from the Nile!"

VIII

The crescent moon hung again over the apex of the Great Pyramid, like a
silver cutting from the rosy nail of a houri. The Sphinx--mighty
guesser of riddles, reader of rebuses and universal solver of missing
words--looked over the unfathomable desert and these few pages, with
the worried, hopeless expression of one who is obliged at last to give
it up. And then the wailing voice of a woman, toiling up the steep
steps of the pyramid, was heard above the creaking of the Ibis: "'Arry
Axes! Where are you? Wait for me."

"J'y suis," said a voice from the very summit of the stupendous granite
bulk, "yet I cannot reach it."

And in that faint light the figure of a man was seen, lifting his arms
wildly toward the moon.

"'Arry Axes," persisted the voice, drifting higher, "wait for me; we
are pursued."

And indeed it was true. A band of Nubians, headed by the doctor, was
already swarming like ants up the pyramid, and the unhappy pair were
secured. And when the sun rose, it was upon the white sails of the
dahabiyeh, the vacant pyramid, and the slumbering Sphinx.

There was great excitement at the Cairo Hotel the next morning. The
Princess and the Chevalier had disappeared, and with them Alaster
McFeckless, Lady Fitz-Fulke, the doctor, and even his dahabiyeh! A
thousand rumors had been in circulation. Sir Midas Pyle looked up from
the "Times" with his usual I-told-you-so expression.

"It is the most extraordinary thing, don'tcherknow," said Fitz-Fulke.
"It seems that Dr. Haustus Pilgrim was here professionally--as a nerve
specialist--in the treatment of hallucinations produced by neurotic
conditions, you know."

"A mad doctor, here!" gasped Sir Midas.

"Yes. The Princess, the Chevalier, McFeckless, and even my mother were
all patients of his on the dahabiyeh. He believed, don'tcherknow, in
humoring them and letting them follow out their cranks, under his
management. The Princess was a music-hall artist who imagined she was
a dead and gone Egyptian Princess; and the queerest of all, 'Arry Axes
was also a music-hall singer who imagined himself Chevalier--you know,
the great Koster artist--and that's how we took him for a Frenchman.
McFeckless and my poor old mother were the only ones with any real rank
and position--but you know what a beastly bounder Mac was, and the poor
mater DID overdo the youthful! We never called the doctor in until the
day she wanted to go to a swell ball in