Queen Sheba's Ring. H. Rider Haggard

of the most wonderful relics of antiquity that are left in the world.”

      “With a very good chance of getting my throat cut thrown in,” grumbled Higgs.

      “As to what I want you to do,” I went on, “I want you to find someone who understands explosives, and will undertake the business of blowing up the Fung idol.”

      “Well, that’s easy enough, anyhow,” said the Professor, pointing to Captain Orme with the bowl of his pipe, and adding, “he is an engineer by education, a soldier and a very fair chemist; also he knows Arabic and was brought up in Egypt as a boy—just the man for the job if he will go.”

      I reflected a moment, then, obeying some sort of instinct, looked up and asked:

      “Will you, Captain Orme, if terms can be arranged?”

      “Yesterday,” he replied, colouring a little, “I should have answered, ‘Certainly not.’ To-day I answer that I am prepared to consider the matter—that is, if Higgs will go too, and you can enlighten me on certain points. But I warn you that I am only an amateur in the three trades that the Professor has mentioned, though, it is true, one with some experience.”

      “Would it be rude to inquire, Captain Orme, why twenty-four hours have made such a difference in your views and plans?”

      “Not rude, only awkward,” he replied, colouring again, this time more deeply. “Still, as it is best to be frank, I will tell you. Yesterday I believed myself to be the inheritor of a very large fortune from an uncle whose fatal illness brought me back from South Africa before I meant to come, and as whose heir I have been brought up. To-day I have learned for the first time that he married secretly, last year, a woman much below him in rank, and has left a child, who, of course, will take all his property, as he died intestate. But that is not all. Yesterday I believed myself to be engaged to be married; to-day I am undeceived upon that point also. The lady,” he added with some bitterness, “who was willing to marry Anthony Orme’s heir is no longer willing to marry Oliver Orme, whose total possessions amount to under £10,000. Well, small blame to her or to her relations, whichever it may be, especially as I understand that she has a better alliance in view. Certainly her decision has simplified matters,” and he rose and walked to the other end of the room.

      “Shocking business,” whispered Higgs; “been infamously treated,” and he proceeded to express his opinion of the lady concerned, of her relatives, and of the late Anthony Orme, shipowner, in language that, if printed, would render this history unfit for family reading. The outspokenness of Professor Higgs is well known in the antiquarian world, so there is no need for me to enlarge upon it.

      “What I do not exactly understand, Adams,” he added in a loud voice, seeing that Orme had turned again, “and what I think we should both like to know, is your exact object in making these proposals.”

      “I am afraid I have explained myself badly. I thought I had made it clear that I have only one object—to attempt the rescue of my son, if he still lives, as I believe he does. Higgs, put yourself in my position. Imagine yourself with nothing and no one left to care for except a single child, and that child stolen away from you by savages. Imagine yourself, after years of search, hearing his very voice, seeing his very face, adult now, but the same, the thing you had dreamed of and desired for years; that for which you would have given a thousand lives if you could have had time to think. And then the rush of the howling, fantastic mob, the breakdown of courage, of love, of everything that is noble under the pressure of primæval instinct, which has but one song—Save your life. Lastly, imagine this coward saved, dwelling within a few miles of the son whom he had deserted, and yet utterly unable to rescue or even to communicate with him because of the poltroonery of those among whom he had refuged.”

      “Well,” grunted Higgs, “I have imagined all that high-faluting lot. What of it? If you mean that you are to blame, I don’t agree with you. You wouldn’t have helped your son by getting your own throat cut, and perhaps his also.”

      “I don’t know,” I answered. “I have brooded over the thing so long that it seems to me that I have disgraced myself. Well, there came a chance, and I took it. This lady, Walda Nagasta, or Maqueda, who, I think, had also brooded over things, made me an offer—I fancy without the knowledge or consent of her Council. ‘Help me,’ she said, ‘and I will help you. Save my people, and I will try to save your son. I can pay for your services and those of any whom you may bring with you.’

      “I answered that it was hopeless, as no one would believe the tale, whereon she drew from her finger the throne-ring or State signet which you have in your pocket, Higgs, saying: ‘My mothers have worn this since the days of Maqueda, Queen of Sheba. If there are learned men among your people they will read her name upon it and know that I speak no lie. Take it as a token, and take also enough of our gold to buy the stuffs whereof you speak, which hide fires that can throw mountains skyward, and the services of skilled and trusty men who are masters of the stuff, two or three of them only, for more cannot be transported across the desert, and come back to save your son and me.’ That’s all the story, Higgs. Will you take the business on, or shall I try elsewhere? You must make up your mind, because I have no time to lose, if I am to get into Mur again before the rains.”

      “Got any of that gold you spoke of about you?” asked the Professor.

      I drew a skin bag from the pocket of my coat, and poured some out upon the table, which he examined carefully.

      “Ring money,” he said presently, “might be Anglo-Saxon, might be anything; date absolutely uncertain, but from its appearance I should say slightly alloyed with silver; yes, there is a bit which has oxydized—undoubtedly old, that.”

      Then he produced the signet from his pocket, and examined the ring and the stone very carefully through a powerful glass.

      “Seems all right,” he said, “and although I have been greened in my time, I don’t make many mistakes nowadays. What do you say, Adams? Must have it back? A sacred trust! Only lent to you! All right, take it by all means. I don’t want the thing. Well, it is a risky job, and if any one else had proposed it to me, I’d have told him to go to—Mur. But, Adams, my boy, you saved my life once, and never sent in a bill, because I was hard up, and I haven’t forgotten that. Also things are pretty hot for me here just now over a certain controversy of which I suppose you haven’t heard in Central Africa. I think I’ll go. What do you say, Oliver?”

      “Oh!” said Captain Orme, waking up from a reverie, “if you are satisfied, I am. It doesn’t matter to me where I go.”

CHAPTER II

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THE ADVICE OF SERGEANT QUICK

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      At this moment a fearful hubbub arose without. The front door slammed, a cab drove off furiously, a policeman’s whistle blew, heavy feet were heard trampling; then came an invocation of “In the King’s name,” answered by “Yes, and the Queen’s, and the rest of the Royal Family’s, and if you want it, take it, you chuckle-headed, flat-footed, pot-bellied Peelers.”

      Then followed tumult indescribable as of heavy men and things rolling down the stairs, with cries of fear and indignation.

      “What the dickens is that?” asked Higgs.

      “The voice sounded like that of Samuel—I mean Sergeant Quick,” answered Captain Orme with evident alarm; “what can he be after? Oh, I know, it is something to do with that infernal mummy you unwrapped this afternoon, and asked him to bring round after dinner.”

      Just then the door burst open, and a tall, soldier-like form stalked in, carrying in his arms a corpse