The quiet, monotonous voice of the Tracer halted, then, as he glanced at the second prisoner, grew harder: 

“Emanuel Gandon, general international criminal, with over half a hundred aliases, arrested in company with Smiles and held until Mr. Burke’s arrival.”

Turning to Burke, the Tracer continued:  “Fortunately, the Scythian Queen broke down off Brindisi.  It gave us time to act on your cable; we found these men aboard when she was signaled off the Hook.  I went out with the pilot myself, Mr. Burke.”

Smiles shot a wicked look at Burke; Gandon scowled at the floor.

“Now,” said the Tracer pleasantly, meeting the venomous glare of Smiles, “I’ll get you that warrant you have been demanding to have exhibited to you.  Here it is—­charging you and your amiable friend Gandon with breaking into and robbing the Metropolitan Museum of ancient Egyptian gold ornaments, in March, 1903, and taking them to France, where they were sold to collectors.  It seems that you found the business good enough to go prowling about Egypt on a hunt for something to sell here.  A great mistake, my friends—­a very great mistake, because, after the Museum has finished with you, the Egyptian Government desires to extradite you.  And I rather suspect you’ll have to go.”

He nodded to the two quiet men leaning against the door.

“Come, Joram,” said one of them pleasantly.

But Smiles turned furiously on the Tracer.  “You lie, you old gray rat!” he cried.  “That ain’t no mummy; that’s a plain dead girl!  And there ain’t no extrydition for body snatchin’, so I guess them niggers at Cairo won’t get us, after all!”

“Perhaps,” said the Tracer, looking at Burke, who had risen, pale and astounded.  “Sit down, Mr. Burke!  There is no need to question these men; no need to demand what they robbed you of.  For,” he added slowly, “what they took from the garden grotto of Sais, and from you, I have under my own protection.”

The Tracer rose, locked the door through which the prisoners and their escorts had departed; then, turning gravely on Burke, he continued: 

“That panel, there, is a door.  There is a room beyond—­a room facing to the south, bright with sunshine, flowers, soft rugs, and draperies of the East. She is there—­like a child asleep!”

Burke reeled, steadying himself against the wall; the Tracer stared at space, speaking very slowly: 

“Such death I have never before heard of.  From the moment she came under my protection I have dared to doubt—­many things.  And an hour ago you brought me a papyrus scroll confirming my doubts.  I doubt still—­Heaven knows what!  Who can say how long the flame of life may flicker within suspended animation?  A week?  A month?  A year?  Longer than that?  Yes; the Hindoos have proved it.  How long?  The span of a normal life?  Or longer?  Can the life flame burn indefinitely when the functions are absolutely suspended—­generation after generation, century after century?”