As we had done in the salon, we found again a collection of arms, armor, polycephalous gods with contorted limbs and features. And this time, mummies, two of them: one in its sycamore case, the other, not only encased, but enshrined in its massive granite sarcophagus.

Naturally I was exultant.

“Useless!” exclaimed Pierre. “See how they fit their cases; and see also that none of the cases would fit the princess we seek.”

With a tape he laid off the dimensions of the mummy we sought, showing clearly that those present were of greater stature.

“Not so good, Pierre, not so good. Apparently, we’re stuck.”

“Not entirely,” muttered Pierre absent-mindedly.

I saw him examining an épée, a slim, three-edged dueling sword. The pommel, which was adorned with a tiny silver peacock, seemed to fascinate d’Artois. Which was natural enough, Pierre being a connoisseur of the sword, and its undisputed master. Still, business was business.…