At a sign from him, they placed the package on the ground and drew out from one of the niches the case which it contained.

“You may approach, gentlemen,” said M. Le Mesge.

He motioned the three Tuareg to withdraw several paces.

“You asked me, not long since, for some proof of the Egyptian influence on this country,” said M. Le Mesge.  “What do you say to that case, to begin with?”

As he spoke, he pointed to the case that the servants had deposited upon the ground after they took it from its niche.

Morhange uttered a thick cry.

We had before us one of those cases designed for the preservation of mummies.  The same shiny wood, the same bright decorations, the only difference being that here Tifinar writing replaced the hieroglyphics.  The form, narrow at the base, broader above, ought to have been enough to enlighten us.

I have already said that the lower half of this large case was closed, giving the whole structure the appearance of a rectangular wooden shoe.

M. Le Mesge knelt and fastened on the lower part of the case, a square of white cardboard, a large label, that he had picked up from his desk, a few minutes before, on leaving the library.

“You may read,” he said simply, but still in the same low tone.

I knelt also, for the light of the great candelabra was scarcely sufficient to read the label where, none the less, I recognized the Professor’s handwriting.

It bore these few words, in a large round hand: 

“Number 53.  Major Sir Archibald Russell.  Born at Richmond, July 5, 1860.  Died at Ahaggar, December 3, 1896.”

I leapt to my feet.

“Major Russell!” I exclaimed.

“Not so loud, not so loud,” said M. Le Mesge.  “No one speaks out loud here.”

“The Major Russell,” I repeated, obeying his injunction as if in spite of myself, “who left Khartoum last year, to explore Sokoto?”

“The same,” replied the Professor.

“And ... where is Major Russell?”

“He is there,” replied M. Le Mesge.

The Professor made a gesture.  The Tuareg approached.

A poignant silence reigned in the mysterious hall, broken only by the fresh splashing of the fountain.

The three Negroes were occupied in undoing the package that they had put down near the painted case.  Weighed down with wordless horror, Morhange and I stood watching.

Soon, a rigid form, a human form, appeared.  A red gleam played over it.  We had before us, stretched out upon the ground, a statue of pale bronze, wrapped in a kind of white veil, a statue like those all around us, upright in their niches.  It seemed to fix us with an impenetrable gaze.

“Sir Archibald Russell,” murmured M. Le Mesge slowly.

Morhange approached, speechless, but strong enough to lift up the white veil.  For a long, long time he gazed at the sad bronze statue.