“There is no need, Higgs, since it is in your mouth already.  Well, I should have known you anywhere; but then your hair doesn’t go white.”

“Not it; too much colouring matter; direct result of a sanguine disposition.  Well, Adams—­for Adams you must be—­I am really delighted to see you, especially as you never answered some questions in my last letter as to where you got those First Dynasty scarabs, of which the genuineness, I may tell you, has been disputed by certain envious beasts.  Adams, my dear old fellow, welcome a thousand times”—­and he seized my hands and wrung them, adding, as his eye fell upon a ring I wore, “Why, what’s that?  Something quite unusual.  But never mind; you shall tell me after dinner.  Let me introduce you to my friend, Captain Orme, a very decent scholar of Arabic, with a quite elementary knowledge of Egyptology.”

“Mr. Orme,” interrupted the younger man, bowing to me.

“Oh, well, Mr. or Captain, whichever you like.  He means that he is not in the regular army, although he has been all through the Boer War, and wounded three times, once straight through the lungs.  Here’s the soup.  Mrs. Reid, lay another place.  I am dreadfully hungry; nothing gives me such an appetite as unrolling mummies; it involves so much intellectual wear and tear, in addition to the physical labour.  Eat, man, eat.  We will talk afterwards.”

So we ate, Higgs largely, for his appetite was always excellent, perhaps because he was then practically a teetotaller; Mr. Orme very moderately, and I as becomes a person who has lived for months at a time on dates—­mainly of vegetables, which, with fruits, form my principal diet—­that is, if these are available, for at a pinch I can exist on anything.

When the meal was finished and our glasses had been filled with port, Higgs helped himself to water, lit the large meerschaum pipe he always smokes, and pushed round the tobacco-jar which had once served as a sepulchural urn for the heart of an old Egyptian.

“Now, Adams,” he said when we also had filled our pipes, “tell us what has brought you back from the Shades.  In short, your story, man, your story.”

I drew the ring he had noticed off my hand, a thick band of rather light-coloured gold of a size such as an ordinary woman might wear upon her first or second finger, in which was set a splendid slab of sapphire engraved with curious and archaic characters.  Pointing to these characters, I asked Higgs if he could read them.

“Read them?  Of course,” he answered, producing a magnifying glass.  “Can’t you?  No, I remember; you never were good at anything more than fifty years old.  Hullo! this is early Hebrew.  Ah!  I’ve got it,” and he read: 

“’The gift of Solomon the ruler—­no, the Great One—­of Israel, Beloved of Jah, to Maqueda of Sheba-land, Queen, Daughter of Kings, Child of Wisdom, Beautiful.’

“That’s the writing on your ring, Adams—­a really magnificent thing.  ‘Queen of Sheba—­Bath-Melachim, Daughter of Kings,’ with our old friend Solomon chucked in.  Splendid, quite splendid!”—­and he touched the gold with his tongue, and tested it with his teeth.  “Hum—­where did you get this intelligent fraud from, Adams?”