Also In This Series

By Kenneth Robeson

#1: JUSTICE, INC.

#2: THE YELLOW HOARD

#3: THE SKY WALKER

#4: THE DEVIL’S HORNS

#5: THE FROSTED DEATH

WARNER PAPERBACK LIBRARY

WARNER PAPERBACK LIBRARY EDITION

FIRST PRINTING: NOVEMBER, 1972

COPYRIGHT © 1940 BY STREET & SMITH PUBLICATIONS, INC.

COPYRIGHT RENEWED 1969 BY THE CONDÉ NEST PUBLICATIONS, INC.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

THIS WARNER PAPERBACK LIBRARY EDITION IS PUBLISHED BY

ARRANGEMENT WITH THE CONDÉ NEST PUBLICATIONS. INC.

COVER ILLUSTRATION BY PETER CARAS

WARNER PAPERBACK LIBRARY IS A DIVISION OF WARNER BOOKS,

75 ROCKERFELLER PLAZA, N.Y. 10019.

A Warner Communications Company

ISBN: 0-446-64-963-5

Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

THE BLOOD RING

CHAPTER I: Shades of the Past

CHAPTER II: The Amulets

CHAPTER III: High Priestess

CHAPTER IV: Bloody Cornelian

CHAPTER V: Strange Headache

CHAPTER VI: The Copper Dagger

CHAPTER VII: “Doctor, Lawyer—”

CHAPTER VIII: Temple Rites

CHAPTER IX: The Mummy Walks

CHAPTER X: “Chief—”

CHAPTER XI: Out of the Tomb

CHAPTER XII: Dead Radio

CHAPTER XIII: Death From Above

CHAPTER XIV: Taros and the Ring

CHAPTER XV: Two Hours To Go!

CHAPTER XVI: Vengeance of Taros

CHAPTER XVII: The Golden Egg

CHAPTER XVIII: The Egg Hatches

THE

BLOOD RING

CHAPTER I

Shades of the Past

Just off Massachusetts Avenue, in Washington, D.C., squatted the great, dark-red bulk of the Braintree Museum. It had plenty of grounds around it, shaded by huge old trees.

It was beautiful in daylight. But at night, with none too many street lamps around there anyway, it looked pitch-dark, grim, filled with whispering shadows.

On this particular night, it was darker than ever around Braintree Museum. The big trees seemed actually to droop their full branches till they touched the ground, making little tents with the trunks of the trees as the center poles. It looked as if an army could hide in the museum grounds.

From all the stationary shadows, at just a few minutes after midnight, suddenly appeared one that moved.

It was very tall, thin, and had a human look. And yet, if anyone had been around to see, he would have had the impression that the moving shadow, somehow, was not human.

However, there was no one around to see.

The museum was like most public buildings. Open only during daytime, at night it and its surroundings were completely deserted. No one had any business around there, late at night; so few people ever came.

The tall figure disappeared suddenly in the shadow of a great maple tree, to reappear again on the other side, nearer the museum. It seemed to glide rather than walk. And now for a brief instant it was in the direct rays of a distant street light. And more could be seen of it.

The figure seemed covered with a flowing white robe that melted into nothingness at the fringes. The garment had a distinctive look. It reminded you of something. At first, exactly what, could not be told. Then visions of old schoolbooks would have been specified—had there been a spectator.

The robe was that of a priest. Going on from there, the person with old history lessons in his mind would have been more specific. It was that of an Egyptian priest.

Six thousand years ago the high priests of Egypt had garbed themselves like that.

And there were more details in the dim light. The head and face atop the flowing white robe could be seen.

The face was so thin that it seemed to be the fleshless countenance of a skull. It was lank, lantern-jawed. There was a great, high beak of a nose, as arrogant as a kingly scepter. The cranium was completely bald. There was no more hair on it than on a vulture’s bare and repulsive dome.

The great-nosed, bald figure in the incredible garb of a priesthood thousands of years dead, floated serenely toward the museum. It got almost to the pitch-black shadow of the east wall. Then it disappeared once more.

It did not reappear.

Inside Braintree Museum, Bill Casey moved at his nightly duties.

Casey was an ex-cop, now over sixty and retired to this job as night watchman and caretaker of the big museum. The job was no cinch. There was stuff in that sprawling building worth millions of dollars. True, it was junk that couldn’t be readily sold, but it could tempt a thief just the same. Collectors exist who are glad to pay big sums for museum pieces along the lines of their collections.

Casey had a .45 swinging solidly at his left hip, and he could use it expertly. Casey feared few things on earth after forty-one years as a harness bull. Casey was nearly six feet in height, weighed close to two hundred, and still had a florid face that was only just beginning to line a bit with years.

He was in the Egyptian wing of the building at the moment. He had none too much imagination; was a good, solid, practical ex-cop. But this room could always give him the willies late at night.

The room was enormous—fifty by ninety, and about thirty feet high. The height was to accommodate the Egyptian statutes brought here from the Upper and Lower Nile temples.

The ceiling had to be high because the statues were high. The tallest almost scraped the stone roof as it was.

They were ringed around the great room like giants cast in stone. They stood there, motionless, with eyes staring straight ahead at nothing. But staring hard, as if the stone orbs could actually see something, a million miles off, straight ahead. If you’ve ever been in an Egyptian room you know the eerie feeling which that straight, dreamy, impersonal gaze gives you.

At the feet of the old statues were dozens of mummy cases, with linen-wrapped bones in them in more or less good repair. Some of them were rotted so that the bones showed through the wrappings; some were almost perfect.

Among the latter was the latest acquisition of the Braintree Museum. That was a mummy, complete with stone coffin—or sarcophagus—of the son of a high priest named Taros. The son’s name was unknown. But Taros was on register, all right. He had been the high priest under Rameses.

The son of Taros stood upright in linen swathing that had darkened with centuries till it was about the color of coffee with a lot of cream in it, but it was sound in every stitch. Over the mummy case had been fitted a cabinet with a glass lid, so that the public could see in. The glass was sealed into the edges of the lid with a sort of plastic wax, which made the interior air-tight.

Through the glass, the mummy of the high priest’s son seemed to stare, through linen bands over the skull, at his own sarcophagus, lying ponderously near his skeletal feet.

Casey, making the rounds of the Egyptian room, went in such a manner that his path would take him last to the vicinity of this new mummy. The thing gave him the jeebies, though he wouldn’t admit it, even to himself.

A vague half-light illuminated the wing. It left the upper third of the temple statues in near-darkness. Casey stared up at the cold impersonal stone countenances.

“It’s alive ye are, I’m sometimes thinkin’,” he muttered to the inanimate statues.

Which would indicate that he had some little imagination, after all. The sculpture of Egypt is not the kind we’re familiar with. Bodies and faces are distorted and unhuman.

Yet somehow the unknown craftsmen who carved that stone managed to get a weird feel of life into the work.

“Faith, and ye look like ye could walk, some of ye,” mumbled Casey. He often talked aloud to himself in the lonely night, making the rounds of the acres covered by the museum. “Though heaven help us if ye did walk!” he added soberly. The idea of one of those towering stone images suddenly moving—and perhaps toward him—was frightening.

There was a watchman’s clock ticking on his belt, near the big revolver. He walked to a box, neat and modern under the very elbow of one of the thousands-of-years-old statues. He fitted the clock tongue into the box. Now it was registered that he had come to this part of the building at precisely sixteen minutes past midnight, as he was supposed to do.

He went on, nearer and nearer to the most recent mummy, only in place a week. He kept his eyes away from it as he approached.

The reason he had qualms about this mummy was that once, two days ago, he had thought he heard sounds from it.

The sounds were the faintest of whispers. He couldn’t tell if they really did come from near the mummy, or if they’d been made by a rat at that end of the room, or if he was simply hearing things. You get kind of jumpy in an enormous, deserted place like Braintree in the dead of night.

Now he was within ten yards of the new case and had no excuse at all not to keep on going past it.

“I dreamed it, the other night,” he said suddenly, aloud. “I didn’t hear nothin’ from the borne pile.”

He squared his shoulders, like a man walking past a graveyard in the dark of the moon, and marched toward the ancient remains of the son of Taros, high priest of Rameses.

“To the devil with ye,” he said loudly.

He passed it, looking right at the face of the thing—or, rather, at the swathed part of the skull under which a moldering face should be.

“I wish that last expedition had never gone after ye,” said Bill.

And, sounding just a little above his footsteps, there was the faint echo of one of his words.

“—gone—”

Casey stopped, past the mummy case, his back to it. He stood there, hands tight at his sides, eyes wide and staring ahead.

He stood that way for half a minute, then relaxed.

“I am gettin’ potty,” he thought. But he just thought it; didn’t say it aloud. So there was no excuse for the echo that time. And anyhow, the echo reproduced words that he hadn’t even thought, let alone said.

“They’re gone—”

Casey moistened his lips. They felt, suddenly, as dry as the remains under the old, old, linen bands. He felt as if he couldn’t move at all for the moment. He seemed to have taken root in the stone slabs of the floor, set in a design to simulate the floors of old Egyptian temples.

He swallowed noisily.

Words? From a mummy? From a thing thousands of years dead, and now so unknown that only parentage and not name was on the rolls? Don’t be silly, Casey!

The husky old ex-cop turned squarely. There was a military movement about it, like the formal about-face of a soldier. He looked at that mummy case, and he walked squarely back to that mummy case. This thing was going to be settled once and for all. He couldn’t go along feeling that every once in a while a confounded mummy was going to talk to him. They lock you up in padded rooms for that sort of thing.

He stood in front of the big cabinet with the glass lid, within which was the gilded mummy case and the swathed mummy inside that, like a kernel in the half-shell of a nut.

The glass was tight in the lid. The lid was screwed to the cabinet with a thin gasket edging it to preserve the airtightness within.

“Sure, an’ it’s as impossible as I knew it was,” muttered Casey.

Why, if the thing within had spoken, no one could hear it. Sound, unless very loud, couldn’t get out of the tightly sealed and gasketed case.

“So if ye did talk, ye spalpeen, ye couldn’t make yerself heard,” said Casey defiantly.

But in the back of his mind was an uneasy realization.

Mummies, if able to talk, surely would also be able to transcend limitations of glass lids and gaskets. They’d be able to make themselves heard, all right, in some bizarre way—

“They’re gone. My father’s charms against evil.”

Casey tottered where he stood. This was no echo. This was no rat scurrying. This was no freak of the imagination.

That mummy had talked!

Casey reached out blindly for support. Toward the mummy case, since that was the nearest tall thing at hand. He jerked his arm back, as if nearing a red-hot stove, before his flesh could touch the sinister, coffin-like thing.

“My father’s charms are gone. They must be retrieved.”

Casey glared at the thing with enormous eyes. A shape swathed in yards on yards of ancient linen, the color of coffee with cream in it. A shape, that no matter how miraculously embalmed, could be no more than dried sinew and crumbling bones, now. A shape that had no head, just a thing like a football wrapped in bandages.

That thing couldn’t talk.

But—it had! Casey knew it had. And the knowledge was too much for even a man like the husky ex-patrolman.

Casey swayed a little, sagged to his knees as if a great weight pressed down on him, then slid on to the floor, out like a light.

In the night outside the Braintree Museum, near the Egyptian wing, a figure suddenly appeared and began to float rather than walk away from the structure.

It was a tall, thin figure in the robe of an ancient Egyptian priest. The face was lank, lantern-jawed, of a ghastly putty hue. The nose was as high-beaked as that of a bird of prey; and like the dome of a carrion bird, its skull was completely bare.

It glided among the trees, appearing, disappearing; till at last it could be seen no more.

But just before its last disappearance, there was a faint flash from something on its shadowy left hand. A ring there. The flash was pinkish-red, like that from a clot of pale blood, set into a ring.

CHAPTER II

The Amulets

Miles away from the Braintree Museum, in Washington South-East, was the big home of Gunther Caine. in spite of distance, there was a direct connection.

Gunther Caine was curator of the vast building in which were stored the records of man through the ages.

Caine was a multi-millionaire in his own name. His job paid well, but it was a hobby with the rich man rather than a necessity.

He had it because he was rabidly fascinated by the work entailed. He glowed like a small boy with a new red sled when some new acquisition passed through his hands en route to a case in the museum building.

He was glowing now, in the library of his luxurious house. Because an acquisition of tremendous import had just come into the possession of Braintree.

Months ago, an expedition had unearthed the unrifled tomb of the son of Taros, high priest of Rameses. There had been a mummy, complete with case and sarcophagus. There had been a brief history of the young man; brief because his life had been brief. He had succeeded to his father’s position, when Taros died, ruled the temples for eight months, then died, himself.

Also, there had been the priceless amulets of the young man’s father, passed down directly to his hands.

Charms against death. Charms against evil.

The amulets were disks, mostly of gold, a few of cornelian. The gold ones were set with a king’s ransom in rubies and other precious stones. But the worth of the stones was only a fraction of the real worth of the things as relics.

In addition to the amulets, there was a ring.

The ring was of old gold with a slab of pinkish cornelian as a setting. And this was, perhaps, worth all the amulets put together. That was because of its history.

The ring was described in temple hieroglyphics as the Ring of Power. It had been worn always by the current high priest. The belief was that without that ring, the head priest would instantly lose all his authority, and with it, probably, his life.

The mummy and case had been shipped to America without much trouble. But the Egyptian government had held up the shipment of the amulets and ring. They wanted them, themselves, for their museum in Cairo.

Finally the stuff had come through. It had been brought down tonight. The box containing the stuff had been carried by a heavily armed, special messenger. With the messenger had come two private detectives.

Now the precious box was in the room next to Caine’s library.

In the library were half a dozen men, talking over the priestly relics.

There was Gunther Caine, tall, thin, so unconcerned with clothes that his expensive suit looked wrinkled and almost shabby. He had fuzzy brown eyes and gray-brown hair and a short, snub nose.

There was Harold Caine, Gunther’s son. Harold was twenty-two and had never grown up. He was the jitterbug type, without a serious thought in his head, and his rather shallow blue eyes and vacuous face showed it.

There were the three directors of the board of the Braintree Museum—Evans, Spencer, and Moen. Evans was short and fat, with a monkishly bald head; Spencer was tall and fat, with a face like a kewpie doll; Moen was tall and squarely built, an ex-football star now fit though forty.

Then there was an individual who would have stood out in any gathering at any time.

His lithe body, in the dark-gray he habitually wore, gave an impression of colossal, steely power. The man’s face was the most arresting thing about him.

His face was dead! Motionless, white, still, it was like a death mask rather than a human countenance. And in this immobile, dreadful face were set eyes so light-gray as to be almost colorless.

The name of this sixth man was Richard Henry Benson. But it was not as Dick Benson that he was best known. The name that brought awe into the faces of honest men, and terror into the hearts of criminals, was—The Avenger!

The Avenger was the greatest enemy the underworld had, but he was not here tonight as a crime-fighter.

Benson, in addition to being a crime-fighter, possessed a fund of knowledge on almost any given subject so vast as to make him a top-ranking expert. It was as an expert Egyptologist, probably without peer in the world, that he was here tonight.

Caine, and the museum directors, had invited him in to judge the authenticity of the amulets and the ring.

The ancient charms against evil had been out of the hands of the expedition for some weeks. The Egyptian government had had them. Presumably the stuff had been locked in an untouchable vault. But there might be a possibility that a clever thief had stolen them and substituted forgeries.

“They are completely genuine, gentlemen,” said Benson.

His voice was as distinctive as his person. It was low, quiet, impersonal—but vibrant with power and authority. The men in that room were all wealthy and had authority themselves, but they were dwarfed by the personality of the man whose face seemed carved out of dead-white metal and whose colorless eyes were like chips of stainless steel—or like holes in the motionless countenance through which you could peer deep into a world of fog and ice.

“These death charms,” Benson went on, “as you perhaps know, have been mentioned several times in picture records of Rameses’ time. We have a pretty complete description of their use by the mad priest Taros.”

Harold Caine’s shallow blue eyes expressed boredom and his vacuous face looked resigned. He wasn’t interested in all this stuff from thousands of years ago. He thought his father was nuts.

Harold Caine looked bored, and looking that way, he got up.

“Excuse me, please,” he mumbled.

He went out the hall door. The rest were hardly conscious of his exit. They were too intent on the words of this master among them.

“Taros was high priest under Rameses. First, for about twenty years.” The Avenger went on. “He was a monster of cruelty. He wore this Ring of Power. The cornelian, as you noticed, is pinkish. The legend was that it had to be dipped into life blood every forty-eight hours. When it was so dipped, it became deep-red, fading slowly to a pinkish color again when two days and nights had elapsed. Then it must once more be renewed in the blood of an innocent victim.

“As long as the ring was worn, Taros would keep his high place. But if he took off the ring, or failed to dip it in blood before a lapse of forty-eight hours, he lost his job and his life.”

Moen and Caine nodded. The curator, and the husky director who was an ex-football star, were the best Egyptologists there, save The Avenger, himself. They knew some of this—but not as much as Benson was telling them.

“Taros also constantly wore the amulets as a guard against evil. But the evil he was really guarding against was the rage of the populace over which he was a tyrant. Anyone in Egypt would have been glad to kill him, but he spread the tale of the amulets and their power to make him deathless, so he kept from being mobbed.

“All this, the records show. And they have also given us a short description of him. He was tall, and thin to the point of emaciation. He had an eagle nose, high-bridged, arrogant and cruel. He was hairless, with a bald skull and practically no eyelashes or eyebrows.

“The appearance of the son of Taros, whose mummy you have just acquired, we do not know.”

They were silent, envisioning the things the words brought up.

The great temple of Rameses. In it, a small army of priests, fattening on the corruption of the Egyptian court, really rulers of the officials of the government, themselves. Over them, this tall, emaciated Taros, with the amulets slung across his chest to ward off death, and with the baleful ring on his finger.

The Ring of Power, keeping its wearer in authority, making him invincible—as long as he renewed that power by dipping it into the life blood of an innocent victim every forty-eight hours.

A death every two days! Murder of an unsuspecting person every forty-eight hours! That was the price of the cornelian ring’s power! It was a dread picture.

And that very ring, stained with the blood of countless sacrifices, was in the strong-box in the next room, with the amulets! One of the most priceless treasures of the museum world.

“Wherever Taros is,” murmured Gunther Caine, “he must be turning over in his grave, or I should say in his mummy case, at the thought of his charms and ring in the hands of those who rifled his son’s tomb.”

Short, fat Evans, and tall, fat Spencer, and burly Moen nodded agreement.

The Avenger’s car was at the curb in front of Gunther Caine’s house. Benson had driven down from his New York headquarters, since nothing in Washington had seemed urgent enough to make the swiftness of a plane necessary, although he could travel at a terrific speed in the great, glittering closed car he used for long-distance trips.

At the wheel of the car sat a man in livery.

The driver of The Avenger’s car was enormous. Even seated, you could see that. Had he been standing, you could have seen even more. And you would probably have gasped a little at the man’s six feet nine inches and two hundred and ninety pounds of solid bone and brawn.

The man at the wheel was Algernon Heathcote Smith, called by people who didn’t want to flirt with annihilation, plain Smitty.

He was a trusted aide of The Avenger, and in addition he was a marvelously capable radio engineer.

Smitty sat at the wheel of the hundred-and-eighty-horsepower car and felt a little bored. He had joined services with The Avenger because he hated crime as much as Benson did.

This trip, on the peaceful mission of examining some musty Egyptian relics, was not to his liking. He wanted action and lots of it—

Suddenly Smitty sat bolt upright behind the wheel of the car. He wasn’t at all bored any more. He was as tense as a coiled spring, and a bit anxious about his sanity. Because it looked as if what he had been thinking about—Egyptian stuff—had somehow become incarnated and was parading before his eyes.

Near Gunther Caine’s house, Smitty saw a tall, thin figure that he couldn’t decide about. He couldn’t decide whether it was really there or not. And he couldn’t decide whether, if it were there, it was made of mist or of something more solid.

A tall, thin figure that glided rather than walked. A figure clad in loose, whitish garments that were vaguely familiar to Smitty.

“For the love of—” he breathed.

The garb this tall figure wore, a garment seeming to melt into nothingness at the edges, was priestly raiment. The costume of a priest—of old Egypt!

“I’m screwy!” thought Smitty. “A priest of ancient Egypt trotting around in Washington, South-East! I’m bats!”

He felt a chill touch his spine, but decided that this thing would have to be investigated. He looked at the dashboard clock. Midnight almost to the dot. Benson should be coming out, soon; but Smitty didn’t wait for him before doing something about the Egyptian priest.

He got out of the car, his enormous bulk silhouetted in the backwash of light from the headlamps. He began following the shadowy figure, like Gargantua chasing a wraith of mist, toward the rear of Caine’s house.

There was a ten-foot strip of lawn between the house and the one next door. Smitty slid down that as silently as possible, to the landscaped backyard. He saw the gray shape again, and started running toward it.

The shape disappeared.

There wasn’t any corresponding flight of the shape from the giant’s rush. It didn’t turn and flee. It didn’t duck to right or left.

It just vanished!

CHAPTER III

High Priestess

Gunther Caine was saying goodnight to the men in his place. It was after midnight, and the man looked tired.

Evans, looking shorter and fatter than ever with a round-bellied derby on his head, shook hands with the curator, and left Spencer, beaming all over his kewpie-doll face, congratulated Caine and, incidentally, himself for being smart enough to get the Taros relics. Moen shrugged his burly shoulders into a topcoat, nodded, and went out.

Harold Caine, the curator’s son, was in the hall near the front door as the directors of the board left. But none of the three men paid any attention to him. Nor did his father.

However, The Avenger noticed him. Those pale, icily flaming eyes didn’t often miss anything out of the ordinary. And Harold’s appearance, to eyes as keen as that, was out of the ordinary.

Harold’s face had a slightly frightened look. At the same time, his eyes were dull, almost glazed-looking—as if he had taken dope.

He nodded nervously as each of the three men went out, playing assistant host in spite of the fact that no one was noticing him. His body was twitchy and his hands wandered around as if he were ill at ease.

Benson, alone in the hall with Gunther Caine and his son, came closer to the curator.

“Those amulets, and the Ring of Power,” he said, “are without price. There are a lot of people who would murder to get them in their possession. Watch them very closely.”

Caine looked startled, then smiled.

“No one will take them from my house,” he said. “I can assure you of that. And first thing in the morning I’ll take them to the museum safe. We will make replicas and exhibit them, keeping the genuine amulets in the vault.”

“That’s best,” said The Avenger quietly. “But the danger will come while they are in your house.”

Benson didn’t put into words the thing that made him speak. That was because the thing was too vague and without substance to warrant words.

The Avenger had spent his life in jungle wilds and impenetrable wildernesses. He had developed a sixth sense that whispered when trouble was near. That sixth sense was functioning now.

With every fiber of him, he felt that something was wrong.

Yet there was nothing that even Dick Benson could put his finger on. Only the directors and Caine and his son were in the house with the Taros relics. The servants were off, having been given a night out because the relics were expected, and Caine didn’t want to subject his employees to such temptation.

Nothing could possibly be the matter. Yet Benson had that feeling. He opened the door, nodded to Caine, and the door was closed as he stepped out.

He saw that Smitty’s giant figure was missing from behind the wheel of his car.

Then he heard a hoarse yell! The yell cracked in the middle and died. It stopped as if cut with a knife.

It had been Smitty’s yell, from down the block.

The Avenger could move so fast, when an urgent matter required it, that he made the movements of normal men seem like slow motion. He moved that way, his body a gray streak as he raced toward the sound of the call.

Smitty had stayed in the backyard of Gunther Caine’s home for a full five minutes after seeing the last of the wraithlike, emaciated figure. He had looked all around for it—and found nothing.

But he found traces of the thing. Traces enough to prove to him that he really had seen something, and not just imagined it.

The night was dewy, and when he bent down he could see a line along the grass, in the moisture, where this thing had moved. So something had really been there.

“But not,” Smitty told himself, “any geezer, in the robes of an ancient Egyptian priest. That’s crazy. That part I must have imagined because I was thinking about the chief and the Egyptian stuff he came here to examine.”

After five minutes of prowling around the backyard, with no results to show for it, Smitty walked back to the glittering car.

He started to get in and saw the tall, thin figure, again.

This time it was down the street, at least half a block away. How it had gotten down the narrow strip of lawn between houses, and out to the sidewalk without Smitty’s seeing it, was a mystery.

There was a high wall in back of Caine’s house so the thing couldn’t get out that way. Unless it was as ghostly as it looked and could walk through things like walls.

“Humph,” growled Smitty. “There are no such things as ghosts.”

He started after the figure again, and it promptly disappeared. But an instant later he got a glimpse of something like whitish mist to the right.

When he got to that section of the block, he found a large vacant lot, with trees sprinkled through it. The trees cast deep shadows, but he began investigating, hunting for the thing.

Probably some maniac was wandering loose under the hallucination that he was an Egyptian priest. He might be harmless. On the other hand he might be dangerous. Smitty thought he ought to be shut up somewhere.

He made his soundless way toward the center of the open space. And then he stopped with a grunt. It was all he could do to keep from sounding out and giving his presence away.

Ahead of him, in the starlight between several tree shadows, were two white figures!

“Did the guy split double, like an amoeba?” Smitty soundlessly wondered.

Then he saw that that was out of the picture, because this second white figure was of a different sex. The tall one had been undeniably male. You could tell that not only from its walk and behavior, but also because it was bald. And a female doesn’t often get bald.

This second one was female.

Smitty rubbed his eyes. He had bumped into two maniacs with the same obsession.

The tall figure was garbed as a high priest of Egypt.

This second one was robed as a high priestess.

Smitty recalled that high priestesses are sometimes amazingly pretty. This one was no exception.

His second recollection was that you could get a bold idea of the prettiness because high priestesses didn’t wear much.

The girl was dressed in flowing white, like the tall man with the beaked nose and the bald skull. But her robe was as transparent as the mist it resembled. You could see right through it; and, while what you saw also seemed misty and insubstantial, it was the shapliest mist the giant had ever hoped to encounter.

To go further, the girl was tall, slender, though rounded, and had either black hair or hair of a very dark brown. Smitty couldn’t see which. He saw her face, though, and felt a kind of shock.

That face could have come entirely from an old Egyptian temple frieze.

There were the wide-spaced, lustrous eyes and the broad, low forehead. There was the straight line, rather Greek, from the top of the forehead to the end of the fine nose. There was the rounded chin with the short upper lip.

“She is a priestess of ancient Egypt,” whispered Smitty in awe.

The tall, thin figure with the bald dome raised its left hand in a queer gesture. On the second finger of that hand, Smitty saw something glitter with a pinkish cast. Some kind of ring.

The girl dressed like a priestess went submissively to one knee before the arrogant gesture. And Smitty started to close in.

Had there been a lot of fallen leaves around, he would have watched his step more closely. But there weren’t. So he was careless enough to step on a fallen twig to which half a dozen dry leaves adhered.

They rustled like paper and sounded loud in the stillness.

The figure of the high priest whirled and sprang toward Smitty, its gaunt arms raised high as if in an invocation—as if bringing down a curse.

Smitty felt as if he had been dumped bodily into a vat of nettles. He burned and prickled all over. Then the world began to go even blacker than the midnight darkness warranted.

He yelled once, hoarsely, hardly conscious that sound was coming from him. He got one more glimpse of a shapely shadow in gauzy mist, like the robe of a priestess.

Then the ground came up and hit him!

Back in Caine’s home, the phone was ringing.

Gunther Caine started toward the library, where the downstairs phone was located. So did Harold, eyes glazed and dull, his face queerly frightened.

“I’ll answer it,” said Caine to his son. “You go on to bed.”

It was unusual, thought Caine, as he closed the library door, that Harold was home at all, at this hour. Usually he was out till dawn, running around with a pack of kids younger than himself. At times Caine despaired of his son’s ever growing up and becoming a responsible citizen.

“Hello,” he said into the phone, wondering who was calling him at this hour.

It was Casey, museum watchman and night caretaker.

Caine listened for a moment to wild words, sitting more and more rigid in his chair. Then he exploded harshly into the instrument:

“Get a grip on yourself, man. Talk sense. Nothing like that could have happened.”

“But it did!” came Casey’s agitated voice. “It did, I tell ye! The mummy talked!”

“The mummy of Taros’ son?” said Caine.

“Yes. Yes! It talked.”

“How could it talk? And if it did, how could it be heard through that glass lid?”

“Sure, an’ how would I be knowin’ that? Anyhow, talk it did. It was perfectly plain. It said, ‘They’re gone. My father’s charms against evil are gone. And the Ring of Power. They must be retrieved.’ Or somethin’ like that.”

“Casey, you’ve been drinking!”

“I swear, sor, I haven’t. Not a drop.”

“Then you need a rest. You’ve been working too hard.”

“I’m as sound as a ten-dollar gold piece, sor. But the reason I called—” There was a pause, then Casey’s voice went on with a rush. “The mummy said the things were gone, Mr. Caine. I’d like to ask ye, did ye get them amulets and things, tonight, like ye thought?”

“Yes,” said Gunther Caine crisply. “They came several hours ago. They’re in my small den, now, in a steel box.”

“Well, look now, sor. The mummy seemed dommed sure the things were gone. Stolen, that must mean. And wouldn’t that mummy be in a position to know? I mean—the son of the old boy that first had the ring and the other stuff—wouldn’t he know if anything had happened to them?”

Caine, in spite of himself, looked uneasy.

“Go back to your beat, Casey,” he said.

“But ye’ll look an’ see if ye’ve still got the stuff, Mr. Caine?” Casey said, almost pleadingly.

“Yes, I’ll look. Good-by.”

Caine, in spite of himself, looked and then got up. With a look of amusement for Casey, and half of one for himself, he went into the next room. The small den.

It was time to put that steel box in the safe, anyhow. And while he was carrying it to the safe, it wouldn’t hurt to look. Though of course there couldn’t be anything to the Irishman’s yarn.

There was a slide top on the box, strong enough so that a steel jimmy would have had to be used to open it if locked. But he hadn’t locked it when he set it on the desk in here.

He slid the top back. And the box dropped from fingers suddenly as limp as if made of wet cotton.

The box was empty. Amulets and ring were gone!

“Harold!” he tried to cry out, to get his son’s help.

Not a sound could he force from his numbed lips. The priceless Taros relics gone—

He staggered to the front door and opened it.

The Avenger was gone, too. His car was no longer at the curb.

It was speeding away with Benson at the wheel and the giant just coming out of his coma in the back seat, where Benson had put him after finding him alone and unconscious in the center of the vacant lot. But Gunther Caine couldn’t know that.

He began phoning frantically, all the places he could think of where The Avenger might be reached in Washington.

He had asked the white-haired man down here as a great Egyptologist. Now he needed him desperately in his grim capacity as crime fighter.

But he didn’t know where Benson was staying, or, indeed, if the man with the stainless steel chips of eyes was not at this moment driving back toward his New York headquarters.

The Taros relics gone—and the one man on earth who might help him, gone too.

Gunther Caine sat on the porch steps and put his face in his hands.

CHAPTER IV

Bloody Cornelian

In the beginning dawn, headquarters in Washington began getting the craziest reports a police headquarters ever received.

The sergeant at the desk, after the fourth phone call, turned a bewildered face toward a lieutenant of detectives who was leaning over his shoulder.

“It’s mad, these folks are!” he complained. “Four loonies, all with the same idea.”

“What idea?” asked the detective lieutenant, playing with ideas of hot dogs and coffee before going home to a daytime sleep.

“Four people—three men and a woman—have phoned that they’ve seen a person runnin’ around in a kind of nightie. Each has given a different description; so it looks as if there are four people in nighties loose in Washington. That is, if these telephoners ain’t as nuts as they sound.”

“Nighties?” said the cop, beginning to forget the dogs and coffee.

“That’s what the descriptions sounded like. Anyhow, it sounded that way from three of ’em. They’re ordinary folks, goin’ off to a dawn job or comin’ home from a night one. But this last guy was different. He’s a high-school teacher who was workin’ all night on some research of his own. A highbrow. He says this nightie was the robe of an Egyptian priest.”

“You mean one of them mullahs or muezzins, or whatever they got in Egypt to keep the Arabs quiet?”

The sergeant looked as disgusted as he dared, to a lieutenant of detectives.

“Naw! Not a priest of Egypt, now. A priest of Egypt in the time when them mummies at Braintree were walkin’ around under their own power.”

“Why would any one want to wear an outfit like that?” said the plainclothes man fretfully.

“How would I know?” snapped the desk sergeant.

“Maybe it’s a masquerade.”

“Mebbe. But if it is, it must be a magician’s ball. Because this last guy, the teacher who knows Egyptian clothes when he sees ’em, says the mug he saw wearin’ ’em disappeared.”

“Huh?”

“Disappear! Vanish! Phht!” said the sergeant.

“He’s dotty.”

“Well, that’s what I said,” shrugged the sergeant. “But I suppose we oughtta radio a squad car to cruise around there—South-East—and see what can be seen.”

This was at dawn, with gold just lightening the pink of five-thirty in the morning.

Dawn, with the night’s work of Bill Casey, watchman at Braintree, almost over.

Casey was in the Early-American Indian room, punching his last station for the night. Wax figures with long, feathered headdresses, in front of replica wigwams, stared at him out of big class cases. Tomahawks and flint knife-blades studded the walls over his head.

Casey was pretty indifferent about this stuff. Indian relics seemed like things out of last week, compared to the ancient remnants from thousands of years ago exhibited here. And there was nothing in Indian art that gave Casey the creepy feeling of life which he got from the statues in the Egyptian room.

The result was that Casey was a little careless about present surroundings as well as past perils. He punched the clock noisily, yawned loudly, and strolled toward the door going back to the main exhibit room.

And behind him crept death!

The museum was, if anything, darker than it was in the middle of the night. That was because there was an automatic switch that turned the night lights off, for economy, as soon as daylight touched photo-electric cells. But the light of dawn, while sufficient to touch off the switches, wasn’t enough to lighten the gloom of the building for the first hour or so.

Casey might have been excused for not seeing the figure behind him, in the gloom, even if warned of its presence. But he was not warned; so he was completely off his guard.

He walked out into the main rotunda, steps echoing emptily in the darkness. And behind him slid a tall, thin shape in the garb of a priest of old Egypt. The lank, lantern-jawed face was intent on the caretaker’s back. The hairless cranium moved a little as the head of a snake might shift before coiling to spring. The eagle-beak nose seemed to flare at the nostrils like that of an animal of prey.

Casey went to the huge bronze main doors and tried them. Locked tight, of course. He turned, to walk back to the workroom and locker room.

The emaciated figure in its bizarre garb slid behind a pedestal on which was a reproduced skeleton of Neanderthal man. Casey drew even with the pedestal, passed it.

The great room seemed suddenly airless and frozen with danger. It was as if walls and ceiling leaned near to witness what was to come.

Oblivious as he was, Casey, striding toward the locker room, paused. Behind him, the creeping white death did not pause. It came on, seeming to float rather than walk.

Casey, with every primitive instinct uneasily alert now, started to turn.

The move was never completed.

The gloom suddenly held a pin prick of light, reflected from a knife blade. But the thin streak of light was not pale, steely in color, as it would have been from ordinary metal. It was a reflection from a metal such as we in the modern world do not know. It was a coppery-gold reflection.

The reflection seemed a long streak, because it came from a knife blade flashing down.

Down toward the man’s broad back!

It hit with a dull, hollow punnk, the blade going deftly between ribs. Casey fell without ever knowing what had happened, as the metal ripped his heart.

He fell, and the tall, grayish form in misty priest’s robes bent over him. The knife with queerly golden glint swept once, in a right-to-left fashion. Casey then had no throatline. His throat had been slashed square across!

The figure with the bald skull and beaked nose lifted its left hand. On the second finger glistened a pale, pinkish stone. The left hand, ring and all, was plunged into the crimson flood coming from Casey’s throat.

For perhaps sixty seconds that hand was held thus. Then, slowly, it was withdrawn. A sigh came from the odd figure, like the satiated sigh of a dope fiend after a shot of the drug he lived for.

And now the ring—the Ring of Power that old Taros once had worn—had changed color.

It had been pale, flesh pink. Now it was deep red. Ruby red. With an inner glow like that of a great ruby with a tiny light in it.

The Ring of Power had been renewed in the life blood of a sacrificed victim. For another forty-eight hours it would give its wearer omnipotent power, and preserve its existence.

The Ring of Power. The ring of blood!

Richard Benson, The Avenger, was known to every police official in America. He was beginning to be known, by sight at least, to almost every patrolman and plainclothes man too.

It was out of that knowledge, that Gunther Caine finally managed to catch up with him.

Benson had friends in high places all over the world. It was only natural that he should have even more than usual in the nation’s capital, where affairs of great moment were constantly being hatched.

A very good friend of Benson’s was a retired manufacturer with a mansion on Sixteenth Street near Embassy Row. The friend was in Europe at the moment, and had cabled Benson to make the place his own, whenever he chose.

Benson had gone there from Caine’s home, with the bewildered Smitty.

“I never knew what hit me,” repeated Smitty. “This tall, skinny shape in the priest’s robe raised both hands, as if he was calling down a curse on me. I felt as if I’d been suddenly bathed in acid or something that prickled and burned. Then I went out like water down a drain.”

“The thing was dressed like a high priest of ancient Egypt?” said The Avenger. His colorless eyes were as glittering as diamond drills and as cold as the Antarctic.

“That’s right,” said Smitty.

“And it had a thin, lantern-jawed face, and was hairless?”

“Yes.”

“The nose?”

“A regular bird-beak of a thing.”

Benson stared not so much at Smitty as through him. As if seeing strange things very far away.

“An exact description of the old priest Taros, as given by Egyptian hieroglyphs,” he said.

Smitty started to grin, and changed his mind.

“It’s impossible of course,” the giant said. “But I will say this: if there really could be anything in this reincarnation business, if the ancient dead can come to life again—this guy was it. He didn’t just act like an old Egyptian priest. He was one! I can’t tell you why I felt that so strongly, but I did. And the girl was just as authentic.”

“Yes, the girl,” Benson said. “That was more fantastic than the other. You say she bowed down to him?”

“Yes! As if old Taros’ double had given her some kind of an order.”

Smitty remembered the gauzy raiment worn and the shapeliness revealed underneath. Then he remembered something else.

“Funny a ghost would wear a ring,” he said, more to himself than to Benson.

“What?”

Smitty found himself staring breathlessly into two colorless wells that suddenly had the flash of naked steel. Well as the giant knew the man with the paralyzed face, he was still unable to repress an icy feeling along the backbone when those terrible eyes turned on him like that.

He moistened his lips.

“I just said, it’s funny a ghost would wear a ring—”

“Describe it!” the cold voice cracked out.

“Well, I couldn’t see it very well in the darkness, and the guy wasn’t close till he raised his arms in that curse thing that knocked me out. But the ring seems to be pinkish, with a funny light to it—”

The Avenger was halfway to the door. Smitty had to jump to keep up with him.

“Where—” began Smitty.

“Police headquarters,” said Benson. “That was the Ring of Power, Smitty. And it’s supposed to be in Caine’s strong-box—was supposed to be there at that moment. So we’ll see if thefts have been reported.”

But that was where The Avenger’s description to the nation’s cops came in. For the first person they saw outside the Sixteenth Street mansion was a patrolman; and the patrolman had just received orders from the desk to try to find Benson and tell him Gunther Caine wanted him.

The glittering big car started at seventy an hour through the deserted streets.

Smitty spoke just once on the way.

“Chief, I called the guy in the funny robe Taros’ double. Do you suppose—this reincarnation stuff—would it be possible that the boy with the bald dome and the eagle beak really is Taros, alive again after all these thousands of years?”

The Avenger only said: “Faster, Smitty.”

Gunther Caine, curator of the Braintree Museum, looked like a man on the edge of a nervous breakdown. His unpressed suit was more than ever like a suit of pajamas, after his night’s anxiety. His fuzzy brown eyes were dull with exhaustion and worry. He caught Benson’s arm, which was about like catching hold of a length of steel cable.

“Mr. Benson, you must help me! We must get the relics back! My reputation, my whole life, hang on that!”

He didn’t give the man with the white hair and linen-white face a chance to get in a word.

“It’s my ruin,” he babbled on. “See my position. I personally was entrusted with the Taros amulets and the ring. I personally am responsible for the loss. Now, there are collectors, like the famous lawyer, Farnum Shaw, who would give up to half a million dollars for those things. I will be branded as a thief if we don’t get them back. People will say I sold out to someone like Shaw.”

The Avenger was walking through the man’s library as Caine babbled, through it and to the small den where he had seen Caine place the box at a little before midnight.

The box was there, empty, on the table where it had been when Benson’s pale eyes last rested on it. The Avenger strode to the table.

“Where does that door go?” he said, pointing.

“To the hall,” replied Caine, swallowing noisily.

“And that one?”

“To the drawing room beyond. But that door is always shut. It has a bolt on it that is rusted to the catch. It hasn’t been used in years.”

“And that door I just came through leads to the library,” nodded The Avenger. “So a person could leave the library, step into the hall, walk to the hall door of this room—”

Caine eyed him intently, hopefully. But Benson did not go on. He was looking at the table. Then he bent down and looked at the floor around the table.

There was a deep-piled green rug on the floor. The Avenger’s steely fingers went down, picked up something from the thick nap.

It was a tiny, flattened flake of wax.

“No one left the library while we were talking over the relics,” Caine said, mopping his pale forehead. “So your idea of someone’s leaving, and slipping down to the hall door of the den has no foundation.”

“Yes,” said Benson, “someone did leave.”

“But I remember distinctly. Moen and Evans and Spencer—”

“Your son left the room,” said Benson quietly. “I’d like to talk to him, please.”

CHAPTER V

Strange Headache

The Avenger was one of the finest judges of men who ever lived. He looked at Harold Caine, son of Gunther Caine, and had a complete character portrait in about three seconds.

Here was a young fellow who had never grown up. He was about fourteen instead of being his actual age. But there were good potentialities in the shallow blue eyes and the vacuous face. Some day he might turn out all right.

Meanwhile, the lad was capable of any foolishness.

“You dance a good deal, don’t you?” said Benson.

His voice was even and quiet. But there was a quality in it that would have made any of The Avenger’s aides know that something important was behind that question.

“Yes,” said Harold Caine. He was defiant in look and tone. “Why not?”

“No reason why not,” said Benson. “I merely asked. You danced either yesterday afternoon or during the dinner hour. Probably the latter.”

Harold Caine hesitated. His shallow blue eyes tried to avoid the terrible, colorless ones, and couldn’t.

“Yesterday evening,” he mumbled acknowledgment.

“The floor was freshly waxed,” said Benson.

Caine nodded.

“Yeah! Terrible job. There were little lumps of wax all over the floor. How can a guy swing his stuff on a floor like that? But how did you know?” he ended swiftly.

“I found a flake of the wax,” said Benson.

Harold Caine was suddenly breathless. He stared like a person hypnotized at the awesome, white face from which peered the pale, infallible eyes.

“I found the little flake,” said Benson, “in the carpet next to the table in the small den. The table from which the Taros relics disappeared.”

They were in the library—Gunther Caine, his son, The Avenger. Gunther Caine suddenly spoke up.

“See here, Mr. Benson, you can’t make insinuations like that! My own son—this is ridiculous! I asked you to help me, but if you persist in such a line—”

His voice died. No man could speak that blusteringly before the paralyzed, grim countenance of The Avenger.

Benson didn’t even raise his voice as he said:

“I have made no insinuations. The facts make those. Harold Caine was near the table on which were the relics. And Harold Caine left this library—alone among all of us—a short time before you discovered the loss of the amulets and ring.”

“I didn’t go into the den,” said Harold.

“Where did you go?” Benson’s pale eyes held their diamond drill look.

“I went upstairs for a minute. I went to Dad’s room to get some aspirin from the medicine chest. I don’t keep any aspirin in my bathroom. I never had a headache before.”

“You had a headache last night?”

“Yes!” Caines’ eyes took on their-queer, glazed look for an instant. “It was a pip. Almost as bad as a hangover headache.”

“What would give you a headache, do you suppose?” said The Avenger, voice vibrant with some inner stirring that was beyond Gunther Caine and his son.

“I don’t know. It was a funny kind of a headache.”

“What was queer about it?” Benson shot out.

“Why, it felt like my brain was on fire inside my head,” said Harold unsteadily. “My scalp prickled all over. Things went kind of fuzzy in front of my eyes.”

“You went up, took aspirin, and came back down? That is all?”

“That’s all,” insisted Harold.

“But at least a quarter of an hour passed between the time you left the room and the time we left the house.”

“Look here—” Gunther Caine shouted, ranging himself alongside his son.

Again he stopped blustering at the glance of the pale and deadly eyes. But he appeared badly shaken, as if sorry he had asked this man with the virile white hair and the death mask of a face for help.

Benson asked a question of the father instead of the son.

“You have reported the loss of the Taros relics to the police?”

“No,” said Caine. “I haven’t. All I told headquarters was that I must get in touch with you on an important matter. I can’t tell the police. It would become public at once, that the relics have been stolen or lost—and that would finish me.”

Benson turned toward the door.

“If any bit of news comes up, get in touch with me,” he said.

“You are going now?”

Both father and son looked relieved that the questions, backed by the authority of the awesome, colorless eyes, were to be stopped. Yet they looked worried, too.

“Yes, I’m going,” said Benson. “I have learned all I can here, I think.”

He went out, and Smitty looked questioningly at him.

“Nothing—at the moment,” said Benson quietly. “But there may be something very shortly. Drive around the next corner and park.”

The big closed car stopped at the designated place. Benson watched the corner.

He hadn’t misjudged Harold Caine’s agitation in the least. Within ten minutes a roadster swept by, with young Caine behind the wheel.

Smitty, without a word, followed. It was still not quite six o’clock in the morning. Strange hour for a young fellow to be making a hurry call.

Harold didn’t go far. There was a big new apartment building, of the type put up by the score for modestly paid government employees, about eight blocks away. Harold jammed on the roadster’s brakes in front of this, and hurried in.

Smitty and Benson followed.

Harold went to the floor below the top floor and rang a bell there. From the stairwell, Benson and Smitty watched. There was a long pause; then a girl opened the door a foot.

And Smitty clenched his hands hard.

The girl was tall and slender but well-rounded. She had dark-brown hair. Her face was of an exotic type: from the widow’s peak at the forehead down in an absolutely straight line went the slope of forehead and nose. It gave her the look of having stepped off an Egyptian frieze.

The ordinary, flimsy nightgown she wore had much the transparent effect of the high-priestess’ robe, and this clinched the memory for Smitty.

“Chief!” he gasped. “That’s the girl I saw with old Taros last night! The priestess. And Gunther Caine’s son is calling on her!”

Benson didn’t say anything in reply. He watched Harold talk to her, saw her frown first in a bewildered, then in an angered fashion. He could see Harold’s face for just a glimpse, long enough to read his lips as he said: “last night.” Then Harold had his back turned again and he saw no more.

But he could see the girl’s face, and he saw that she was giving Harold scant satisfaction in whatever matter had brought him here at such an hour.

She didn’t look like an Egyptian priestess now. She looked like just a normal girl, with a slightly exotic cast of countenance, who was resentful at being awakened by an acquaintance at six o’clock in the morning.

Harold left, finally, shaking his head and looking as if he’d like to wring his hands, too.

Benson went to the door the instant the elevator had shut on Caine’s son, and knocked. Again the door was opened.

“I told you—” began the girl, obviously thinking it was Harold back again. Then she got a good look at the awesome, dead face and the chill, colorless eyes.

She tried to shut the door. Benson held it open, and walked in, followed by the giant Smitty.

The girl jumped to a table with its drawer partly open. She turned swiftly, with a little gun in her hand.

“Get out of here, both of you!” she panted.

Smitty tensed for a leap at her, to get the gun. An almost imperceptible movement of The Avenger stopped him.

The pale eyes were boring into the girl’s frightened brown ones.

“We don’t intend any harm,” he said, voice peculiarly monotonous and smooth. “We would merely like to talk to you for a few minutes.”

“I don’t know you. I refuse to talk to you. Get out!”

The girl gestured with the gun. Benson took a slow step back, eyes still intent on hers.

Smitty nodded to himself. The tone of the chief’s voice had told him what was up.

“If you are disturbed about the way you’re dressed,” Benson said, voice metronomic in its measured cadence, “we can step outside for a few minutes and return.”

“That’s not it. I won’t talk to you at all. You—”

The girl frowned a little, blinked.

“Leave . . . at . . . once,” she said. But there wasn’t the sharpness in the tone that there had been. And it seemed to Smitty that the gun wavered. Though it would have been pretty suicidal to wager a jump on that hunch!

“We only want to ask about Harold Caine, and the amulets and the ring and the high priest Taros,” said The Avenger, voice still as monotonous and level as a single sustained note on a harp string. “That is all. And you will answer to the best of your ability, won’t you?”

“I—” faltered the girl. “I—”

The gun was definitely sagging, now.

Benson’s icy eyes seemed twice as large as usual in the white death mask of his face. Wide, and flaring—and hypnotic.

“Give it to me,” he said softly.

Slowly he stretched forth his steel-strong hand. And slowly, in a sort of unseeing blindness, the girl gave him the gun.

Smitty sighed deeply. He had just seen a miracle. Rare eyes like The Avenger’s are strongly hypnotic. The time taken to hypnotize this girl wasn’t particularly short if applied to a willing subject. But to hypnotize a person that briefly, when the person was agitated and rebellious, was breathtaking!

“Your name?” said Benson.

The girls’ eyes were wide and staring, like a sleepwalker’s. And her gauzy night-attire carried out the effect. Like a sleepwalker, she would go where deftly led. And like one she would answer to the best of her knowledge any question put to her. There is no evasion possible in hypnosis.

“My name is Anna Lees,” she said, voice empty and docile.

“You have known Harold Caine long?”

“Only for several weeks.”

“He is infatuated with you.” It was a statement more than a question.

“Yes,” said the girl simply.

“You saw him last night?”

“No!” Anna’s voice was positive. “I saw no one last night, after nine o’clock. I was in bed.”

“You were seen near Gunther Caine’s home. How could you say you were in bed from nine on?”

“I was in bed. I saw no one, and went nowhere. I went to bed early because I had a headache.”

The Avenger’s eyes were like ice in a polar dawn.

“A headache! Do you often have headaches?”

“No,” said Anna. “Very rarely.”

“What was this one like?”

“It was odd. I felt as if my brain were on fire, and then I went into a deep sleep.”

“You say you saw no one after nine o’clock. Did you see anyone just before that hour?”

“Yes! I saw an old friend of the family. A lawyer by the name of Farnum Shaw.”

The Avenger’s hands came together with a sharp clap. Anna Lees blinked, looked at him perplexedly, then fearfully. She saw her gun in his hand, and her fingers went up to her lips to hold back a scream as she got an inkling of what had happened.

“You get out of her!” she said hoarsely. “What have you done to me? What did I say? Leave here or I’ll call the police!”

Threatening to call the police against Benson was funny. But Benson only nodded, handed the gun back to her, and left.

“Lawyer Farnum Shaw,” he mused. “Mentioned also by Caine, as an example of a collector who would give any amount for the Taros relics. I think we’ll have a talk with Shaw.”

Smitty had gasped when he saw the tall, exotic girl, Anna Lees, in the filmy nightgown so like the priestess’ robe she had worn the night before. He was stunned beyond gasping when he saw the lawyer, Farnum Shaw.

Shaw, corporation lawyer, lobbyist, stock dabbler, was over six feet tall and as thin as a skeleton. He had practically no eyebrows or eyelashes. He was lantern-jawed and lank of countenance. There wasn’t a hair on his high-domed skull, from nape of the neck to forehead. His head looked like a billiard ball, with an eagle beak of a nose sticking out on the face side.

The corporation lawyer was dressed in riding breeches and checked coat for an early-morning horseback ride in Rock Creek Park when Benson and Smitty reached his home. He talked as dully as he acted. If this was the individual who had been doing an appearing and disappearing act last night, his manner concealed it well.

“I have heard of you,” he nodded pleasantly at the self-introduction of the man with the icy-slits of eyes and the white, still face. “What can I do for you?”

“I came to see you about the Taros relics,” said The Avenger, eyes as expressionless as his paralyzed face.

Shaw jerked his bald, vulture head.

“Ah, yes, Mr. Benson. Wonderful pieces, those! The amulets are the finest of their kind in existence, I believe. And the Ring of Power, with its incredible past and its niche in history—” He sighed. “I collect Egyptiana myself, as it happens, in a modest way.”

“We have heard you did,” said Benson.

Shaw smiled calmly.

“I have nothing as fine as the Taros relics, of course, Mr. Benson. But I’d like to have that kind of thing. There isn’t much I wouldn’t give for them.”

Shaw’s candor took Smitty’s breath. But The Avenger was as icy calm as his eyes.

“Not many people know much about the Taros amulets,” he observed. “You seem to know all about them.”

Shaw shrugged.

“Spencer, of Braintree Museum, is a close friend of mine. I’m also slightly acquainted with Moen and Evans and Gunther Caine. I heard some time ago of the discovery of the tomb of Taros’ son, and that the amulets and ring would be on their way here as soon as Cairo allowed shipment.”

Suddenly Shaw’s eyes narrowed. His face changed like a flash.

“Something has happened to the relics,” he said. “That’s why you’re here. That’s why you’re asking— The amulets have been stolen!”

Benson nodded, pale eyes probing the lashless eyes of this modern, legal expert who chanced to look so remarkably like a high priest, dead these thousands of years.

“They have been stolen,” said Benson. “But no one knows it yet, save Gunther Caine and his son—and the thief. It must not be told to anyone else.”

“I understand,” said Shaw gravely. “Caine’s position—horrible! By the way, am I under suspicion?”

Benson said nothing. His eyes, like pale agate, were glittering and unreadable in his white, waxen face.

“Of course I’m under suspicion,” said Shaw crisply and without seeming anger. “I collect rare Egyptian items. I am wealthy. Most collectors would buy things like the Taros relics from anybody offering them, and no questions asked. I can only assure you—”

“Would you mind telling me what you and Anna Lees talked about shortly before nine o’clock last night?” The Avenger cut in smoothly.

“Anna Lees! How did you know I knew her? But I don’t know her well. Her father was a law partner, and I’ve looked in on the girl now and then to be sure she’s been all right since coming to Washington. As for last night—I didn’t see her.”

“She says you did.”

Shaw’s high-bridged nose flared at the nostrils with anger.

“Then she’s lying. I didn’t see her—haven’t seen her for weeks.”

“And you know nothing of the present whereabouts of the Taros relics?”

“Good heavens—of course not!”

Benson’s pale, infallible eyes flicked to the second finger of Shaw’s bony left hand. There was no ring on that hand, nor on the right one either. Shaw, it seemed, was a man who didn’t care for jewelry.

But on that second finger was a slightly discolored band of flesh—where it seemed a ring had recently been worn!

Only The Avenger’s microscopic sight could have discerned it. But Benson did see it, and plainly.

He and Smitty left shortly afterward. They had found out little, in words; but, it would appear, a great deal in physical facts. That bony skull and high nose and lank face.

“Chief,” said Smitty soberly, “ghosts are walking. The dead are coming back to life. And before this is over, some of the living are going to join the dead!”

CHAPTER VI

The Copper Dagger

In lower New York City there is a short block called Bleek Street. Dick Benson owns or leases all the buildings on the street, so that in effect, he owns the block.

Three narrow brick buildings are thrown into one, though that fact doesn’t show from the outside. Over the central entrance—the other two had been blocked off—is a small sign:

JUSTICE.

Behind the sign is the headquarters of The Avenger.

Under that sign have gone many people desperate for aid. They have been people confronted by criminals too smooth and powerful for the police to handle, or possessing some reason why they didn’t dare ask the police for help.

Shortly after the hour when Benson saw Shaw down in Washington, three of his aides were in the great top-floor room of the headquarters in Bleek Street.

The three were a white girl, a Negro man and his wife—Nellie Gray, and Josh and Rosabel Newton.

Josh was sitting in a big chair, looking over the news reports constantly streaming in over Benson’s private teletype.

He got up suddenly.

“Radio,” he said, as Rosabel and Nellie looked at him.

Form-fitting, under Josh’s belt, was a thin, metal case. In that was probably the world’s smallest and cleverest radio set, capable of both receiving and transmitting messages. Josh had gotten the faint signal from the belt set. Only The Avenger and his aides knew or used those signals.

The Negro could have plugged in tiny earphones, hardly larger than a lady’s wrist watch and carried in a vest pocket. But it was easier to go to the big set. He did so.

A quiet but vibrant and compelling voice sounded in the room.

“Benson talking. Come to Washington, all of you. Come at once, by plane. Nellie, please bring the small case and the condensed laboratory set. Josh, bring your black suit, Rosabel, the maid’s outfit. That’s all.”

The three looked at each other.

‘‘The chief went on a peaceful errand for a change,” murmured Nellie Gray. “But it looks as if something has changed his plans.”

She called a drugstore on Waverly Place and Sixth Avenue.

In that store was another aide of The Avenger. The proprietor of the store—bought for him by Benson—was a Scotchman by the name of Fergus MacMurdie. He lived for battles against crime, and his bleak blue eyes brightened at the call from Nellie.

“Whoosh,” he muttered. “More skurlies murderin’ and thievin’ and needin’ their dirrrty ears pinned back. ’Tis good.”

He swiftly collected a few accessories from the rear of his store, and went to join the others at Benson’s private hangar at the airport.

The accessories he gathered were odd indeed. Mac was one of the world’s best chemists, and he had invented some very queer drugs. He had great faith in them.

He might not have had so much faith had he known they were to be stacked up against beings that had apparently stepped straight into 1940 from the year 4000-and-odd, B.C.

As the plane was leaving New York’s sharp skyline, The Avenger stepped into the Braintree Museum. An anthropologist on the staff had just discovered the dead body of Bill Casey and phoned the police, who hastily got in touch with the man with the flaming eyes in the death-mask face.

Benson bent over the corpse.

There were two wounds on the body, and these two, either one of them instantly fatal, told him all he wanted to know about the murder.

One was a small slit in the back where a knife had gone straight to the ex-cop’s heart. There was practically no blood at all around this. The slim gash had closed when the knife was withdrawn, and the bleeding had been nearly all internal.

The other was as bloody as a slaughterhouse. That was the straight slash across the throat that had half-decapitated the corpse. A clotting lake of crimson was on the floor from this.

A police captain worried over the two deadly wounds.

“What’s the meaning of ’em?” he fretted. “The stab in the heart killed him deader’n a salt mackerel. And that, I think, came first. Why did the killer slash his throat, too? And why kill Casey anyhow? There’s nothing gone from the museum, as far as a fast check shows. It’s goofy.”

Smitty’s eyes sought the colorless, flaring orbs of his chief. And Benson nodded.

He knew the reason; and Smitty had guessed it too.

The Ring of Power! Needing renewal every forty-eight hours in life blood! Casey’s heart stab hadn’t been bloody. So the hand that wielded the knife slashed the throat to remedy that lack, then dipped the ring.

“The guy that wore that ring last was Taros—or his double,” the giant Smitty whispered. “And Farnum Shaw is a dead ringer. Do we pick him up, chief?”

Benson shook his head. “Not yet. It sounds simple, Smitty. But there is something behind all this so sinister and complicated that I still can hardly guess at it. Enough to say that the removal of Shaw would do no good at all.”

The captain of police was worried about another point, too.

“I don’t see how anybody could get in here. The joint is built like a bank. There are thick bars over all windows, and none of the bars show signs of having been tampered with. The doors are bronze, solid, thick. They’ve got locks on ’em like a time vault. And the locks look all right, too. You’d think the killer was a ghost that could go through the doors or walls.”

Benson left the sprawling stone barracks of the museum, with its long-dead occupants and their accessories.

At the home he was temporarily using, he told the giant Smitty to go on to the airport and pick up Mac and Josh and Rosabel and Nellie.

He went into the mansion alone.

His manufacturer friend had left a skeleton staff of servants to take care of the empty house, among them the butler. The butler was good. Usually he was at hand to open the door before Benson could even get his key into the lock.

He was not at hand, now. Benson let himself in, his cold, pale eyes as expressionless as ice. There was no one in the front hall.

That is, there was no one until he got almost to the curving marble staircase. Then there were suddenly three figures in the hall beside his own.

Three figures as bizarre in the morning light as things out of a madman’s nightmare. Three things garbed in the robes of priests of old Egypt, and with naked blades in their upraised hands. Three things whose eyes were dully mad, and whose lips writhed with a lust to kill.

Without sound or word they rushed on The Avenger.

Benson had two of the world’s strangest weapons sheathed in slim holsters at the calves of his legs. One, below the left knee, was a needle-like throwing knife with a hollow tube for a handle which he called Ike. The other, below the right knee, where a search for weapons seldom extends, was a specially designed .22 revolver. It was so streamlined that it looked like a length of blued pipe, with a slight bend for a butt. For compactness, the tiny cylinder held only four cartridges. There was a silencer on the small muzzle. This weapon Benson called, with grim affection, Mike.

With the appearance of the three, Benson’s hands flashed for Mike and Ike. Not that he didn’t think he could handle three ancient knife-wielders with bare hands, but he wanted to be sure to capture one of them. And he could do that because of the uncanny accuracy with which he could handle Mike.

The Avenger did not kill. He used Mike to “crease” attackers with. He shot so that the vicious small slugs hit the top of a skull and glanced, knocking the victim cold, without killing him.

He wanted to perform this marvelous, eighth-of-an-inch shot now. But in stooping for Mike, for once in his life he made a mistake of timing.

The three were rushing him just a little faster than he realized.

He had his hand on the slight bend which was Mike’s grip, and was flashing the deadly, silenced pigmy from its holster, when the nearest of the three silent figures got to him.

The knife in that one’s hand flashed down.

Benson had to straighten and raise his arm in defense, to block the flashing death by letting the wrist behind the knife smack down on his upthrust fist. The maneuver was a success. But the knife glanced against the silenced little .22 with a clang, and Mike was torn from his fingers.

The other two were on him, now! A knife thudded home against his left side. Another thumped against his back, directly over the heart.

Benson sagged to his knees!

The blades, gleaming a curious golden color in the early light, ripped into him in a score of places. But, oddly, they didn’t go in far, and when they were withdrawn there was no blood on their blades. That, although few but his aides knew it, was because Benson constantly wore a sort of vest of celluglass, a plastic of his own invention that was stronger than spun steel.

The leader of the three—a tall, emaciated figure with an eagle beak of a nose, a hairless skull, and mad eyes under hairless brows—brought the handle of his heavy knife like a blackjack down on Benson’s head.

Then the knives began reaching for his throat!

The Avenger was half-stunned. But even in that condition he was faster than most men. He got a wrist in his left hand, and wrenched.

When he wrenched, there was a soundless writhe of agony of the body under the priest’s robe. The knife was dropped. The straining wrist managed to jerk free at last, because Benson still was half-dazed. But the owner of the wrist made no effort to charge again; simply doubled over the strained limb and moaned.

Benson got the second of the three with a blow to the heart that seemed literally to leave the robed figure hanging from his fist for a few seconds.

The leader, gaunt and eagle-beaked and vulture-like, glared at Benson for an instant, then raced for the door. It was defeat. Benson’s strength was plainly returning from the blow on the head; and if he couldn’t be vanquished, now that he was weaker than normal, how could he be successfully attacked when he had regained his normal power?

The other two staggered after him. And Benson leaped for the three of them. As far as he was concerned, the battle wasn’t over!

The emaciated leader, who looked so fantastically like the long-dead Taros, tipped a great oak chair in front of Benson.

The Avenger could have side-stepped that easily, had he been in full possession of his senses. As it was, he couldn’t quite miss it, and he went down.

The three slipped out the door. Benson got to the curb—and saw nothing.

Nothing at all was in evidence on the sidewalk of the broad avenue; nor was there any sign of the three when he went past the side of the mansion to the rear.

The three in priests’ robes had stepped out the door—and vanished.

Benson went back, pale eyes flaming like ice under an arctic sun. He found the butler.

The man was bound hand and foot with strange bonds. They were linen, so old as to be dark brown, but still as strong as rope.

Also, The Avenger picked up the knife that one had dropped.

The knife, almost as heavy as a butcher-knife, had a solid metal handle. And the blade of the massive dagger was copper!

Benson took the knife to the front door. There was an iron grille over plate glass there. He drew the copper blade heavily over one of the iron bars.

A groove appeared in the iron, and the copper of the blade was dulled only a little. He bent the blade in his steel-strong fingers. It doubled, then snapped back straight again when the pressure was released.

The knife blade might be of copper but it was as hard and tough as tempered steel. Copper tempered till it was a match for steel! No one knows how to temper copper like that, now. Only one race has ever possessed the secret.

That was the ancient Egyptians!

CHAPTER VII

“Doctor, Lawyer—”

The loss of the Taros amulets was still a secret. The police, papers and public hadn’t the faintest idea the priceless relics were gone.

Caine didn’t want even the museum directors to know—in fact, above all, they must not know. So that when Benson went to see the three that night, he was put to it to ask any questions and still not give the loss away.

He did it by feigning anxiety that the relics might be stolen in the near future—instead of having already been taken.

“Mr. Caine has decided to keep the amulets and the ring in his home for a few days,” he said evenly to Evans, first of the three directors he called on. “It is understandable. Enthusiastic as he is about such things, he probably studies them by the hour—gets a positive intoxication from their temporary possession. Yet it may not be a very wise thing to do.”

Short, fat Evans shrugged his shoulders.

“Gunther’s a privileged person,” he said. “If he wants to do that, I guess it’s all right. Irregular, but O.K.”

“He’s entirely responsible?” said Benson.

Evans laughed.

“Gunther Caine has between two and three million dollars, all in government bonds. He’s curator of Braintree because he loves the work, not because he needs it. I’ll say he’s a responsible citizen!”

“His servants?”

“They’ll never get near the amulets. Gunther’s no fool.”

“His son,” observed Benson, “is not quite the sort of boy you’d expect from such a father.”

“Why, how do you mean?” said Evans.

“For one thing, his father’s work evidently leaves him cold. As I remember, he was so bored with the talk of the Taros relics that he left the library in the middle of the discussion last night.”

“He did go out, didn’t he?” murmured Evans, in discreet evasion.

Benson kept it up. The little fat man was not to be drawn out about Harold Caine.

Spencer, tall and chubby, wasn’t so evasive. His kewpie-doll face became as severe as it could when Benson mentioned Harold Caine.

“He’s a hairbrained kid,” he said primly. “Wild as they come. Always overdrawn on the generous allowance his father gives him. A great worry to Gunther. But he’s fundamentally all right, Mr. Benson,” he added quickly.

“You say you are worried about the safety of the relics. You can dismiss him from your mind as a possible source of trouble.”

Moen, heavy-set, muscular ex-football halfback, was not to be drawn out, either.

“Gunther Caine is more than the curator of Braintree Museum. He is the museum. We have about a million dollars a year to spend on expeditions and purchases. Gunther handles every cent of it, trusted blind. If he wants to keep the Taros relics a few days and gloat over them, it’s all right with us directors.”

But about the son he only said, indifferently.

“He’s a little spoiled, I guess. And Gunther has had to get him out of several jams. But he’s just a kid. He’ll be all right when he matures.”

To the husky Moen, The Avenger put another question.

“Do you believe in reincarnation?”

Moen frowned perplexedly.

“For example,” said Benson smoothly, eyes pale and brooding in his white, still face, “do you think old Taros could somehow get back to earth, perhaps in another’s body whose spirit he has temporarily dispossessed?”

“You’re joking,” said Moen.

“No, it’s a serious question.”

Moen paced up and down for a while.

“To anyone else,” he said at last, “I’d say the idea was insane. But to you— Well, I’m fairly well up on Egyptian history and religion, myself. And I know, as you do, that much is made of their beliefs that just such a thing can occur. Yet I’m hardly ready to say I believe in reincarnation.”

The Avenger started back to his temporary headquarters. His eyes, as always, were as unreadable as ice in his death-mask countenance. Whether he had learned a lot, or nothing, from talks about Harold Caine with the three Braintree directors could never be known from his expression.

In the Sixteenth Street home, Josh and Nellie Gray and Rosabel sat listening for the radio call from their tiny belt sets, so cunningly designed by the dull-looking giant, Smitty. The chief was out; and when Benson walked abroad, things were apt to happen.

The thing that happened next, however, came from Fergus MacMurdie instead of The Avenger.

Mac was out prowling the compact grounds of the place. He was hoping that perhaps one, or all three, of the bizarre priest-figures Benson had told about might come back here, and that he could get his hands on them.

Thousands of years dead, or modern and alive, past or present, the three that had attacked the chief that morning were killers. And the bitter-eyed Scot lived only for the grim pleasure of getting his hands on killers.

If only those three skurlies dressed as priests of thousands of years ago would show up again—

A figure suddenly came staggering from the south, along the sidewalk. Mac darted toward it.

However, the figure was not dressed in ancient garb, nor was it murderous. It was the figure of a man in ordinary business clothes, who seemed very ill. So Mac’s intended attack changed to a solicitous grip on the other’s shoulder.

“Whoosh,” said the Scot. “What’s wrong with ye, mon? Are ye drunk, or sick?”

There was no smell of alcohol, so that question answered itself.

“What’s wrong with ye?” Mac repeated, peering into the other’s face.

He was a man of forty-five or so, well-dressed, well-built. His face was blank, and his eyes glazed. Mac stared harder at the blank countenance.

It was a curious face when you studied it. The forehead and rather broad nose made a straight line from widow’s peak to nostrils. The cheekbones were a little higher than usual. It was a foreign-looking face. Mac got it after a minute. It looked Egyptian. Yet not like the faces of modern Egypt.

“Doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief,” mumbled the man.

“What?” said Mac.

“Doctor, lawyer— The Avenger.”

“Now wait a minute, mon,” rasped Mac. “The first is rigmarole. But the rest— You’re looking for The Avenger?”

“Doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief.”

Mac drew him toward the door.

“The Avenger . . . must find The Avenger.”

Mac led the man into the hall. He didn’t seem to have any idea where he was going; he followed the Scotchman blindly.

“What have we here?” asked Nellie, lovely eyes warm with sympathy. “Mac! What a queer face he has. Like—like—”

“Like the face ye might see carved on the frieze of an ancient Egyptian tomb,” nodded Mac. “I’ve noticed, Nellie.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know,” said Mac. “But he started out wantin’ to see Muster Benson. Must have lost his memory on the way here.”

“Doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief,” crooned the man with the blank, exotic countenance and the dulled eyes.

Then he fell. He had fainted.

Mac carried him to a divan in the drawing room. They found out a little about him from the things he had on him.

His name was George Snead. He was Washington manager for a big rug and carpet company, dealing largely in imports from the Orient. His home address was a club, which proved that he was a bachelor.

These things, Snead’s possessions told for him. The man, himself, told nothing. He continued to lie in a coma on the divan.

There was a new man taking Casey’s place at the museum that night.

He was younger than Casey, and had never been a cop. But he was a good man, nevertheless. He was burly, broad-shouldered, experienced as a night watchman and had plenty of courage. That went without saying. It took courage to take over the post of a man murdered on that post.

The man was unaware of Casey’s aversion to the Egyptian room. He knew nothing of the nature of the murder. Casey had been killed in the main museum rotunda, a long way from the Egyptian wing.

Therefore, when the new man came to the Egyptian room, and felt a chill go down his backbone, that could not be laid to imagination springing out of what had happened to Casey. It was something inherent in the place itself; in the very air.

The new watchman looked around, standing on the threshold of the great chamber. He looked at the cold, cruel faces of the great statues soaring up near the gloomy stone ceiling. As impersonal as the stars, staring straight ahead. He shivered a little.

He looked around at the tiers of mummy cases, each with its withered kernel that had been a man. He gazed at the great stone sarcophagi from which the cases had been taken.

And the new man suddenly didn’t like his job at all. But he had a wife and kids and needed the dough.

He went through the doorway, and became aware that there was a sort of second doorway.

More than statues had been brought here. Four huge pillars had also come from the Upper Nile. Temple pillars, from a massive entrance. Over the pillars, solid, immense slabs, also from the temple, were laid to form a lintel.

The watchman went under the stone slabs as fast as possible. Pillars and lintel had just been assembled like kids’ blocks, with finely cut stones piled on each other without cement. The surfaces were so close-fitting that cement wasn’t needed; nevertheless, the man got the panicky feeling that maybe those tons of rock would fall on him if he were not careful.

He literally jumped under the slabs, twenty-five feet above his head, and hurried to the time-box in this room, to punch his watchman’s clock.

Casey had always traced his steps to pass the mummy of Taros’ son last, because the thing gave him the creeps. The new man didn’t know anything about an old duck named Taros, or that he had had a son, at all. So he passed the mummy case first, on his way to the box under the elbow of one of the statues.

That is, he started to pass the case. But when he got abreast of it, he stopped, and gulped.

There wasn’t anything in that case.

The cabinet was empty of either mummy case or mummy! Through the glass lid you could see only empty blackness.

The watchman hadn’t the faintest idea who would want to steal a mess of ancient bones wrapped in moldering linen bands. But he did know that the mummy was probably of great value. It had been stolen his first night on the job.

He leaped for the phone, to get the police. Then he stopped. It would mean the loss of his job, if he reported such a theft. First, he’d see if by any wild chance the mummy was still around.

He tore from room to room of the vast hulk of the museum. No mummy! He went at last to the great main door, unlocked it, and went out to the grounds. A mummy is neither small nor easy to handle. He might surprise whoever was making away with their grisly burden.

Behind him, in the gloom, the faithful replica of an old Egyptan temple came alive!

CHAPTER VIII

Temple Rites

In through the great door, left open by the watchman in his frenzied search, drifted a figure robed in gauzy white.

The figure was that of a girl—tall, slender but well-rounded. The robe was that of a priestess of Egypt, and it appeared that priestesses of old Egypt didn’t wear much.

The girl’s face was dreamy, with wide eyes seeming like those of a sleepwalker. The line from the peak of her forehead to the tip of her pretty nose was straight. Her face was startlingly like the faces depicted by ancient Egyptian sculptors.

She moved through the main rotunda, seeming to float rather than walk.

From the direction of the Egyptian room came strange music. It was chanting, or singing. The song was one long forgotten by mankind. With the sound came the regular shuffling of feet.

The girl got to the room just off the Egyptian wing. There she saw three figures. They were men, in priests’ garments. They marched slowly, in a funereal rhythm, toward the double doorway into the Egyptian wing. They were carrying something on their shoulders, a sort of box with a V-shaped roof on it, heavily carved in bas-relief. Handles from the box allowed each of the three to help carry it, which was necessary, because the box was obviously heavy.

That box, a scholar could have told, was the ark of the Egyptian desert or death god—Typhon. Carrying it into the temple was a preliminary to strange, mad rites in its honor.

The priestess fell into step behind the three priests, and marched as they did. Also, she chanted as they did, a low, strange song which was only a succession of vowel sounds.

The procession passed through the doorway of the Egyptian wing. There was a pause as the second doorway—that of an Egyptian temple brought to Braintree stone by stone and set up again—was reached. The head priest stood under the massive lintel saying something in a weird tongue.

The figure leading the little procession was tall and emaciated. Its skull was hairless. The face, the color of putty, was lank and lantern-jawed and there was an eagle beak of a nose.

From the far corner of the wing came a sound. The sound was followed by movement, and from behind the tallest of the temple statues stepped a figure that made the strangeness of the others seem tame.

This newcomer was swathed from head to foot in the yellowed linen bands of an embalmed body. The outer bands binding the legs together were gone, so that it could walk. But each leg was swathed heavily. The head and body were also wrapped, save for a space in the front of the skull where most of a face could be seen.

The walking mummy came to meet the procession. Its slightly exposed face was visible for an instant in the dim light.

It was the face of Harold Caine, line for line.

From far in front, where the great main doors swung, there was a clang as those doors thudded shut with the re-entrance of the watchman. With the clang, the Egyptian temple surroundings, so faithfully reproduced in another land after thousands of years, lost its fantastic life.

The lights overhead seemed to dim. When they burned brighter, again, there was nothing moving in the great room.

Walking mummy, priestess, three priests, ark of Typhon, the Evil One, were gone.

The watchman had his jaw set as he came back into the wing, innocent of all knowledge of what had just been visible. He was resigning himself to losing his job. For there had been no trace of the stolen mummy outside—as he had really known there wouldn’t be before he started to look. He’d have to report it to the police.

But first, he was going to look into the mummy case, once more, to be sure he hadn’t been blind or nuts when he looked before and found it empty.

So he looked into the empty case—and found it was tenanted!

There was the mummy, calmly in place. Its wrappings were in no way disarranged. The lid of the cabinet was securely screwed down, and seemed never to have been disturbed.

The man swallowed hard. He’d have sworn the thing was gone a while ago. Now it was undeniably not gone!

Next instant he had something even worse to worry about.

From that dried and shriveled thing, wrapped in centuries-old fabric and leaning in an airtight glass case, came words.

“Our brother priest is held by the man with the white hair.”

The watchman went as white as milk. He knew the words were coming from the case, that the mummy was talking. Yet he knew that it was incredible.

“Our brother priest must be released.”

The man stood there, wanting to run, unable to move. And more words came, cracked and tinny but understandable.

“My father’s charms against evil must be retrieved, but not by violence. They must be exchanged for all that which he hath.”

The watchman fled then, finally getting his feet to work. He didn’t punch his clock there, or in any other room. He was leaving this place in the morning, and not coming back. He’d stay by the door to guard it, but that was all his conscience dictated.

There had been reference to a man with white hair. The watchman had seen such a man talking to Mr. Caine, the curator. A man with white hair over a body you knew was quite young and powerful, and with a face as dead as last year’s leaves, and with eyes like little pieces of ice.

That must be the man.

At seven o’clock in the morning the watchman pressed the doorbell of the Sixteenth Street home where The Avenger was staying.

Benson, eyes pale, intent holes in his immoble face, was with the fellow who had reeled into the house last night under Mac’s guidance. The one whose cards proclaimed him as being manager of the Washington branch of a rug and carpet company, and whose name was Snead.

The man was still in a coma, breathing shallowly. Benson, one of the world’s finest doctors, knew that his life was hanging by a thread. He might snap out of this, or he might die with never another word from him, save the cabalistic ones already uttered.

“Doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief.” It sounded like part of a child’s poem. The next line being, of course: “Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief.” But the man had not mentioned that sequel. Only the first part.

Mac showed the agitated watchman in. And the dour Scot, as well as Smitty and the others, looked pretty skeptical while he told his tale.

A mummy walking out of its case and then returning! A mummy talking!

But Benson’s countenance framed eyes more icily glittering than usual. And in those pale and awesome orbs was no skepticism. The Avenger seemed to take the trembling man’s mad yarn very seriously.

He went back to the museum with him.

“This is the case?” he said, standing in front of the cabinet housing the son of Taros.

“Y-yes, Mr. Benson,” stammered the watchman. He didn’t like to be near the case even in broad daylight.

“Tell me again the words that seemed to come from the mummy.”

“They did come from the thing. There was no seeming about it. Something about ‘our brother priest is held by the white-haired man.’ ”

That, it seemed to The Avenger, would be Snead, the carpet salesman with the queerly Egyptian cast of countenance.

“And,” the watchman went on, “something about, ‘my father’s charms against evil are gone. They’ll have to be returned without violence, in exchange for everything that he has.’ I don’t know what the gibberish means, or anything about it. But those words I heard!”

Benson inspected the cabinet.

It was made of oak, sound and strong, enameled black. The big box was clamped by iron angles on the inside, so it could not have been opened from the outside without a wrecking bar. And there were no marks of violence to indicate that.

The lid was of heavy glass in a steel frame. The frame was tightly screwed to the edges of the box. There was a faint film of rust already in the screw slots. This had not been marred in the slightest, proving conclusively that none of the screws had been recently removed.

Benson experimentally tugged at the lid anyhow. Sometimes lids seem to be tightly nailed or screwed down and the nailheads are dummies that lift with the lid.

That was not true in this case. The lid was screwed down.

Benson examined the glass in the metal frame. It was heavy plate. It was sealed all around the frame by a dark waxy stuff, firm as rock. His microscopic sight told him that there were hair-fine cracks in the stout sealer. But none of the cracks went all the way through the stuff. They couldn’t mean anything where actually getting into the case was concerned.

No one had opened that cabinet for days. There was no doubt about it. Anything outside getting in or anything inside getting out would have had to pass through oak or glass without leaving a trace.

“It t-talked, I tell you,” insisted the watchman, who had plenty of common sense and was following Benson in his conclusions.

The Avenger tipped the case back a little, easily, though it weighed several hundred pounds.

There were no wires under the thing, or around it. So no tricks could have been done that way.

“The words came from that cabinet, Mr. Benson!”

The Avenger nodded, eyes glacial.

“I believe you,” he said.

No wires, no trick screwheads to allow the secret opening of the lid, clear glass revealing that there was nothing inside the cabinet but the mummy and mummy case—yet Benson’s flaming genius acknowledged truth in the man’s fantastic statement.

Acknowledged, apparently, that the mummy had talked.

That night at a little after nine o’clock, Anna Lees left the big apartment building and her tiny one-room apartment, and walked toward a quiet residential section nearby.

Anna was dressed in a modish, trim suit. She wore a last-minute hat and looked as modern as day after tomorrow. Save for the attractively exotic cast of her pretty face, she looked no more like a servant in an ancient Egyptian temple than one of the typewriters in the government office where she worked.

She climbed the steps to a door set in an old but well-kept brick house, and rang a bell under the small letters:

DOCTOR CORNELIUS MARLOWE

OFFICE HOURS

10 TO 12 A.M AND 8 TO 10 P.M.

The door was opened, and she stepped into a small anteroom. There were two women there. Anna waited till they had gone into the doctor’s office and then left the house. Finally, alone, she went in herself. The doctor smiled at her from his desk.

Marlowe was a slender man of thirty-five or so, with hair prematurely grizzled at the temples. He had a low, broad forehead and cheekbones a bit higher than most. His eyes, wide-set, were greenish

“Hello!” he said pleasantly. “Haven’t seen you for some time, Anna. Don’t tell me you’re ill. You look too healthy.”

Anna shook hands with the man she knew personally as well as professionally.

“I’m healthy enough, I guess,” she said. “Except for headaches I’ve been having at night, lately.”

Not a muscle of Doctor Marlowe’s face moved. It still had the pleasant smile on it. Yet suddenly the man seemed very tense.

“I’ve never had headaches much before. Certainly none like these. They worry me.”

“Describe them,” said Marlowe, smile still frozen on his face.

“Why, I feel as if my brain had been set on fire inside my head. Then I feel myself falling into a deep sleep. And as I fall, I feel as if I were being emptied; as if I were no longer me; as if something else were creeping into my head and body. Am I going insane, do you suppose?”

“Hardly,” said Marlowe. His voice was hearty, but the smile on his lips did not reflect in his eyes. “Here—take these powders every night for a while. They ought to take care of the headaches.”

But long after Anna Lees had left his office, Doctor Marlowe sat at his desk.

He had prescribed for the queer headaches Anna had described. And that was pretty ironical, for Doctor Marlowe had recently had precisely such headaches, himself. And he hadn’t been able to do a thing about it.

The sensation of fire in your skull. The deep sleep enveloping you. And then the ghastly impression that you were no longer yourself, that some other thing was taking over control of mind and body!

Perspiration was slowly forming on Doctor Marlowe’s face. There was more to it than that, in his case. For now and then, as the deep sleep stole over him, he had seemed to see a shadowy face. Just a glimpse. The face of a girl. And a queer impression of exotic, gauzy robes.

The face was that of the girl who had just called on him.

Anna Lees.

“Physician, heal thyself,” he muttered. The powders had done nothing to help him. Maybe they would for the girl.

Anna Lees went slowly back to her apartment. She did not see a trim, small figure following her at quite a little distance.

The small trailer was Nellie Gray, lovely little blond bombshell who worked for The Avenger.

Nellie had noted the name of the doctor seen by Anna. She had jotted down time of arrival and then of leaving. And she had done even more. She had written down the conversation between the two.

All The Avenger’s aides were skilled at lip reading. Nellie had gotten the whole thing through the window of the doctor’s office.

Now she took up the trail again. And she had no notion that she, in turn, was being followed and observed!

Behind Nellie slunk a figure like something out of a bad dream. A tall, emaciated shape with hairless skull and a great beak of a nose. Now, the shape could be seen—now, it couldn’t. When others came along the walk, it abruptly vanished from sight. When only Nellie was in view, it appeared, again, to take up the trail.

In the folds of the priestly robe it wore, was a heavy copper dagger.

CHAPTER IX

The Mummy Walks

In one of Washington’s innumerable parks, a little later that night, two men sat on a secluded bench. One of the two was young, frightened-looking, with shallow blue eyes and a vacuous face—Harold Caine. The other had a face as dead and cold as that of a harvest moon, and eyes like pale agate set in ice.

“I asked you to come here and have a few words with me alone,” said The Avenger, “because your father seems to get upset when I question you in his presence.”

“Why not?” said Harold shakily, angrily. “You as much as say I had something to do with the loss of the Taros relics. Why wouldn’t he get sore?”

“And you had nothing to do with that loss?” asked Benson quietly.

“Good grief! Certainly not!”

It was the most genuine-sounding denial Benson had ever heard, uttered by a youth who wouldn’t seem to possess the experience and brain power to put on an act before the pale, flaring eyes and awesome, still face.

The Avenger stared at the young fellow.

“Have you had any more of those odd headaches?” he inquired.

Harold’s eyes suddenly left Benson’s white face. A moment before he had sounded as sincere as a man could sound. Now, he was suddenly evasive, shifty. Also he seemed a little more frightened, at mention of the malady.

“Headaches?” he said loudly. “I don’t have any headaches. Never had one in my life.”

“You said the other night that you had left the library to get aspirin for a headache,” Benson pointed out. “You said it was a very peculiar headache, that it felt as if your brain were on fire.”

“I said that?” Harold exclaimed, eyes trying to evade Benson’s. “Why, you must be mistaken. I don’t have any—”

His words trailed off at the look in the icy, fearsome eyes. But the set of his lips continued to be obstinate. He had admitted having had an odd headache. Now, for some reason, he was anxious to take back that admission.

Nellie Gray had reported what she had seen and heard just before Benson came to the rendezvous with Harold. That, too, was about headaches. Benson decided to try to couple the coincidence and apply it to Gunther Caine’s son.

“You do have headaches, almost nightly,” he said, voice as cold and clear as his eyes. “Odd headaches. You feel as if your brain were burning up in your skull. Then you feel yourself drifting off into a deep, deep sleep. The sleep may last a long time, or just a little while. It varies. But just before you fall asleep, you have a queer feeling that you are being emptied, that something is taking over control of your body.”

Harold Caine was white with terror. His eyes were wild. He was panting hoarsely.

“How do you know that? Are you a devil, or a man? How could you guess—”

With a tremendous effort he pulled himself together. Shaking all over, he faced the man with the dead face and the eyes of ice.

“I don’t have any such headaches. I never have had. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The Avenger’s colorless eyes were diamond drills.

“Do you know the lawyer and collector, Farnum Shaw?” he asked, with an abrupt shift.

Harold was startled into saying, “Why, yes. I know him slightly.”

“You are usually overdrawn on your allowance—short of money—aren’t you?” said Benson evenly.

Harold moistened his lips and said nothing,

“Farnum Shaw would give a great deal of money for the Taros relics,” Benson went on. “And if you had such a sum, you wouldn’t have to worry about allowances.”

Harold was literally holding his breath.

“Did Shaw ever hint that he’d pay you well for the relics?”

Amazingly, Gunther Caine’s son nodded.

“As a matter of fact, he did. He didn’t make a direct proposition, but he put over the idea that he’d like to buy the relics, that he didn’t care who from, and that I had the run of my father’s house and was trusted by him.”

If The Avenger was surprised by the sudden frankness, his eyes didn’t show it.

“You turned down the proposition?”

“That’s insulting even to ask me,” snapped Harold, drawing himself up with a virtuous look. “I’d have punched him in the nose if he hadn’t been an older man, and I told him so.”

Benson nodded.

“Now about those headaches—” he began.

Harold’s bluster and air of virtue melted like snow in the sun. He was pale, shaking again.

“I tell you I never had any such headaches,” he almost screamed. “Never, never, never!”

He turned and practically ran.

Benson let him go. The youngster walked in mystery—and in peril. But, as yet, there was nothing to be done about it.

At Braintree Museum, the night watchman taking the place of murdered Bill Casey had not resigned as he’d intended on his first night. The museum officials had been lenient about his not punching in at his rounds; daylight had lent him courage again, and he did need the job.

The courage of daylight was draining with the darkness. It had been leaking away since his entrance into the place at ten o’clock. Now, at past midnight, it was practically nonexistent.

But he was making his rounds, forcing his feet to bear him shrinkingly over what seemed miles of stone floor that echoed hollowly under him. The echoes rang into far, dark places filled with shadows.

Even as Casey had done, the new man had taken to talking aloud to himself for company.

“Lousiest place I ever heard of,” he said. “Why don’t they put a few lights in here?”

Even as he spoke, he knew the answer. There’d have had to be thousands of lights really to dispel the shadows from that mammoth place of statues, pillars, cases, and stuffed animals. The place was designed for daylight.

The watchman punched his clock at a box under a rib of a dinosaur’s skeleton.

“Nothin’s going to happen to me,” he mumbled. “I thought I saw a mummy case empty, then filled again. I thought I heard words come from the case. I was nuts, that’s all. So’s the guy with the dead pan,” he added stoutly.

He went at last toward the Egyptian wing. He had punched all the midnight boxes but that one. He’d have preferred a beating to going in there, but he was trying to hide the fact even from himself.

He went over the threshold, and was under the tremendous stone lintel, supported by the gigantic red sandstone pillars brought from the Nile. He had the same odd, suffocating feeling that if he didn’t step very fast, the pillars would spread and allow the stone slabs to fall down on him.

He stepped fast and scuttled between the four big pillars like a scared rabbit, fairly broadjumping onto floor with good old American ceiling above it. Then he started at a half-run toward the call box under the elbow of one of the statues.

“Gee, the things are alive!” he panted, staring at the big stone images.

He felt like a gnat in the presence of eagles. But next moment he had something else on his mind—something a lot more pressing than the statues. The mummy of the guy he’d been told was the son of some old priest named Taros! He had to pass that case, and he started to do it at a dog-trot. Then he stopped, as if jerked short with a rope tied around his waist.

Words were coming from the mummy case.

“My father’s charms must be returned without violence.”

The watchman screamed aloud. Words again! Words, from a thing so long dead that it was hardly more than dust!

“He must give all that he hath, to retrieve the charms. All that he hath to receive forgiveness for his blunder.”

The guard ran in earnest, then, getting out of the Egyptian wing so fast that he looked like a streak.

He went to the phone.

“Mr. Benson? I must talk to Mr. Benson at once!”

The drawling voice of a Negro answered his frantic summons of the Sixteenth Street mansion.

“Mistuh Benson is out jus’ now. Any message?”

“Tell him the mummy talked again,” said the watchman wildly. “Tell him—”

He had never heard anything change so rapidly as the voice of the Negro. At one moment it had been sleepy, deep South. At the next it was crisp, and the words were uttered as a college professor might have spoken them.

“I will get in touch with Mr. Benson the instant I can,” said Josh Newton. “Meanwhile, I would suggest that you return to that mummy case, and watch and listen. There may be more words.”

The watchman backed away from the phone as if it had been a living thing.

“Oh, no!” he said. “Not me! I wouldn’t go near that thing for—”

There was a slight sting in Josh’s voice.

“Words can’t hurt you. And you must, of course, have a gun. Stand near the case with your gun drawn. It is important that we know all the mummy may say.”

The man hung up. He was shivering a little. But he remembered the cold, awful eyes of the man with the white hair and the dead face. This command, figuratively at least, was coming from The Avenger. The watchman decided that he was more afraid of those eyes, if he disobeyed the order, than he would be of the mummy case.

He went back to the Egyptian wing.

With his gun in his hand, he went to the case, to stand beside it. He’d listen and see if Taros’ long-dead son spoke again. Meanwhile, if any man or thing came close to him—

He waggled the gun determinedly, and stood next to the case. And then the gun dropped from his nerveless hand.

The case was there, but the mummy was not!

Once more the mummy of Egypt’s priest, Taros’ son, was gone, and the glass lid opened to his gaze only black emptiness.

There was the sound of a step from the blank end of the wing. Then more steps, in measured tread. The watchman whirled.

He was far past screaming, now. He could only sway there, mouth slack, eyes crazed.

The steps were as regular as the ticks of a clock. They were made by a thing that was swathed from head to foot with ancient linen bands of the type Egypt’s embalmers used.

The mummy was walking steadily toward the watchman. As it moved, it slowly raised its swathed right arm, and an extended finger pointed at him.

There were more steps.

From behind a tremendous statue of Typhon, god of evil and of death, came three figures in flowing white. And after them came the figure of a girl, a priestess, in gauzy, transparent robes.

All the figures bore down slowly, inexorably on the watchman.

He saw the face of the mummy now. The linen bands were off the face. He saw shallow, blue eyes, and unintelligent features, set and rigid like those of a sleepwalker, but with something fiendish deep in them. It was the face of the curator’s son, though the watchman did not know that.

The others raised right arms and pointed, too, like the mummy. And the watchman fell unconscious to the floor.

CHAPTER X

“Chief—”

For some time there had been no reports to police headquarters of seeing people dressed in nighties or old Egyptian garb, slinking around Washington’s streets. So when the officer on the Connecticut Avenue beat saw a misty shape flit half a block away toward a big old house with a most important occupant, he rubbed his eyes and decided at first that he was seeing things.

The house was leased to a veteran senator from Idaho. The senator, James Blessing, was a determined, independent man who had made a lot of enemies. It was the officer’s standing orders to keep in the neighborhood of that house quite a bit, in case some crackpot decided he’d like to eliminate Blessing from the American scene.

The patrolman decided at first, when he opened his amazed eyes and saw that the misty shape was still there, that he was seeing some mysterious assailant. But then he began to get the details, and he knew differently. This was either a madman—or a ghost.

The flitting shape was tall and very thin. It wore no head covering, and its skull was as hairless as a vulture’s. There was a bird beak of a nose that furthered the smile. The thing raised its left arm, and the cop saw a ring for an instant that glistened with a funny, pale pink light.

“Hey, you! Stop!” he yelled.

The shape kept on, toward Senator Blessng’s door.

“Stop, I said!”

The cop started running, with gun drawn.

The figure vanished.

It had been moving just out of range of light from a street lamp. It passed into shadows. But the shadows were not enough to account for its disappearance. You could see beyond the clear rim of light, even if not very distinctly.

Yet the cop couldn’t see the emaciated shape. It had completely vanished.

He stopped still, gun hanging in his hand.

“Now, look,” he reasoned with himself. “If there’s somebody there, I oughtta be able to see him. If there ain’t, then I didn’t see him in the first place. But I did see him,” he added, less certainly, “and now he ain’t there.”

The figure appeared again.

This time it was much nearer the patrolman. So near, indeed, that the cop gave a smothered squawk and leaped back. But the leap didn’t save him.

Slowly the emaciated, hairless specter raised its gaunt arms. It was as if it were bringing down a curse on the patrolman’s head, though no word was spoken.

Arms extended straight toward him, the shape approached. It seemed to float rather than walk. That was all the cop noticed. Next instant he felt as if he’d fallen into a vat of acid that was burning and prickling him all over.

After that he didn’t feel anything at all.

The Avenger was sitting in the study of his temporary residence when the message came from headquarters. Nellie and Mac, Smitty and Josh and Rosabel were being very careful not to interrupt. When the chief sat, silent and still, like that, he was coordinating in the icy aloofness of his brain the things he had picked up to date on a case. He might speak, or he might not. But they knew that many facts—either unknown or without significance to anyone else—were falling into place behind the colorless eyes.

But when the Washington police chief called, Josh deemed it best to interrupt the glacial revery.

Benson took up the phone before him. He listened with scarcely a word.

“I will be there shortly,” he said, at the end, in his cold, vibrant tone.

He hung up, and looked at his aides. He spoke, more to himself than to them.

“Old Taros has just been seen again, according to a police report. An officer tried to charge him near the home of Senator Blessing. The officer says the man’s arms went slowly up, in his direction, and then he fell unconscious.”

Smitty grunted as if he had been kicked. The giant recognized those symptoms, all right!

The Avenger’s pale eyes were suddenly ablaze with the light of comprehension.

“Senator Blessing,” he said slowly. “Politician— Chief! Our unconscious friend upstairs kept saying, ‘Doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief.’ Snead is a merchant. Shaw is a lawyer. Now a chief is dragged into this in the person of Senator Blessing. These three are apparently mixed up in the thing. And the doctor? Perhaps the one Anna Lees went to see. That is a guess, of course—”

Again the phone rang. The Avenger picked it up.

Gunther Caine’s agitated voice came from the instrument.

“Mr. Benson? You know who this is. Are you doing anything about the Taros relics?”

“Yes,” said Benson, pale eyes like diamond drills.

“Well, nothing more needs to be done in the matter.”

Benson’s steely hand tightened on the phone for an Instant, but his voice was calm as he said:

“You mean, they have been recovered?”

“Not—not exactly,” stammered Caine. “Nevertheless, please take my word for it that no further efforts need to be made.”

“You’re calling me off the trail?”

“Well, yes, in a sense. Thank you very much for what you have done, and forgive me for the unnecessary expense and the loss of time it has caused you—”

“You have heard from the new watchman at Braintree?” asked Benson evenly.

His aides stared at each other. What was behind that question? In these circumstances, they couldn’t guess.

There was a pause, as if Caine were deciding what reply to give.

“I am about to get in touch with him,” Benson said, as if warning that anything Caine said could easily be checked up.

“Why, yes, I have heard from the man,” came Caine’s reply. “He said something about the son of Taros talking, just as Casey did. Incredible, of course—”

“Yet Casey is dead,” The Avenger pointed out.

“His death could not have had anything to do with words from a mummy,” Caine snapped. “Again, forgive me for starting you on something that need not be finished.”

“Quite all right,” said the man with the dead face and the stainless steel chips of eyes.

He hung up, and everyone in the room with him knew that he had no intention, whatever, of dropping the affair of the talking mummy and the Ring of Power. If anything, he was more set than ever on following it through.

He turned to them, an awesome figure, a gray steel bar of a man.

“Nellie, get all the information you can concerning Doctor Cornelius Marlowe. Rosabel, check on the movements in the Caine household—father’s and son’s. Josh, you will spend the rest of the night in the Egyptian room at the museum, watching. Mac, dig up everything possible on Senator Blessing.”

Benson went out to the big car with the giant Smitty. They went to the scene of the cop’s defeat at hands from the tomb.

The last call from headquarters had contained something more important than a mere tale of a cop’s defeat. There had been murder, too. That was what The Avenger was coming to investigate.

Senator Blessing’s groundsman lay in the arbor near the garage, at the rear of the rented house. A little after the cop had recovered and called for help, he and another patrolman had found the corpse.

A man of early middle age, foreign-looking, in worn but clean corduroy, he had met his death precisely as Bill Casey had met his in the museum.

There was a slim, neat incision in the man’s back, where a knife blade had reached his heart. And in addition the throat had been deeply, hideously cut.

Benson stared long at the throat wound.

Dead flesh has not the resilience of living substance. When it is pressed out of shape it stays that way. Some of this dead flesh, at the very edge of the deep throat wound, had been so pressed.

Something oval and small, like a copper penny stretched sideways, had been pressed there for a moment and pressed hard. But The Avenger knew it wasn’t a distorted penny. He knew precisely what the small oval was that had made the mark.

The cornelian seal of the Ring of Power. The ghastly thing had had its powers renewed in the life blood of Senator Blessing’s gardener.

Had the Senator, with a name revered from coast to coast for honesty and independence, anything to do with this repulsive act? The Avenger’s dead face and icy eyes gave no hint of his thoughts on the subject.

He went back to his temporary headquarters. Even this inhuman personage needed sleep occasionally. Also, in this case, The Avenger needed time for his aides to correlate their reports and bring them in.

On this night, the next after the murder of Senator Blessing’s man, Anna Lees did not show up at Doctor Marlowe’s office.

Nellie Gray knew that, because she had watched the doctor’s home since dusk, at seven-thirty in the evening. She had been watching the movements of the doctor himself, this time, but incidentally had noted the absence of Anna Lees, too. Evidently the girl didn’t habitually frequent the place.

There had been no suspicious activity around Marlowe’s office and home. Furthermore, a fund of information collected by Nellie during the day had seemed to absolve him of guilt in anything mysterious or sinister.

Doctor Marlowe had the reputaton of being a splendid and ethical physician. He paid his bills and was looked up to in his neighborhood. There was no scandal in his life. He seemed a kindly, open, sincere man.

Nellie was beginning to be pretty sure that the visit to his office of Anna Lees was pure coincidence and did not in any manner implicate him in the crazy affair of the Taros relics.

It was now ten o’clock. His office hours were over. A dozen or more patients—all good, ordinary citizens—had gone into the house and come out again. Nellie stayed in shadow till she saw a final form emerge.

That was the figure of Doctor Marlowe’s attendant, who had stayed at the door and with patients in the anteroom. Now, with the day done, the attendant was going home, leaving the doctor alone.

Nellie went to the door. It was, as she had confidently expected, unlocked. It was kept off the latch constantly during office hours, with so many people coming and going. When the attendant had left, she hadn’t bothered to lock it because the doctor could do that, whenever he pleased, later, before going to bed.

Nellie opened the door and stepped soundlessly into the anteroom.

Marlowe didn’t know her. So an open visit, at this stage of the game, wouldn’t excite any suspicion in him.

Without sound, yet walking naturally so that if she were suddenly seen her appearance wouldn’t be furtive, she crossed the anteroom to the office door. It was open a few inches. She looked in and saw the doctor.

This glimpse of him off-guard and alone resulted in nothing more suspicious than her previous watching had revealed. Marlow was sitting in a swivel chair at his desk. There was nothing on the desk before him. He was passing his hand over his broad, low forehead and frowning a bit. That was all.

Feeling eyes on him, he looked up. Nellie was ready for that. Instantly, before he could grasp the fact that she had stood watching him, she came into the office.

“Your hours are over, I know,” she said with a smile. “But I’d like to consult you anyway, if you don’t mind. The door was open. I just walked in—”

“Certainly,” said Marlowe. “What seems to be wrong?”

“I have been having queer headaches lately,” said Nellie, calmly. “I’ve never had anything like them before. There’s a feeling of burning, inside my head.”

Doctor Marlowe was no longer impersonally pleasant and indifferent. His expression did not change a line. But suddenly it seemed to have a frozen quality. The effort made to conceal his agitation was so desperate that it almost—but not quite—succeeded.

Nellie duly made a mental note of that agitation.

“Any other symptoms?” Marlowe said.

“Well, the headaches come usually just before I go to sleep. Then when I do fall asleep, it seems to me the sleep is much heavier than normal.”

Marlowe cleared his throat.

“Do you happen to know a girl named Anna Lees?”

“Why, no, I never met any such person,” said Nellie truthfully. “Why do you ask?”

Marlowe waved his hand evasively.

“No matter,” he said. “Now as these headaches—”

He stopped. A look of strain, almost of terror, appeared in his eyes, strive as he would to conceal it. His hand went up, like a thing with will of its own. It pressed hard against his forehead.

Nellie remembered that he had been rubbing his forehead when she first saw him. She realized now that it was the gesture of a man with a headache. And this—this anguished prodding of the temples—was the move of a man with such a pain in his head that he could hardly bear it.

That was odd, Nellie thought. That was—

Abruptly she straightened up in the visitor’s chair she had taken on coming in here.

She was beginning to have a headache herself!

There was a dim sensation of heat in her head. It increased rapidly till it seemed as if her brain were being seared. Her sight began to fail. She heard herself crying out, then felt as if deep sleep were tugging at her eyelids.

The tendency to sleep didn’t seem to help the terrific headache any. Between the two, she sagged in the chair, and was still, almost unconscious—but not quite.

Dimly she saw Doctor Marlowe’s hand come down from his skull, as if the pain there had ceased. She saw him get up from the swivel chair and walk toward a large, old-fashioned wardrobe in a corner.

The deep sleep was pulling harder at heavy eyelids. She missed some moves, then. But again, dimly, she saw the doctor, after a lapse of time. She could not guess how long it had been.

She was jarred a little out of her strange and painful coma by what she saw.

Marlowe had been transformed. He was now in strange robes, the garb of a priest of old Egypt. It was amazing what the garment did for his own appearance. His face was suddenly something that might have floated off the frieze of an ancient tomb on the Nile. The uncanny conviction was borne home that the man was more than merely dressed in Egyptian priests’ robes; he was an Egyptian priest, straight out of the dim past.

He moved toward Nellie, rather like a sleepwalker, yet with something demoniac and alien in the large, glazed pupils of his eyes.

Even deeper pain wove red strands through the black unconsciousness that was cloaking Nellie Gray. Her whole body felt as if on fire; as if dipped into a vat of acid.

That was her last conscious sensation.

CHAPTER XI

Out of the Tomb

When Benson had phoned orders to his aides in the Bleek Street headquarters, he had told Josh to bring the black suit.

The reason for that was apparent, now.

Josh was in the Braintree Museum, but from ten feet away, in the dim lighting, you would hardly have known it. All you’d have seen would have been a deeper shade in the shadow cast by a certain cabinet.

The suit Josh wore was a standard black one such as people use in mourning. Thus it would excite no particular attention if seen. The fact that it had lapels higher than most would not have been noticed.

With those lapels, Josh could cover whatever collar he happened to be wearing. And when he did that—Josh practically ceased to be, if it were dark around him.

Josh was pretty dark himself. Dark skin and dark fabric made him blend with shadow so that he wasn’t discernible at all, unless he grinned—in which case the ivory of teeth and the white of eyeballs appeared amazingly out of thin air.

But he wasn’t grinning at the moment. He was grim and watchful.

The cabinet in the shadow in which he was lurking was that containing mummy and mummy case of Taros’ son. Josh was in the Egyptian wing.

He had spent half of last night there, after first receiving The Avenger’s orders. Now, the first half of this night was gone—and nothing had happened.

Josh felt cold, although it wasn’t at all cool in the great stone barracks. He felt cold—and lonely.

He was the only soul in the place. The night watchman replacing Casey really had quit after that second hectic night at Braintree. A successor hadn’t been picked up yet. There was just Josh.

Josh had prowled the place on the hour, almost like a conventional night watchman, himself. All windows, all doors, had been covered to make sure no one had tampered with them in the preceding sixty minutes.

The phrase, “all doors,” was misleading, however. There was just one entrance in all the museum. That was the great front entrance with its massive bronze slabs. These had locks a Houdini couldn’t have picked, Josh had decided; and on every round the locks had been untouched.

He had made sure, at about one o’clock in the morning, the last time. Now he was again at the station that seemed to contain most danger.

The Egyptian wing, next to the mummy of Taros’ son.

Josh had thought about the mummy a lot, during the dark hours. There was nothing else to think about.

He had decided that perhaps the thing really had talked; Benson seemed to think so, and the chief was almighty as far as the colored man was concerned. But that the mummy had walked—that was an egg of another breed! That was impossible! Also it was impossible that the mummy ever could have got out of its case. Josh had hung around the cabinet long enough to know that it had not been opened recently—could not have been, or marks would have showed.

The reports of the watchman about the mummy getting out and moving around were simply the figment of an imagination excited by words coming from it.

Josh slid from the shadow at the side of the cabinet and looked into the front of it, through the glass lid. And then Josh bit down hard on a cry.

The mummy case was empty!

It was simply impossible! The mummy had been in there five minutes ago, when he returned from the regular inspection of doors and windows. He had looked hard, to make sure, just five minutes ago.

Now it was gone. There wasn’t even the mummy case in the oak cabinet. That was gone too. There was only black emptiness.

But he had been standing right next to that cabinet during every moment. He had been practically touching it. Nothing had come near it, and—his hair-roots tingled at even the thought—there had been no stirring within it. If there had been, he would have heard.

Yet in that five-minute interval, the mummy had gotten out of its sealed and airtight cabinet!

Josh began to sweat. What next? The watchman had not only told of the mummy’s getting out, but also of its walking. Surely that, at least, had been a delusion.

From the far, blank end of the wing, Josh heard footsteps.

They were measured, neither loud nor soft. They were a little padded, as if made by feet that were not wearing shoes as we know them. They were funereally slow.

Josh turned his head rapidly.

From the opposite end of the wing, from the door leading out to the next room, had come another sound. This was not footsteps, it was music.

Strange, slow music that seemed a chant of words—and yet you couldn’t make out syllables. Funeral music, with a satanic undertone.

Josh, though he didn’t know it, was listening to the chant that accompanies the bearing of the ark of Typhon, the Evil One, back to his temple.

Behind him, the measured, slightly muffled steps sounded louder. Ahead of him, the ominous chanting also sounded louder.

Josh didn’t know which way to face.

Through the doorway floated a dim shape. It was tall and gaunt. It had a face the color of putty. It had a dome as hairless as a vulture’s, and a high, eagle-beak nose. It was garbed in the robe of an Egyptian priest of thousands of years ago.

The priestly figure had hands up, shoulder high, and was bearing something. Soon it had come through the doorway enough for Josh to see the burden.

It was a kind of box, obviously heavy, with a peaked lid. Like a little house. But a house that was carved all over.

Two other shapes in priestly raiment were helping bear the box forward. One of these was a slender figure with a face that had a low, broad brow and cheekbones almost as high as those of the high priest himself. Josh hadn’t seen Doctor Marlowe, or he would have noted the striking resemblance.

The other closely resembled a person most informed people would have recognized because his face had appeared in papers and magazines so often. It resembled in body and countenance the well-known Senator Blessing.

Josh stared numbly. He had seen the pictures many times, too. But never before had he noted what he did now: the face of Senator Blessing was eerily like the faces often depicted by Egyptian sculptors, thousands of years ago.

Straight toward him came the three priests of Egypt, chanting their weird song of hate, bearing the ark of Typhon. Behind them now could be seen a fourth shape.

This was that of a girl, tall, slenderly rounded, with a body half-revealed through misty robes. Her eyes were wide and dreaming, her movements like those of a sleepwalker. She was chanting too, and her voice was sweet; but in its clear soprano was a cold note that was somehow dreadful.

Josh was fumbling for his gun. But his movement was without heart. He felt instinctively that an ordinary gun would do little harm to such as these—

The steps behind him were now so close that he was forced to turn, though every fiber of him rebelled at turning his back to that grim little procession.

Now, for the first time, he saw the thing that had made the steps.

He saw a shape coming toward him that was swathed in yard on yard of ancient, yellowed linen such as embalmers used along the Nile. The mummy of Taros’ son. Walking as a living man walks.

The legs were swathed, too, but there were no bands binding them together as there usually are. Bands were off the thing’s face. There, looking more fantastic on the shoulders of ancient death than any skull could have looked, was a young face. It was a cruel, shallow face, with shallow, not very intelligent eyes.

The mummy of Taros’ son slowly passed the Negro, without a side look, and advanced toward the head priest bearing the ark. The three figures lowered the ark to the stone floor.

The mummy raised its linen-swathed right arm in a sort of salute. The high priest, so bizarrely like the descriptions of old Taros in the tomb murals, raised his arm in reply.

Father and son, dead these thousands of years, greeted each other!

Josh couldn’t take any more of it. He got his gun out. He lunged toward the sinister group. He leaped openly, realizing that they already knew of his presence.

He never got to them.

High priest Taros faced him squarely. There was a glint from under his robe, where a copper knife swung. But he made no move to draw the weapon.

He raised his gaunt arms like a specter invoking a dread curse.

Josh stopped. He tried to go on, and couldn’t. He tried to raise his arm and level his gun—and couldn’t.

His body began to burn all over, as if some one had bathed him in vitriol. His very brain seemed afire in his skull.

Blackness descended on him. He fell, with the vision of the terrible figure with upraised arms as the last thing limned in his mind.

Monotonous chanting. An ancient, funereal song with only vowel sounds pronounced.

This beat on his eardrums with the regular insistence of dripping water. He stirred just a little and opened his eyes.

He didn’t know how long he had been unconscious. Quite a little while, he thought. But in that time the scene in the Egyptian wing of Braintree Museum had changed only in one respect.

There was one more figure in here now.

There had been three priests, and a priestess. Now there were two priestesses.

Blinking, trying foggily to see better with eyes that still felt as if dipped in flame, Josh saw that the new figure on the scene was that of a girl, all right, but not that of an Egyptian priestess. Anyhow, she wasn’t robed as one.

This girl had on an ordinary, modern street suit of some dark material. Her head was bare, but her tawny-gold hair was tousled as if a hat had been there and had been torn off.

She was limp in the arms of the vulture-like high priest. She was quite small, and seemed very fragile as she lay there. She—

Josh felt an almost animal growl of rage rise deep in his throat as his eyes brought him ever a clearer message. He knew that small, fragile-looking creature.

It was Nellie Gray.

Nellie Gray, unconscious, hanging limp in the arms of the thing from the tomb, which was bearing her slowly toward the ark of Typhon.

The ark had been set down just inside the second doorway of the wing, almost under the ancient stone lintel from the Nile. The high priest, with a kind of hellish reverence, laid the girl there, before the carved, peak-ridged box.

His bony hand went to the fold of his robe. Some of the robe seemed to disappear as Josh watched. There was a dark, golden flash, and a heavy dagger appeared in the gaunt fingers.

Taros had drawn his copper knife!

The chanting was louder, more triumphant. Without a shade of expression in their faces the two other priests, and the tall, slender priestess, watched the spectral arm of Taros raised above the girl. On his left hand flashed a ring of light crimson, glowing as if it had lights within its evil heart. In his left hand glinted the dagger.

Josh’s hands had been fumbling at his belt. His gun had been taken from him as he lay there; but he had one more weapon, of a sort.

That was the cunningly contrived little belt radio. He had taken it from his waist, in the gloom, and switched it on.

There was one person to call when Nellie was in danger. One person who became a raging, one-man landslide in her defense.

The giant, Smitty.

Josh whispered into the set. “Smitty. This is Josh. Emergency. Smitty!”

There was no answer. Josh had lain unconscious too long. Too late now for even the giant to help. But Josh tried again.

“Smitty! Help—Braintree Museum—Nellie—”

The high priest had heard, over the yards between where Josh lay and the doorway. He turned, then whirled more hastily toward the girl and raised the knife again.

The keen copper blade flashed toward Nellie’s white, taut throat!

CHAPTER XII

Dead Radio

Doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief.

All reports on Snead, Shaw, Blessing and Marlowe had given them shining reputations. Only Shaw had a questionable spot. He was a little ruthless in his acquisition of Egyptiana. Most collectors tie a can to ordinary ethics and emotions when they go after coveted objects. But Shaw was apparently more keen and ruthless than most.

However, that trait alone was not too serious in the general picture. Like the others, it could be said about him that he was indubitably a good example of decent citizen getting along in a reasonably honest business with as little hurt as possible to others.

Benson’s glacial, deadly eyes were brooding as he went to the directors of Braintree in quest of more information. Ever more information.

Of the three, Evans and Spencer and Moen, only Moen, it seemed, was sharp enough to be experiencing a beginning feel of uneasiness about the Taros amulets.

“How is it,” said the husky ex-football player, “that you are still in Washington, Mr. Benson? And still asking questions now and then that bear on the Taros relics? It is well known that you are a busy man. How is it that you are staying so long on this mere invitation to come down and give us your opinion on the authenticity of the amulets and the Ring of Power?”

The Avenger’s icy eyes remained as cold and emotionless as his paralyzed, death-mask face.

“I am fairly well versed in crime procedures,” he said quietly. “The time to fight crime is before it has been committed. The Taros relics are a tempting morsel to a certain kind of criminal. I am trying to plug possible loopholes before they are opened up.”

Moen stared, then shrugged.

“Loopholes? Such as what?”

“One is represented by such collectors as Farnum Shaw.”

Moen looked less impatient at that.

“Yes, Shaw would do things for rare Egyptian items that he wouldn’t dream of doing in ordinary business. But I guess he hasn’t a chance here. The relics are perfectly all right, aren’t they?”

Benson still felt obligated to keep the loss of the priceless amulets secret, for Gunther Caine’s sake.

“They are being duly cherished,” he said smoothly. “Have you seen Shaw recently?”

“You can forget about Shaw,” said Moen brusquely. “After all, it’s fantastic that the man, a distinguished lawyer, would stoop to anything really criminal to get the Taros charms.”

That was all Benson could draw from the man.

Spencer, tall and fat, with his kewpie-doll face more severe than usual, whitewashed Shaw, too. And he showed no suspicion that anything might already have happened to the relics. But he presented another angle that made time pressing.

“Gunther had better turn those things over to the board, really,” he said peevishly. “I told you a while ago that he was so trusted by us that he could keep the things around to gloat over. But I meant any amount of time within reason. And this is beginning to be unreasonable. After all, the Taros charms were acquired for exhibition to the public, not just for Gunther’s private pleasure.”

“I’ll tell him what you said,” Benson assured the director evenly.

Spencer backed down a bit, chewing his upper lip in indecision.

“No—” he said slowly. “No, you needn’t do that. Gunther is a wealthy man. And a powerful man, I wouldn’t care to annoy him. And after all, I suppose it is all right—”

Evans, short and chubby, rubbed his hand over the fringe of hair around his monkish bald spot. He seemed completely neutral, about everything. Shaw was a good fellow and wouldn’t harm a fly, even for rare Egyptian objects. Gunther Caine was a prince and a saint, and could keep the relics as long as he chose, as far as Evans was concerned.

The Avenger stepped from Evans’ house, seeming to have drawn a blank all around—and the slight buzz of his belt radio made itself apparent. It was picked up by vibration, by the steely muscles of his abdomen, more than as actual sound.

Benson put tiny ear phones to his keen ears.

“Mac talkin’, Muster Benson. I’m at Senator Blessing’s house, as you orrrdered. I’ve been watchin’ the place closely, but I’ve a bad feelin’ that he has given me the slip.”

“What makes you think that?” said Benson, icy eyes narrowed to pale slits in his dead face.

“I’ve seen him at this and that window, from eight in the evening till about an hour ago. An’ after that—nothin’ at all. But the thing is, the last time I saw him was at a downstairs window with a dark shade drawn so I got only a silhouette. Either the senator was wearin’ a funny kind of dressin’ gown—or somethin’ like a priest’s robe.”

The Avenger reflected a moment.

“Stay there, Mac. If he is gone, we have no idea where, so there’s no way for you to follow him. If he isn’t, well, I still want him watched.”

“If he went out in the skurlie’s costume, there may be bad trouble brewin’,” argued Mac.

“True! But stay there.”

The Avenger’s face was as dead as ever, but his eyes expressed concern. His aides commanded everything he had in the way of loyalty.

He dialed Nellie and Josh, and got no answer. The giant Smitty was at the wheel of the car near him, so he was all right.

Benson went back to his temporary headquarters. He told Smitty to go to Blessings’ home and help Mac watch. Then the man with the death-mask face and the eyes like ice under a polar dawn, rigged up his tiny laboratory for an intricate experiment.

Because the experiment might have ruined the delicate instrument of Smitty’s invention if it were too close, he did something seldom done by any of the dauntless little band.

He took off his belt radio.

Thus The Avenger, bending pale-eyed over work that could scarcely have been duplicated in any of the great commercial laboratories, did not hear that single, despairing call from Josh.

It was one of those rare occasions where every radio seemed dead—save the one over which Josh had sent his anguished plea.

As long as Josh lived, the sacrifice scene in the reproduced Egyptian temple would live in his mind. And all he could do at the moment was watch in frozen horror. He was too far away to reach the victim in time to save her; and, anyhow, the odds against him were too great.

Three shapes, not men but things, and a fourth that was swatched in cerements of an ancient grave! What could one normal human do against such a force?

He could only watch, in a trance, while the high priest with the bald skull and the vulture beak brought his copper dagger down at the throat of Nellie Gray. That dagger which glittered with a dark gold gleam but which had been tempered to hold an edge as keen as any steel.

The knife plunged down—and there was a clang as it hit stone instead of soft white flesh.

Josh cried aloud with the swiftness of it. At one moment Nellie had been a limp bundle, helpless at the high priest’s feet. At the next, she was a writhing, lithe form a yard away and still rolling. She hadn’t been unconscious. Through the fringe of lowered lashes, she had watched the priest move, and gauged her movement at the last possible instant.

So the knife had swished four inches past her throat as she jerked her body away. And the priest had been off balance with the vicious blow so that he didn’t get to her till she had gotten to her feet.

Josh yelled. It was a battle call. His trance of sheer horror was broken. There was a chance to help her now, time to reach her side. He bounded over the stone floor.

One of the most ghastly things about these dread shapes of ancient death was their silence. The funereal chant was the only sound Josh had heard from them. They continued to be silent, wordless, now.

In savage soundlessness, they leaped.

The shapes might represent deathless, malevolent souls, but the bodies housing the souls were indubitably of flesh and could be touched. So Nellie touched them plenty!

Though scarcely five feet tall, and weighing little more than a hundred pounds, Nellie Gray could turn a man’s own strength against him so deftly, by jujitsu, that he never knew what happened.

The gaunt high priest stretched infuriated arms for her. Next moment the emaciated figure was staggering beyond the girl, brought up against a stone sarcophagus with an audible smack.

The other two priests—with the faces of Senator Blessing and Dr. Marlowe—got to her.

The first fell heavily as Nellie caught the priestly robe, deftly pulled, and guided his rush so that he tripped over her shapely right leg. But, after all, she was only one person. She couldn’t handle three.

The man with Marlowe’s face got her by the arms.

And then Josh arrived from the distance.

The Negro could fight like a black tiger when he had to. They might nickname him Sleepy, but there was nothing a slumbrous about him in a rough and tumble.

He slammed his fist home against the chest under a flying robe, felt the shape give ground. He heard a shrill sound, like a whistle, from the gaunt shape near the sarcophagus, and paid no attention. He started for that shape.

“Josh!”

It was Nellie’s agitated call. She had chanced to look at the doorway.

Josh turned, diverted from the high priest by the tone of her summons. He saw what had made her cry out.

The shrill wail of the high priest, like a lost soul calling to other lost souls, had been a signal, all right. In answer to it, a horde of white-clad figures were pouring into the Egyptian wing—from where, Josh could not guess.

These wore robes not quite as ornate as the three in the wing. Underlings in priestcraft, evidently. Neophytes. But there were at least a score of them, and they were more to be feared than the dread three because their bodies were those of younger men.

As silently as their superiors, they moved. They converged on Josh and Nellie.

Josh’s long arms were smashing out. His fists were like black hammers as he slowly retreated before a group of the silent attackers.

Nellie had thrown two of them, and was fighting in the grip of three more. It was curtains, and they both knew it.

From just outside the wing came a sudden, scarcely human bellow. The sound filled the great barracks of the museum as if a bull had broken loose in there. It swelled as the maker of it rushed closer.

“Smitty!” shouted Josh, with a relief singing in his heart that went beyond words to describe. True, he didn’t know what even the giant could do against such a horde. But just the presence of Smitty, where he hadn’t been even hoped for, was like a draft of cold water down a parched throat.

The bellowing resounded in the doorway. Then the hulking figure of Algernon Heathcote Smith could be seen there.

The entire silent crew had turned, still holding Nellie and Josh, but no longer trying to hurt them. Two dozen to one—but that one looked as invincible as a battleship as he paused in the doorway.

Smitty began walking toward the horde. He got to the second doorway, made of the four great pillars and the massive lintel brought stone by stone from Egypt.

Josh and Nellie, almost at the same instant, brought into play all their trained litheness and strength, and with a sudden explosion of effort ripped free from their captors.

They streaked to the threshold where Smitty hulked. After them, murderously aroused now, raced the whole fiendish crew of temple dwellers.

Smitty’s great, arms shot out. His vast hands smacked solidly against two of the four pillars. His shoulders compressed, then began slowly to swell to their full, enormous width—forcing his rigid arms out as they did so.

There was a man called Samson. He destroyed himself and his enemies by the incredible feat of pushing two vast pillars apart and bringing a temple crashing down.

Smitty hadn’t quite that terrific a task, because the pillars were set only stone on stone, without cement, and bore only the stone slabs of the lintel instead of an entire building. But he was doing something that perhaps not another man alive could have done, just the same.

Under the mighty power of his massive arms and shoulders, the pillars were moving a little. You could hear the stones grinding together.

The left pillar tilted a very little, and the great stone slabs above slid with the move. And the racing horde of white-clad figures slowed and stared with dull eyes at the lintel.

Then they came on. Impossible for any mortal to move that mass.

Nellie could hear a low, continuous moaning sound of effort from the giant’s lips. She could see a few drops of blood squeeze slowly from around his fingernails as sinew and muscle refused to take that pressure unharmed.

“Get behind me,” panted Smitty.

Josh and Nellie squeezed past the straining form, and into the room beyond the Egyptian wing. There was a final heave of the big fellow’s body, with a snapping of tendons and a ripping sound as his arm muscles tore out the sleeves of his coat.

Then there was a low, beginning rumble.

The charging horde stopped so quickly that they almost fell. Then they began to scramble back.

Back away from the four pillars and the stone slabs.

Smitty leaped backward, too, across the threshold over which Josh and Nellie had just retreated. The giant was a near-three-hundred-pound mass of slabs of muscle, but he could move like a flyweight when he had to.

That agility saved his life now, which made him one up on Samson, who had destroyed himself as well as his enemies.

There was a final grinding noise, and then the roar of pillars and slabs as they smashed down like an avalanche on the museum floor. There was a second roar as the stone floor and the tons of rock fell into the basement.

A hole ten yards across yawned between Josh and Nellie and Smitty, and the white-clad horde. The three were saved. They made their leisurely way, with the temple murderers raging futilely behind them across the chasm, to the big bronze entrance. There they unbolted the ponderous locks and walked out.

CHAPTER XIII

Death From Above

In the case Nellie had carried down from the Bleek Street headquarters at The Avenger’s request, were many odd bits of apparatus. It was so light that a girl could handle it quite easily. And yet it had carefully selected utensils and chemicals that enabled Benson to perform marvelous laboratory feats.

He was performing one now, though his aides could not yet read the answer to the riddle.

The Avenger had set up a small atomic-bombardment cylinder that would have made any professional in the field of scientific research weep with envy and awe. Under the quartz lens at the open end of the light cylinder, on a slightly tilted little platform, Benson had placed a most common object.

It was an ordinary glass water tumbler, thick, plain—of the type to be picked up in any dime store. The tumbler was empty.

Josh and Mac, Smitty and Nellie and Rosabel, had discarded their belt radios. The invisible atomic bombardment would have ruined them if they were too close. But now they were all together, anyhow, so there would be no radio appeal for help from one of their number.

No such appeal as Smitty had barely heard, on his way to join Mac at Blessing’s house, and which had sent the giant racing to Braintree Museum like a vengeful landslide.

The atomic bombardment was snapping and crackling. No light came from the quartz lens, yet you got an impression of something streaming out just the same. That was because the rays given off as a by-product of the breaking down of uranium were invisible to the human eye.

The Avenger was slowly moving the lens back and forth, in a careful straight line, along the tilted side of the glass water tumbler. The molecules of the glass, exposed to the tremendous power of the atomic disruption, were, in theory at least, supposed to be rearranged by that slow and repeated movement. They were supposed to rearrange themselves in countless straight lines, by being, in a sense, “combed” smooth. Much the same result is achieved in polaroid glass by different methods.

Benson passed the odd lens up and down a hundred times or so. Then he repeated the process, but moved the vibrant cylinder from side to side, as if to comb the unseen molecules of glass forming the tumbler from a series of lines into a sort of screen.

The snapping and crackling stopped. The weird light from the upper end of the cylinder, that turned the normal room into a chamber that was like a look into the far future, died out.

Benson snapped on the ordinary lights. Then he went two rooms away and got his belt radio.

He warmed it up, and spoke into it.

“Hello!”

His aides looked at each other, puzzled.

Benson’s voice had seemed blurred. There had seemed to be an echo contained within it. It was as if, precisely as he said hello, someone else in the room had said something like “ayo.”

“How did you make your voice sound like that?” Mac asked, looking perplexed.

The Avenger did not answer. With the tiny radio in his hand, he left the room. They heard him go far down the hall, heard a door open and close in the far end of the house.

They looked at each other again.

“What on earth—” began Nellie.

A tinny, hardly recognizable voice sounded in the room. It said:

“Ayo.”

Smitty whirled on Mac.

“You Scotch joker,” he said. “What’s the idea of playing tricks on us?”

“Tricks?” said Mac. “Arrre ye daft? What tricks would I be playin’?”

“You said ‘Ayo,’ or something like that. You said it when the chief said hello a minute ago, and again now.”

“Whoosh, ye’re soft in the belfry—”

“Ayo!”

This time the sound had come even as the dour Scot—who was about as far from a joker as it is possible for a man to be—had been talking. So, he was ruled out.

Both Mac and Smitty whirled on Josh.

“Not guilty,” said the Negro.

He said it abstractedly, however, and he wasn’t looking at his astounded colleagues. He was looking at the now lifeless cylinder with the quartz lens, and at the water glass.

Mainly at the water glass.

“Ayo.”

The tinny sound came from the tumbler. Everyone in the room suddenly knew that. All five of them drew near it, fascinated.

And once more sound came from the commonplace thing that could be picked up in any dime store.

“Ayo.”

The door opened, and Benson came back in.

“Chief,” stuttered the giant Smitty, “th-that tumbler. How could it—”

He didn’t finish the question. And none of the others spoke.

The Avenger’s face was a frozen, cold waste of menace—toward someone. His eyes were like small ice disks with pale light behind them. When he looked like that, even his trusted aides dared not speak to him unless spoken to first. And it was when he looked like this that you forgot his normal size and build, and were convinced that he was a colossus who towered even over the tremendous Smitty.

Benson turned to Josh. There was no word about the tumbler.

“Josh, you say you saw the mummy, Taros’ son, walking last night?”

“Yes, sir,” nodded Josh emphatically. “I certainly did. It may sound impossible. But I’d swear to it before any jury—”

“You say the face was exposed,” mused Benson, eyes pale flares in his dead, white face. “From the description, it closely resembled the face of Gunther Caine’s son, Harold. But that’s not the important part. The significant thing is the exposure itself.”

“The linen bands were off the face,” nodded Josh.

Benson took up the phone, and called the curator, Gunther Caine.

“Please meet me at the museum as soon as you can,” he said crisply. “Yes, I know you told me there was no more to be done about the Taros relics. But I am going on with the investigation, just the same.”

There was a sound of Caine’s agitated voice. Then The Avenger spoke again. From his tone, this time, there was no appeal.

“You will meet me, Mr. Caine”—the words were like drops of ice water—“at the museum as soon as possible.”

The museum was peopled with its usual day-time crowd of information seekers. There were designers, busily stealing dress and industrial designs from the masterpieces of ancient peoples. There were students. There were the usual casual sightseers who didn’t know a broadax from a tibia but enjoyed roaming through the wonders of the past just the same.

The Avenger threaded his way among these, with Caine at his side.

Gunther Caine had repeated his insistence that the investigation be dropped, till the icy, deadly eyes swung on him. Just once! Now he walked silently beside Benson, glancing up at the death-mask face now and then, moistening dry lips, but making no more protests.

The Egyptian wing was closed, of course. Behind the barricaded door, workmen were repairing the collapse of the flooring that had occurred when four great pillars and two equally ponderous stone slabs fell on it.

Everyone agreed that the collapse of the pillars was most unusual. They had stood for six thousand years in their native Egypt, and had seemed as solid here in Washington, D. C.

Another odd thing was that this morning the museum’s prized ark of Typhon had been found in here, instead of in its accustomed place, two rooms away, where the history of religions was traced.

“Open the door,” said Benson to Caine, “and tell the workmen to leave for a few moments.”

Caine’s lips parted for a last request that nothing more be done about the lost amulets, but closed again meekly without a word. The Avenger’s pale, infallible eyes were on his like diamond drills. He couldn’t say what he wanted so badly to repeat.

He opened the door. The foreman of the crew knew him by sight, knew his position as head of authority at the museum.

“Good morning, sir,” the foreman said. “We’ll have this done by late afternoon, I think. Them columns made a mess when they fell, all right. The stone flags of this floor are four inches thick, and the columns smacked through ’em like they’d been paper—”

“Call your men out of the room for a moment, will you, please?” commanded Caine, after a nervous pause.

“Out of the—” muttered the foreman, looking surprised.

“Yes! Just for a little while. You can go in the next wing. I’ll call you when my friend and I are through in here.”

The men went out. Benson closed the door. Then he walked, with Caine trailing uncertainly behind him, to the cabinet containing the mummy and mummy-case of Taros’ son.

This was at quite a distance from the collapsed bit of stone floor. It hadn’t been disturbed in any way.

The Avenger stood before the cabinet which was the focal point, it seemed, of all the deadly, mysterious activity that had recently gone on in here. His eyes, like stainless steel chips in his death-mask countenance, were on the thing, staring through the glass lid at the withered shape, which had been human, in its gilded, form-fitting case.

Josh had said that the mummy walked, and Josh was too fearless to imagine such a thing, and had excellent eyesight. But the mummy had bands, innumerable yards of them, swathed around both legs, making them into a solid pillar. The thing couldn’t have walked that way.

Benson took out a screwdriver. He began unscrewing the lid of the cabinet, noting once more that the slight dust in the screw-slots proved conclusively that they had not been tampered with in recent hours.

“You can’t do that!” bleated Gunther Caine. “Even you, Mr. Benson—”

For an instant the pale and glacial eyes held his, then the work went on. The Avenger got the last screw out, and lifted the lid away from the cabinet with a ripple of effortless power flowing over his shoulders.

He looked long at the mummy again, without even glass intervening this time. A strange, dusty smell stole up from the withered thing. And the smell of incredibly old fabric.

“Really—” panted Caine.

The Avenger paid no more attention to the curator than if he hadn’t been there.

His hands, slim and of average size but with such steely power in their long fingers, lightly touched the yellowed linen bands around the mummy’s legs.

Some of the fabric crumbled at the mere touch. More of it broke, like dry-rotten paper.

Josh had said, and The Avenger believed it, that the swaths around the mummy’s legs had not kept it from walking. Well, these bands would. To permit the thing to walk, the bands must have been taken off the separately bound legs.

But that fragile, age-old fabric could never have been unwound and wound back again, and stayed whole.

Benson stared closely at the mummy’s swatched skull.

The ancient bands had been said to be off the “face” too, exposing it. But here the yellowed linen was even more fragile than at the legs. A little cloud of dust, that had been linen, rose and settled at the tick of Benson’s fingernail. There was a lot of dust behind the mummy’s skull.

The mummy’s head could not have been partially exposed. Yet Josh had sworn it had been.

With his eyes like pale points of flame in his paralyzed face, Benson turned from the cabinet and went toward the statue under whose elbow was the watchman’s call box.

A gurgling scream from Caine drew him swiftly back.

Caine pointed at the mummy with a shivering hand. His lips worked for several seconds before he could make words come out.

“It talked!” he babbled. “I heard it! The mummy talked!”

Benson stared at him as if seeing clear through his fuzzy brown eyes to the back of his skull.

“You’re sure of that?”

“Good heavens! Of course I’m sure!” Caine wiped sweat from his forehead. “I heard it as plainly as I hear you now.”

“What did it say?”

“I couldn’t quite make out—”

“Did it say: ‘The charms must be retrieved without violence, by all the loser’s worldly goods’?” asked Benson evenly.

Caine’s jaw dropped.

“How did you hear that, from twenty feet away? It was barely a whisper. Yet you heard—”

“Were those the words?”

Caine sighed raggedly.

“Yes! Those were the words.”

The Avenger nodded. He had not repeated the message because of the fact that his hearing was far keener than other men’s. He knew what the words were because it had been his voice that delivered them—not the mummy’s.

But now came more words, louder.

“Death shall visit those who interfere.”

Caine stared at the mummy with the look of a crazy man. The Avenger’s diamond-drill eyes fastened on it with equal intensity.

This time the words were not his.

“Death! Death! Death!”

There was a slight premonitory quiver, a small sound—and a ten-foot square of the ceiling crashed to the floor within a yard of the mummy case.

The ceiling of Braintree, like the floor, was made of thick stone slabs. Throughout, the building was constructed of materials designed to last for hundreds of years. The section that fell weighed probably half a ton.

It splintered the floor where The Avenger had been standing. It almost crashed through, as the Egyptian pillars had caved in the night before. Anything caught under that mass would have been pulverized.

But Benson wasn’t under it.

He had spent his life, since his teens, in jungle and wilderness, as has been said. Times without number his existence had been spared by his swift realization of something a little wrong, and his breath-taking quickness of physical reaction.

This was one of those times. With that first faint quiver, he had leaped like lightning as far from the spot as possible. From five yards away, he stared at the jagged heap that had been cut stone in a ceiling, and at the shivering, moaning Caine.

The Avenger’s face was as dead as a glacier in moonlight. But his eyes were alive; pale terrors in his death-mask countenance.

CHAPTER XIV

Taros and the Ring

In Nellie’s mind was vividly fresh the picture of the face that had bent over her when she lay, a sacrificial victim, beside the ark of Typhon.

The repulsive, hairless head, the eagle beak of a nose, the putty color of the lank, lantern-jawed countenance—these were things she kept seeing again and again.

Therefore, when she turned toward the Sixteenth Street mansion that evening to report a futile afternoon spent in watching Marlowe, and when she saw that same face on a gaunt body half a block ahead of her, she passed the door of Benson’s temporary headquarters without a second thought and went after the owner of the face.

Taros loose again! The high priest of ancient Egypt, wearer of the Ring of Power!

Only now the figure didn’t look much like old Egypt, or anything else mysterious.

Farnum Shaw, hairless skull covered by a modish gray felt hat, thin body clad in impeccable and very modern gray tweeds, looked like just what he was—a prosperous lawyer with a big corporation practice in the nation’s capital.

Nevertheless, there was that face, pleasantly molded now, but a mask of devilish murder last night. It seemed impossible that it could be the same face, and yet—

Nellie had more courage than most steeplejacks. And was more capable than most police captains. She trailed the owner of the amazing countenance without even a qualm at the thought of possible danger.

Shaw, it seemed, was out for a walk as much as merely to get somewhere. He went for at least a mile and a half across the diagonal streets of Washington dotted with small park-circles, before he got to his home. There, he took out his keys leisurely, not even looking around, and then went inside.

Shaw’s home looked bigger than it was, at first glance. That was because from the rear of it extended a big wing that was attached to the house and yet was not actually a part of it.

A second glance showed that it was a separate addition, almost along museum lines. In here, Nellie guessed, the man kept his Egyptian collection.

Nellie kept right on toward the house, and up to the front door. That door, she knew, was not locked. She knew because her pretty ears were almost as keen as The Avenger’s.

She heard the slam of the door when Shaw carelessly closed it, and had also heard the click of the lock. The click was flatter, less metallic than it should have been. She was pretty sure that it had not quite latched.

She tried the door and her conviction was confirmed. It swung open a little at her push. She stepped inside the place.

There were voices at the rear of the hall, then steps. Nellie quickly slipped into a downstairs closet as a man in butler’s livery came toward the front door.

The man reached in with the gray felt hat, and hung it on a peg, with his hand almost brushing the girl’s shoulder. Then he was gone again.

Nellie came out.

There was a rear door that, from the layout which had impressed itself on her mind from the outside, must lead into the large rear addition. She stole toward it. There was a cough as she got to the door. It seemed to come from her very elbow. But while she gazed rapidly around, she placed it.

Shaw was in the room behind the closed door, at her right.

With the coast clear, she opened the rear door and went in.

It was as she had thought. It was crowded in here with Shaw’s Egyptian relics. A regular private museum.

There were two mummy cases and mummies, almost as good as Braintree’s own. There was a carved sarcophagus. There were many cases of Egyptian jewelry, scarabs, seals, and the like. There was a corner literally walled with bits of fine bas-relief from ancient temples. There were other cases, only partially filled as yet, with ancient weapons.

Shaw, it was plain to be seen, had a very fine collection indeed. Now, if he had the Taros amulets—

The fact that the cases with Egyptian weapons in them were only partly filled, suddenly struck Nellie with a grave significance. It began to seem extremely important to her.

Her dainty hands went to her waist, and the belt radio came out. She dialed The Avenger, waited.

At Sixteenth Street, Benson sat before the table on which, some hours before, the atomic bombarding cylinder had been set up. He was staring straight ahead, with a look in the pale and awful eyes to give you the creeps. And he was talking, almost like a man in a state of self-hypnotism.

Quite often, in the unfolding of a deadly riddle he was working on, The Avenger would sum up what had occurred to date, and from the strange array of facts draw conclusions that usually no one else—that early in the game—could follow.

He was doing so now.

“The old Egyptians believed earnestly in reincarnation,” Benson’s cold, quiet voice enunciated. “They believed that the spirit of a strong man might live again and again, through the ages, in different bodies. The things that have happened here in Washington lately might almost seem to prove that.

“It looks as if the spirit of the high priest Taros had followed his amulets and the Ring of Power from the tomb of his son, across the Atlantic. It looks as if that spirit could inhabit at will the body of Farnum Shaw, whose physical appearance is strikingly like that of Taros as described in tomb murals. Furthermore, it would seem that other age-old spirits could control the movement of other modern men—Snead, who still lies in a coma, and Marlowe and Blessing. Furthermore, Smitty and Josh and Nellie have seen at least twenty others who appear to have leaped the ages from Rameses’ time. Reincarnation, in a way—”

Smitty gritted his teeth as he remembered the fantastic horde he had seen the night before. And he clenched his great hands as he remembered how nearly they had gotten diminutive Nellie Gray, who could twist the giant around her fragile fingers any time she pleased.

“There is the fact of the talking mummy,” Benson went on. “No mummy can talk. There wouldn’t be vocal cords or tongue to enunciate. Nothing could be heard, save by shrieking, through a heavy cabinet. Yet the son of Taros has been heard by several people, among them, myself.

“The mummy has also been observed to walk. Josh saw it, among others. Yet the mummy of Taros’ son could not possibly get out of the cabinet without leaving a trace. Also, if the linen bands were cleared from its legs to allow locomotion, and from the face to expose it, those bands would certainly show the disarrangement. And there are no such signs. The cabinet has certainly not been opened recently, save by myself, and the linen bands have not been touched.

“Again, every one reporting that the mummy had gotten loose, leaving only an empty cabinet behind it, has also said that the mummy case was gone, too. Not only the bandaged figure, but the heavy, gilded container in which he was lifted from his sarcophagus.

“The exposed face of Taros’ son has been reported as looking remarkably like the face of the son of Gunther Caine, curator of Braintree Museum.”

The Avenger followed that track for a moment.

“Harold Caine at first said he had suffered a curious headache. On a second occasion, he reversed his story and insisted that he never had. Harold Caine was the one person in Gunther Caine’s home that first night who was in a position to take the Taros relics. He has acted suspiciously ever since. So, in the last thirty-six hours, has his father.

“Finally there is the repeated message of the mummy, to the effect that the charms must be retrieved without violence and by the sacrifice of all ‘worldly goods’ which ‘he,’ the loser—in other words, Gunther Caine—hath. That message has been repeated several times for emphasis. Yet why would ancient Taros, if his is the voice that speaks through his son’s desiccated form, put such emphasis on lack of violence? Taros was one of the bloodiest priests in Egyptian history.”

The glacial, immobile voice stopped. The pale, intense eyes became as impersonal as the dead face. The Avenger was through with his mystic revery.

As usual, his aides felt as if they should know all the answers, after having the facts arrayed. And as usual, they didn’t glean a thing from them. The Avenger had. They knew that. But then the genius behind the death-mask face was far ahead of normal intelligence.

Benson took out his belt radio.

“Yes?”

Smitty listened too, on his own tiny set. Nellie was not here. This must be from her. And anything concerning Nellie concerned the giant.

“Chief, I am at Farnum Shaw’s house, in the addition in the rear, where he keeps his Egyptian things.”

Smitty scowled at the words in the dainty, sweet voice. That little blond hellion. She had been ordered only to watch Marlowe. He knew, because he had heard the order. But now, as she had done so often before, she had plunged into trouble on her own hook—

“I have just noticed something about that collection that I thought you might find interesting,” came Nellie’s guarded voice. “Some of the cases—”

There was no more. Nellie’s worlds shut off as if a blanket had been dropped over her! There was no concluding sound at all. Not even a crash.

Just a sudden, ominous silence.

In Shaw’s museum, Nellie had taken the precaution of seeking a hiding place before using the radio. She had chosen a rather grisly one.

The great stone sarcophagus in Shaw’s collection.

The huge stone box was near the door. Its lid was tilted above it at a slight angle to display the carving on it.

Nellie had crawled into it as into a stone coffin, so that the hushed sound of her voice on the tiny radio would be further muted.

She was reporting the discovery that had excited her.

“Some of the cases—”

She hadn’t heard one sound. But past her startled eyes, as she was intent on the radio, she saw a hand and arm flash. The hand was gaunt, emaciated, and so was the arm. And the arm was bare, protruding from a curious, ancient robe.

The radio was ripped from her grasp. She looked up—into the ghastly face of Taros.

She had only an instant’s glimpse. Then there was a crash that seemed to shake her very soul as well as the edifice around her.

The stone lid of the sarcophagus had crashed down.

She was shut in there; held in the ponderous stone coffin, with the great lid over it. She had crawled into the thing in the first place to hide the sound of her voice. Well, that would be accomplished, all right!

She could yell her head off in here, and no one outside the room would hear a whisper.

CHAPTER XV

Two Hours To Go!

This time the door of Shaw’s home was locked. But there was no effort on the part of The Avenger and his aides to pick the lock.

Nellie was in danger!

The giant Smitty walked quickly toward the door, and then just kept on walking, over its splintered length on the floor inside. He was a human tank when it came to doors.

Smitty and Mac, Josh and Benson, went to the back addition from which Nellie had spoken her last words. The giant pushed this locked door in, too, as if it had been cardboard.

They ranged around the place. A glance from the splintered doorway had showed that Nellie wasn’t in there, but they had to have a hint of where she had been taken.

The first thing that drew Smitty’s anguished eyes was the sarcophagus. He strode to it, and lifted the stone lid as if it had weighed a couple if pounds instead of about four hundred.

The stone coffin was empty.

“Go through the rest of the house,” said The Avenger to the three of them.

Then Benson began going over everything with his pale, microscopic eyes.

Nellie had started to say something about the cases. He soon discovered what she had learned: the glass cases containing Egyptian weapons were only a third filled, though there were little catalogue numbers under depressions in the velvet that indicated that the cases had recently been full.

Benson suddenly opened one of the empty cases, near the smashed door. In this, besides a few weapons, was a curious little metal thing.

It was of gold. It looked like a tiny golden egg, save that both ends tapered to an identical point instead of one end being a little larger than the other, as is the case with a true egg form. There were four depressed lines in the little gold object, running its length, from one tapered end to the other. On the side of it was a tiny gold loop with a single little gold link on it.

The Avenger slid it into his vest pocket. His three aides came back.

“Nowhere in the house,” said Smitty gloomily. “That killer, Shaw, has murdered her and disposed of the body.”

Benson stared again toward the cases so curiously emptied of weapons.

“Stay here for one hour,” he said. “If anyone comes to the house, hold him. I don’t expect anyone, but there might be. At the end of an hour, go to the Braintree Museum.”

For once, Smitty ventured to protest an order.

“But, chief, if Nellie’s in danger, and we stay here sitting around for a whole hour—”

The Avenger’s eyes were enough to stop him.

Benson had a point in mind worse than anything the giant could think up.

The Ring of Power.

It had been forty-six hours since it was renewed in the life blood of an innocent victim—the gardener of Senator Blessing. According to the ancient legend it must be renewed again, and swiftly.

Inside the next two hours the ring must be dipped in blood. Nellie had been held by the band from the past, and would be most conveniently at hand for the renewal.

“Braintree, in one hour,” he said to the chafing three, eyes expressionless as ice in his death-mask face. “Steal in—the door will be unlocked—and remain unseen no matter what you see.”

The gray steel bar of a man left, and drove back to the Sixteenth Street house.

The merchant, Snead, was still in an upstairs room, still in a coma. Benson went to that room bearing a small case like an overnight bag. This case, in addition to the case containing the portable laboratory, Nellie had brought down from Bleek Street.

The Avenger opened it.

In the top tray were dozens of pairs of tissue-thin glass eye-shells with various colored pupils painted on them. There were also all the other aids to makeup ever invented.

The inside of the lid was a mirror. Benson propped that beside the face of the unconscious Snead. Looking first at Snead’s face, and then at his own white, dead countenance in the mirror, Benson’s steely fingers began to work.

They prodded the dead flesh of his paralyzed face. And where that flesh was pressed, it stayed, as if it had been living plastic. The nerve shock that had paralyzed his facial muscles had also done something to the flesh consistency so that it had no life or volition at all, and it stayed where it was put.

Benson’s forehead seemed subtly to broaden and become a bit lower. His nose straightened a trifle till it made a line with his altered forehead. His nostrils took on sightly more flare.

In a moment, The Avenger was not The Avenger. He was another man; and when he pressed over his colorless eyeballs two thin glass cups with pupils like Snead’s painted on them, he could not have been recognized at all.

Nellie Gray had been here before. She knew that with the first glimpse of returning consciousness, even though “here” was the most exotic place imaginable.

She had gone back six thousand years, it seemed, and was in an Egyptian temple. There were the great pillars, and the stone slabs of a lintel. There was the ark of the Evil One, Typhon.

And there were the many priests who tended the temple.

Then her clearing brain figured it out. The museum, of course. Those pillars were the ones Smitty had spread apart, now set up again. The priests and the ark she had seen before, when they intended to kill her.

It looked as if, now, those intentions were to be made good. Death, it appeared, had only been delayed a little when Smitty rescued her before.

Before, Nellie had aided herself a bit by twisting from a descending knife blade. This time she wouldn’t be able to twist from anything. She was tightly bound.

She had found that out a minute ago when she tried to move. She was bound hand and foot, and lying on her side on the cold stone floor.

Something moved near her. She looked up, and saw the girl, who accompanied these mad shapes, in her gauzy priestess raiment. Tall and slenderly rounded, face calmly, coldly beautiful, the girl stood next to Nellie, and stared down at her.

“Help me!” whispered Nellie, appealing as one of the fair sex to another. “These men want to kill me. Help—”

Nellie stopped her appeal. There was no glint of comprehension—or of humanity—in the priestess’ brown eyes at all. Nellie was talking to a stone statue as far as response went.

Nellie stared at the lovely, bizarre face. She got the same crazy impression Smitty had: This girl was not just made up as an Egyptian priestess, she was an Egyptian priestess.

The dread word breathed itself in Nellie’s mind:

Reincarnation.

Nellie was no longer in any doubt about it. The man, Shaw, might be a well-known lawyer in his waking moments. But in reality he was Taros, reverting to ancient type in subconscious periods. Similarly with Blessing and Marlowe and this girl, and the other priestly forms swarming in the Egyptian wing.

These were actually forms from the dim past, living their ghostly lives in the night, when their modern, physical counterparts were unconscious in slumber.

And the mummy that walked?

Nellie shuddered at all the implications of this. The walking, talking mummy went beyond the theory of reincarnation. It went clear into the realm of the supernatural.

The priestly figures weren’t doing anything. They weren’t even looking at Nellie; had paid no attention to her since dumping her here on the stone floor. Gradually this very lack of attention began to seem to the girl to be worse than attempts on her life.

That was because of the message it gradually began to spell out to her. This whole thing was a trap.

She had been allowed to see Shaw—or Taros—in modern tweeds, walking along the Washington street. She had been allowed to enter the conveniently unlocked door, and allowed to give one call for help.

This was to trap not only Nellie—but all the rest.

They were using her as bait, and she had been thoughtless enough to fall into the thing. It was the only meaning possible to be read in the present scene—herself ignored, priests swelled in numbers, all gazing now and then at the door to the Egyptian wing.

The nature of the trap? Well, she thought she could even guess at that.

Every one, save the girl in priestess’ raiment, was staying a long way from Nellie. So the danger spot must be right in her vicinity. Another collapse, perhaps? Or an explosive bomb planted right under her?

Nellie closed her eyes and uttered up some soundless prayers that Smitty and Josh and Mac and the chief would guess this was a trap—and stay away.

Nellie was like that. Rather than risk the lives of the others, she preferred to pass out herself, the hard way.

Even as Nellie was hoping fervently that the others would not show up here where they would be outnumbered six or seven to one, they were stealing through the shaded grounds outside the building.

That is, Mac and Josh and Smitty were. The Avenger, himself, was not with them.

“Wonder when the chief’ll join us?” whispered Josh—a black spot in the late night darkness.

“He didn’t say,” Smitty whispered back. “Just told us to head for here an hour after getting into Shaw’s place.”

The giant’s fingernails were gnawed about to the quick. The inactive wait in the lawyer’s house had been the hardest thing Smitty had ever done. Nellie in danger! And they sat there like lumps on a pickle!

But it had been The Avenger’s orders; and they knew he always had a sound reason behind even the most perplexing of his commands.

Now they were near Braintree, and Smitty was aching for action.

“Whoosh!” whispered Mac suddenly, clutching the giant’s arm.

“Tis company we’re havin’.”

The three sank into the shadow of a great tree. And past them filed the figures Mac had seen a moment ago coming toward them.

Five dim figures in the flowing garb of Egyptian priests.

They went, in a sort of soundless, funereal procession past where the three hid, and approached the great bronze door of the museum. The door opened as they got to it. They passed through, and the door shut again.

“The ghosties are walkin’,” nodded Mac. “That’s where they’ll be havin’ Nellie, all right—in yon barracks. But how are we to get into the place? Those thick doors are—”

Smitty shrugged vast shoulders.

“The chief said the door would open to us,” he reminded them.

And neither Josh nor Mac said a word to that. If The Avenger said a thing would be thus and so, that was always precisely the way it was.

They got to the doors, taking a lot more time than the five priestly shapes, to be sure that unseen eyes in the tree-shadows might not spot them. Smitty softly tried the door.

It swung open, unlocked as Benson had promised.

They stepped into cavernous darkness, lighted only dimly by a few bulbs in concealed place. They skirted the walls of the main rotunda, two succeeding rooms, and got near the door of the Egyptian wing.

“Maybe we’d better wait for the chief here,” whispered Josh.

Mac chewed his lip uncertainly. They’d had no orders on that point.

“First,” said Smitty softly, “we’ll see if Nellie’s all right. That’s the most important thing. I’ll just go on and have a peek through the door—”

The Scotchman’s bony hand clamped on his vast arm.

“No, ye don’t, you man-mountain,” he said. “I know ye. A look at the girrrl, in a little trouble, maybe, and ye’d start tearin’ the buildin’ apart. Then maybe we’d be caught. And we’d do nobody good, captured. Josh, ye can keep your head. You go look through yon doorway, and come back and report.”

The Negro slid wordlessly ahead a little. He got to a big glass case in which half a dozen auks were grouped in a lifelike way. He stared from behind the case into the Egyptian wing. Meanwhile Mac held Smitty’s arm in a firm clutch.

However, the grasp on the giant’s arm was destined to be no more detaining than a spider web to an eagle.

Smitty was watching Josh’s dark face like a hawk for reactions, and he saw one the instant the Negro looked inside.

Josh stiffened, and his jaw stuck out in a furious but frightened line.

It meant just one thing. Nellie was in there, and she was in peril!

That was enough for Smitty.

Mac, trying to retain the grip on Smitty’s arm, found himself sailing bodily through thin air as the giant slung his arm around. Josh, behind the case, saw something like an enraged King Kong streak for the door and inside the Egyptian wing.

“That does it,” said Mac grimly. “The overgrown lump of muscle—”

But there was no hesitation in the Scot’s moves. Nor in Josh’s. Smitty had pulled a boner, leaping in like that. But very promptly they followed, to help him out of it if possible.

They found that it wasn’t possible.

Very neatly, and with no word of command necessary, the bizarre figures, within, shut the trap they had baited with Nellie’s bound body.

After Smitty had charged roaring under the pillars and stone lintel, and Josh and Mac had followed, a dozen of the priestly shapes marched from a side wall and shut the door of the wing. They ranged themselves in front of it. Another fourteen or fifteen, beyond the three, wheeled and started marching toward them.

A small army ahead of them, a small army behind them cutting off escape! That was what Smitty’s mad rush had resulted in.

The trap was sprung and the trap was unbeatable!

CHAPTER XVI

Vengeance of Taros

Josh and Mac and Smitty hadn’t time to get their guns out—and the others of course had no guns. Guns weren’t in existence by some thousands of years when Egypt was young.

The priestly horde had the weapons of their ancient priestcraft, but even these they did not draw, for some reason. Like a crew of crazed fanatics they rushed on the three temple intruders to tear them apart barehanded.

That suited Smitty right down to the ground. Where bare-handed tearing was concerned, he was well equipped to take part.

He didn’t wait for anybody to reach him. He stepped forward toward the rush, to be overwhelmed and knocked down as a bear is overwhelmed in the surf by a great wave.

But even as the bear presently emerges on the other side, swimming strongly, so Smitty soon emerged.

As he went down, he had found a throat with one hand and a thigh with the other. It had taken a little regretful effort to squeeze on the throat with a little less pressure than on the thigh. But he had managed it. If he hadn’t, the neck in his grasp would have snapped like a match stick.

As it was, the man grabbed by the neck went suddenly limp, while the man grabbed by the thigh suddenly screamed in pure frenzy as it seemed to him that all the muscle of his upper leg was squeezed quivering through the skin.

What Smitty took hold of usually disintegrated.

He released the two, and got two more men, by the shoulders this time. The heads of the two priests of old Egypt proved just as fragile—when knocked together—as the heads of anybody in 1940 A.D.

Meanwhile, Mac was swinging fists like bone mallets, and Josh was putting up his usual black-tiger fight.

Mac smashed a grinning face beyond all hope of comely repair, and then got in a heart blow on another man. The two retreated for a much-needed intermission.

Josh tripped a too-enthusiastic figure in flowing white and there was a scream as that figure fell on a copper dagger strapped at its waist. The Negro swung from his knees with his flashing right fist, and broke the jaw of the grim shape next to the first one.

And still none of the temple servers drew their daggers or other ancient weapons.

Smitty had worked up to his feet again, a perfect mound of struggling humanity as men clung to his legs and arms and broad back to tear him down. He mashed two against the wall by lunging backward, and shook off two more by swinging his arms together so that the man on the right knocked the breath from the body of the man on the left, and vice versa. He got to Mac and Josh.

The three men fought there, facing outward so that they formed a swaying, formidable triangle. But the end was foreordained, and it was hastened when at last the horde drew knives that gleamed dull gold in the dim light.

But still they did not use blades nor points.

The knives, large and heavy, with metal handles, were menacingly clubbed. A heavy handle caught Josh on the forehead and he groaned and staggered. Another hammered down on Mac’s shoulder when the Scot was agile enough to miss getting it on the top of the skull. Several glanced from Smitty’s lofty cranium.

Nellie, bound, fifty feet away, had been crying her encouragement. Now she stopped. The time for encouragement was past!

Mac and Smitty and Josh were down, each swarmed over by half a dozen ferocious priests. The writhing mounds moved a little more, and then were still. The horde drew back.

The trap had been perfectly competent to handle them. The odds were such that even three such as The Avenger’s aides had had no chance.

They began to bind the three slugged men. Then they dragged them—looking almost like mummies, themselves, so many coils of rope were around them—to where Nellie lay helpless.

The four were placed in the immediate vicinity of the fateful mummy that could talk and walk.

Then, almost before Nellie could get her wits back, there was a slight commotion at the door of the wing. It opened, and two of the priestly shapes came in dragging one more person. At sight of this one, Josh was to groan aloud when he came to.

It was Rosabel, the Negro’s pretty wife. They’d gotten her from the Sixteenth Street mansion where she was pretending to be an ordinary maid in the service of The Avenger, meanwhile keeping an eye on the other servants to be sure no treachery was buried there.

With Rosabel, the roundup was complete—save for The Avenger, himself. Every one of his aides here, tied and helpless at the foot of the cabinet containing the mummy of Taros’ son. But the man with the dead face and pale, deadly eyes was still not caught. And while he was free, somewhere outside this trap, there was hope.

Nellie heard a light tap from the cabinet enclosing the mummy. The tap came from right beside her, close enough for her to touch the spot with extended, bound arms. She shuddered as she had the thought that the mummy, stirring within, must have made it. Then she found the cause.

Her fingers, cautiously searching in such a way that her body would hide the activity from the priestly mob, touched a curious little throwing knife. It had a hollow tube for a handle, was sticking lightly in the wood.

It was Ike, The Avenger’s knife.

Nellie had a moment of wild hope. Benson was somewhere among that maniac crew. Or else was hidden somewhere behind statue or sarcophagus. The chief had thrown the knife, lightly, to her, from among their enemies.

The wild hope died in Nellie’s breast. An even greater despair settled there. With Benson here, the roundup was complete! And hopeless. What could even The Avenger do against this weird army of ancient priestcraft?

Nellie’s bound hands busied themselves almost of their own accord. Meanwhile, she looked around the great room.

A dozen or more of the mob had gone to their post beside the door again, ready to cut off retreat when the last expected member of the enemy entered—ready to capture the man with the white hair and the dead face when he did show up.

In the meantime, four of the robed shapes held themselves aloof, as leaders do. The four were Shaw, Snead, Marlowe and Blessing. Or, rather, Taros and three of his head priests.

Nellie’s eyes went to the left hands of these four. The Ring of Power! One of these four would be wearing it. Almost certainly Taros. And Nellie was as aware—as The Avenger had been—that the time of its renewal was almost up. Very nearly forty-eight hours had passed since the ring had been dipped in blood.

But no one of the four had the ring on his hand.

Nellie started looking at the hands of the others. They shifted around so, and there were so many of them, that it was a difficult job. But at last she spotted it.

One of the ordinary rabble of under-priests had on the fateful ring, which seemed odd. The legend had been that the leader, Taros, must himself always wear that charmed circlet with the cornelian seal in it.

The person wearing it was tall, rather heavily built, keeping very much in the background and in shadow.

Nellie bit half through her lip to repress a scream. The door was opening again. But it was not Benson’s familiar form that came in, as she had been fearing.

The man who entered was Gunther Caine!

The curator, whatever his reason for being here, provided the one sane note in an otherwise mad world.

Caine was dressed in an ordinary business suit, not in an outlandish costume used thousands of years ago. He had on an ordinary and reassuring felt hat. And in his hand was the most common article of all: a rather battered and bulging suitcase.

Caine walked up to the little group of four. The reincarnated beings with the faces of Blessing and Snead and Marlowe stepped back a pace. But Shaw—Taros—stepped forward, eagle beak arrogantly high and hairless skull dully shining in the poor light.

Caine was carefully looking away from the still bodies of The Avenger’s aides. He kept his eyes toward Taros. But a moment later his gaze went on past Taros’ gaunt shoulder and a choked cry came from his lips. At the same time, Nellie heard steps, measured and clear, from the blank end of the wing. She turned her head that way too—and a gasp came to her lips.

The mummy was coming toward them!

Swathed legs moving with the slow precision of clockwork, ancient linen bands cleared from the face enough to show shallow blue eyes and a vacuous, cruel countenance, it advanced on the group.

“Harold!” screamed Gunther Caine, staggering back a step. “Harold! My son!”

Taros spoke, then, voice sepulchral and slow.

“Not your son. My son. Dead these centuries, and coming back to life as I have come back to life. For what matter whose the body, when the soul and spirit are those of us?”

The museum curator looked about to fall in a faint. But he managed to keep upright, staring at the dreadful appearance of his son.

Taros’ long, gaunt arm came out.

“I’ll take the case,” he said.

Caine shoved the suitcase forward, dully, eyes ever on the mummy.

But another voice sounded.

“No. I’ll take the case.”

Nellie really did cry out that time. But her voice was lost in the uproar that followed.

That had been The Avenger speaking. The Avenger, somewhere in the center of all this. Nellie’s gray eyes went over face after face to try to find him.

It was one of the underling priests who yelled it out.

“It’s Snead! He’s our man.”

“That’s not Snead. Snead lies, out of his mind, at Benson’s place!”

There was a roar, and a rush. And the priest with the face of Snead leaped clear of the small group, and flung the suitcase to the far end of the wing with a flirt of his steely wrist.

The face might be Snead’s. But only The Avenger could display such effortless power, could move so fast.

Nellie’s clear voice rang out.

“We’re ready!”

She had used Ike, the throwing knife, well. Her own bonds were cut by the razorlike blade, and also those of the rest. And Mac and Smitty and Rosabel had regained consciousness, though continuing to lie with closed eyes. Josh had not recovered yet.

The Avenger stood near them, now, and near the cabinet housing Taros’ son. He took the disguising eyecups from his eyeballs. His colorless, infallible eyes glared at the oncoming mob. And in spite of themselves they slowed and halted.

But Taros, gaunt and vulture-skulled, came slowly on, hands outstretched.

“You shall die,” he said. “You and all your friends. It is the vengeance of Taros.”

CHAPTER XVII

The Golden Egg

The sepulchral voice of the thing from thousands of years in the past boomed like a death knell in the great museum room.

“Your friends, man called The Avenger, have not been marked by weapons in any way. That was because they are to be found dead, apparently by accident, in the morning—along with yourself.”

The emaciated form stopped, a dozen yards from Benson and his little group.

“Twice there have been collapses here,” Taros boomed.

“One fall was that of the pillars, taking some of the floor with it. The other was the collapse of a small section of roof. As far as the public knows, those were accidental. If a third occurs, that, too, will be held accidental.”

Nellie clenched her hands. She had guessed right in thinking that she probably lay near the danger spot of the trap.

“I shall not tell you the exact nature of the trap,” Taros rapped out. “Naturally, I would not do that. You and your friends are phenomenally quick. I shall not forewarn you. Suffice it to say that some hours from now all of you shall be found with tons of stone having crushed you down, and with no marks of knife or bullet on your bodies. Thus shall the vengeance of the tomb be complete—”

Benson’s icy voice cut across the theatrical booming like a stream of cold water.

“Vengeance of the tomb? Your act has turned into a pure joke, my friend.”

There was a hush—furious and puzzled on the part of Taros, bewildered on the part of all the other priestly forms. Benson, face and garments still those of Snead, turned to where Gunther Caine stood.

“Caine, will you stand there and see a slaughter, or will you stand with us?”

The question rang out like a pistol shot. Caine started and stared wildly at The Avenger.

“You might as well die, Caine, as continue to live in the center of a plot that has grown so monstrous against you. Disgrace faces you, however you act. Perhaps even the electric chair. You may save your life for a little while, but that saving will do you no good. Come, stand with us. And lead the thing with the face of your son, with you.”

Caine sighed deeply, and his shoulders sagged. He had gone beyond despair and into a resignation that numbed his will.

He went to the mummified form, which was standing like an automaton near Taros. He took the swathed, outstretched hand, and led the figure toward Benson.

Taros laughed harshly, making no move to stop this.

“You do not realize how much you are helping me, it would seem. Yes, Caine, stand with the others. And the mummy, too. Also, while you are about it, you may have our charming high priestess.”

The gaunt form turned to the girl in the gauzy raiment. Taros pointed. The high priestess followed the direction of his finger, walking till she got to the cabinet made for the mummy of Taros’ son. There she stood, docilely.

The Avenger said something then that made no sense at all to the tense group beside him, next to the mummy cabinet.

“And the other two with you, Taros. The ones with the faces of Marlowe and Blessing. Shall they live on? Or shall they share the fate of the rest of us?”

Taros stared from under hairless brows at The Avenger for a long time, while all in the room held their breaths. Something was occurring here that had no meaning for any but the man with the colorless, terrible eyes and the thing in the high priest’s robe.

Taros seemed almost to be listening for counsel from hell, or to brother spirits from the ancient past. Then he turned to the two named by Benson, and motioned them to the cabinet also.

“It is indeed desirable that they stand with you,” he agreed silkily, voice sepulchral and sardonic.

The Avenger’s aides couldn’t get it at all. But they got something else.

Benson’s left hand, hanging easily at his side, had been moving rapidly. The fingers were spelling out words in the one-handed shorthand sign language cultivated by adept deaf mutes.

The letters formed had spelled: Be ready to jump back—far back—when I give the word.

Now what did that mean? The farthest back they could jump would be about ten feet. Then they’d get to the wall. Wouldn’t it be far better, since they were stealthily freed of their bonds and their enemies did not yet know it, to make a surprise attack? True, they had been beaten down once by sheer weight of numbers. But a second time they might win.

However, no one of The Avenger’s aides had any idea of disobeying the sign-language command. Benson had said to be ready to jump back the few feet possible, and that was what they would do.

They made a strange group. There were Mac and Josh and Smitty, Nellie and Rosabel, lying seemingly bound but actually freed by Ike. There was Gunther Caine in his prosaic business suit, a hopeless, white-faced man. There was the mummy, like an automaton, and the forms in priests’ garb with the faces of Doctor Marlowe and Senator Blessing. There was the man who so bewilderingly had Snead’s face, but from whose made-up countenance glared the pale and awesome eyes of The Avenger.

Then, on the other side of the wide strip of bare stone floor, was Taros, stepped from an ancient tomb. And behind him, the mob of priestly underlings.

Mac suddenly checked an exclamation.

This was the first time they’d had a chance to observe these underlings for any length of time; and the things Mac now sensed about them lit a flare in his mind.

Mac hated men who looked like rats. And these men, Egyptian robes or no Egyptian robes, looked just like that. But there was more than intuition. Mac had twice seen one of their number reach a wistful hand toward an armpit—where a shoulder-holster would be if shoulder-holsters had been in vogue in Rameses’ days.

“Whoosh!” muttered the Scot. “So that’s how it is!”

Taros, perhaps, had come from the grave. But not these others. Mac suddenly knew that.

These others were simply modern gangsters looking uncomfortable and more than a little foolish in things like old-fashioned night shirts. And feeling lost because they had crumby-looking ancient weapons instead of nice modern automatics.

Benson’s voice suddenly cracked out.

“Drop it, Moen!”

The Avenger’s aides stared at each other with wide eyes. Moen? Moen! Where did his name figure in this? And why was it on the tongue of their chief?

Then they saw.

Some distance off, at the blank end of the wing, lay the suitcase brought by Gunther Caine and thrown there by The Avenger. Toward this suitcase had been creeping one of the horde of phony priests.

The man had almost had his hand on the case when The Avenger called.

He turned, snarling, toward Benson, keeping his face in shadow.

The rest gawked at him, with several murmurs of surprise coming from their ranks. Evidently, only to a few of the horde was the name of one of the three directors of the board of the museum known.

“Come out of the shadows, Moen,” snapped Benson. “Let your men see you and get acquainted with their real leader.”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” growled the man who had tried to get away with the suitcase. “I ain’t—”

“You left your calling card at Shaw’s,” The Avenger said, voice as icy as his pale eyes. “You left it in one of the cases you looted in order to provide authentic weapons for your mobsters. This, Moen.”

And Benson held up the little golden egg he had found in Shaw’s private museum.

A little thing that was not quite like an egg, at that, because both ends tapered similarly. An object with four equidistant, depressed lines, to represent seams, from end to end; and with a small gold loop in its side to hold it to a gold chain.

A tiny gold football, given for merit on the football field, years ago.

Profanity like a steady, cold drip of acid came from the man near the suitcase. And then Nellie and Smitty and Mac found themselves looking at Taros again.

The high priest had been standing motionless through this encounter. In a way, he had been standing almost as the robot-like mummy was standing, without life of his own, without volition.

He stirred again, suddenly, as if waking from a trance.

“Enough!” he boomed. “The vengeance of Taros begins.”

His gaunt arms started to go up, in the dread invocation that had knocked Smitty, and several others, silly. But they never reached that gesture.

The Avenger’s right hand flashed to knee and back again. In it was Mike, the little special .22.

It whispered its vicious message from its silenced little muzzle. And Taros fell, with a shallow gash on the exact top of his hairless skull where Mike’s leaden pea had glanced from bone and knocked him unconscious.

Then there was silence for a moment, and a strange incomprehension on the part of the rest as to what in hell “Taros’ vengeance” really was, and how to start it working.

The silence was broken by the man at the far end of the wing. Moen, husky ex-football star, came bounding toward where Taros lay.

He faced Benson over the high priest’s prone body.

“All right,” Moen snarled, “you’ll get it in plain English instead of ancient Egyptian. You’re going to die, and the others with you. But first, toss over that gold football.”

“I see,” said Benson, colorless eyes glinting in the dead mask of Snead’s face. “Our bodies are to be found crushed by tons of debris. But this little trinket, linking you to the tragedy, is not to be found. Is that it?”

“Toss it here!” screamed Moen, insane with rage.

The Avenger stared at his distorted face, and then at the athletic charm.

“It had to be one of you three directors,” he said calmly, “or Gunther Caine. Only you four have keys to Braintree that would unlock those great doors at night so all this masquerade could take place. Gunther Caine, as victim, was automatically eliminated, leaving Spencer or Evans or Moen. Spencer and Evans are ordinary business men, much too ignorant of Egyptology to have the knowledge required for this pretense. So I didn’t need the football, Moen, to place you as the ringleader.”

“Throw me that thing, or I’ll come and take it!”

“I would like to have you try,” retorted Benson.

Moen swallowed some of his rage.

“I’ll have the men here take it. There are enough of them—”

He started to turn to the gang.

“Don’t,” The Avenger advised calmly. “I can easily swallow this. Then it would take you a lot of time to recover it, besides having a battle in which perhaps our bodies would be so marked that the police would know this was murder, in the morning, instead of accident.”

Moen was incoherent with the twist things had taken. He had had the game in his own hands, and suddenly it was a stalemate. His plans had literally laid an egg. A golden egg. He had to find a way to shift out of it.

CHAPTER XVIII

The Egg Hatches

The terrible predicament in which the members of Justice, Incorporated, found themselves was not, of course, changed by this delay contrived by The Avenger. Death yawned for them, somehow, at Moen’s fingertips. They knew that. And they knew that if he couldn’t figure out a way to get the gold football in advance, he’d send them to death, anyhow. The man dared not risk leaving them alive. Better to chance the discovery of the football with their bodies than that.

But meanwhile there was a short and baffled respite. And in it, Benson continued to push his slight advantage, respite. And in it, Benson continue to push his slight advantage.

“Do you men happen to know what is in that suitcase?” his clear, icy voice queried. The gangsters in priests’ garb stared harder at him.

“In the case,” The Avenger said, “are several million dollars in cash. This man”—he nodded toward Moen—“was going to walk off with that, and perhaps give you a few thousand for your work—through his dummy, Shaw—afterward.”

The men began to mutter, and stare at Moen.

“He lies!” Moen yelled. “There’s nothing like that in the case—”

Half a dozen of the mobsters were streaking for the suitcase.

“Stop!” screamed Moen. “You fools! Can’t you see this man is only trying to get you to fight among yourselves? I promise we’ll all share and share alike in this.”

The men continued after the suitcase.

“It’s a promise I’ll have to live up to,” argued Moen, white-faced. “Can’t you see that? You know who I am, now. I’ll have to be on the level with you. Leave the case alone till we get rid of this bunch, or we’ll all hang.”

The men stopped their greedy rush, and one shrugged. There was hard-boiled logic in the words. This newly-discovered leader was in no position to double-cross them.

But The Avenger, master psychologist that he was, was not through stirring them up.

“You’ve been dupes from the start,” he told the men. Moen was trying to talk, to exhort them, but Benson’s cold, powerful voice drowned him out. “From the beginning Moen has planned to get millions in blackmail, and to give you only a few crumbs. Then you, and others, were to take the rap if anything went wrong.

“An army of dupes.

“Harold Caine was made to steal the Taros amulets and ring because he was drugged, or hypnotized, or both. He was first exposed through his infatuation for Anna Lees, also a puppet of Moen’s.”

Nellie stared at the high priestess near her. Anna Lees was looking at Benson without a single glint of comprehension in her eyes—a machine answering only to the will of the one who held control of her conscious brain.

“With the Taros relics stolen, Moen proceeded to blackmail Gunther Caine. The loss was his sole responsibility. He could be ruined by it. He was to turn over all of his own large fortune, and as much of the museum’s million-dollar-a-year appropriation as he could lay his hands on. There must be nearly three million dollars in that suitcase.”

Beside him, Gunther Caine nodded heavily. In his fuzzy brown eyes could be read the certain knowledge of death. He was ready for it, and nothing else mattered.

“Caine refused to give in, at first. Then it was proved to him that his own son was the thief and could be prosecuted as such. That broke him, and he started getting the money together, and at the same time tried to call me off the trail.

“His son Harold didn’t really know whether he had stolen the things or not. His drugged trance was too deep. But he suspected something of the kind, and knew that Anna Lees figured in it somewhere. He went to see her, but she couldn’t explain anything. All she knew was that she’d been having odd headaches—from the hypnotic drug, though she didn’t know that.

“Moen had picked up other stooges. Shaw, chancing to look very much like old Taros, and Blessing and Snead and Marlowe, with Egyptian-type features, were rung in on the druggings, too. They obeyed Moen’s commands, and woke only to vague fears that something was terribly wrong, but they didn’t know just what. And they woke also to a conviction that they had better keep their trouble secret, because they might be doing unspeakable things in the deep sleep that was beyond their understanding.

“These four, and the girl, Anna, roamed the night, doing the will of Moen. But it seemed that Snead got too large a dose one night. He staggered out to find me—with the extra amount of the hypnotic drug acting as its own antidote and clearing his brain a little. He is still unconscious from it—perhaps will die.”

Moen had stopped trying to drown out Benson’s voice. He was glaring at The Avenger, with a growing look of cunning on his wolfish face.

“All the theatricals about ancient Egypt were to hide the blackmail motive. Moen’s use of this temple had a twofold reason: to have a meeting place to gather you men, and at the same time to advance his theatrical gag. The ignorant would be frightened away through superstitious terror. Those with courage enough to investigate would be killed by Moen’s dupes—these drugged victims—and you men, who were supposed never to know that man named Moen was involved, and who were to get just a few dollars out of the millions.”

The gang in uncomfortable priests’ robes began to mutter again. But even this did not disturb Moen, who continued to stare at The Avenger with the look of cunning spreading on his face. There was a foretaste of triumph there, too.

“If anything fell through, the drugged victims—and the rest of you—would be judged insane from the way you were cavorting around, and would take the rap. That rap would include the murder of a watchman and of Senator Blessing’s groundsman to renew the Ring of Power. You really believe in that, don’t you, Moen?”

The ex-football star glanced down at his hand, where the Ring of Power, quite pale now, glinted in the dim light.

“I wonder if you realize,” said Benson, “that the ring has not been dipped in blood for more than its accustomed forty-eight hours? That makes you vulnerable, Moen.”

Moen’s right hand was at his chest. His face was lowering a little toward the hand.

The Avenger went on. He was stalling for time, his aides knew. He was figuratively holding the hands of time back from the moment when their doom was to strike.

“Moen didn’t even let Caine know his identity. He made his blackmail request through the ‘talking’ mummy. The loser of the Taros charms was to get them back by paying for them with all his worldly goods! Caine knew what that meant, all right. He—”

The Avenger was a methodical genius at forestalling criminal action. But even he could slip, now and then. He did now! The slip occurred because he didn’t happen to think that there might be in existence other tiny radios much like those of Smitty’s design.

But there were. And Moen had one. The sets were nothing like Smitty’s. But they were small, and fairly good at short range.

Moen had a small transmitter under the robe at his chest. And the drugged puppets he had manipulated each had a perfected crystal set which was permanently tuned only to his wave length.

Benson had seen Moen’s chin sink toward his chest, but had not read the gesture correctly. And the light was too dim to permit even him to see that Moen’s lips were moving slightly.

Moving in a command—which was heard by the unwilling priestess, Anna Lees.

“Get the gold football from his hand!”

The Avenger’s attention had been riveted on the men in front of him—the enemy. Even Nellie’s quick cry was not enough to warn him.

There was a flashing move by the girl in the gauzy robe. Then the gold football had been jerked from his fingers and tossed to Moen.

Moen caught it deftly, and grinned murderously at Benson. He stared at Benson’s face, made up like Snead’s. And so he did not see Benson’s left hand.

It was signaling his aides: “Be ready!”

Smitty lying on his side and still pretending to be bound, was staring searchingly at his chief’s pale eyes. It seemed to the giant that Benson had lost the damning gold football a little more easily than was natural.

Moen was standing precisely where Shaw had stood when he started to raise gaunt arms in a death invocation and was creased by Mike.

Moen’s arms, too, started to go up. And without a word having been spoken, every person there knew that death was about to be loosed!

“You’re forgetting the ring, Moen!” The Avenger said, voice as hard and glacial as his colorless eyes. “The time of its renewal is past. You are vulnerable!”

Moen’s arms faltered. The man believed in the powers of the cornelian seal; believed in it to such an extent that two people had been killed so that the thing could be dipped in life-blood to make him omnipotent—even although his drugged dummy, Shaw, was wearing it to complete the masquerade.

A reminder that the ring, according to ancient legend, had now lost its power, shook Moen’s nerve for a moment.

But only for a moment.

His arms started raising again!

“You and those with you are the ones who will be destroyed if you try to destroy us,” prophesied Benson, as cold and composed as though peril were a million miles away.

Moen’s arms were straight up, as if bringing down on the group by the mummy’s cabinet some dread and mystic curse.

But it was something a lot more solid than that, that he was bringing down.

“Jump!” Benson’s voice rang out.

The movement beside him was like magic to those who thought his aides were still bound.

Smitty took Blessing, Josh took Marlowe, and Mac caught up Anna Lees. They leaped straight back with them, flattening against the wall, where Nellie and Rosabel already were.

There had been a slight quiver through the building when Moen’s arms rose high. Then a whole section of the stone roof, from one end of the wing to the other, tore free.

“Chief!” screamed Nellie.

The rest were staring in horror at Benson.

The Avenger had jumped with the rest—but not backward! He had leaped ahead, to the prone form of Shaw. He came back with it now, like a feather in his arms. It seemed that the falling roof held itself in suspension for an instant, over his racing figure, so swiftly did he move and so close with the timing.

He got to the wall and flattened there with the others, with Moen’s curses yelling in their ears. And as he got there, the falling mass hit the floor.

Tons of stone roof smashed onto even heavier stone floor! The floor gave way.

That was to have been the vengeance of Taros. That collapse in which everyone within six feet of the mummy cabinet should be buried in tons of floor and roof debris. But it didn’t work out that way.

For just an instant the group flattened against the wall on either side of The Avenger, staring across a twelve-foot abyss at Moen and his mobsters. Staring at the man who was cursing and raving because the ten-inch strip of flooring next to the wall was held from collapsing by the proximity of the foundation wall, just underneath.

But only for an instant did the scene last.

The building was still shaking from the fall of the roof, through the floor, to the basement. And it shook some more as the rest of the floor began to go.

It was on Moen’s side that it fell.

Under this, it could be seen now, was not the steel bracing normally there, but wooden beams in temporary shoring. And those beams gave way.

There was a second colossal roar, a screaming of many men that could be heard for blocks, and the whole area collapsed.

Moen and his gang fell twenty feet onto concrete basement floor. Tons of stone flagging and stone sarcophagi, and nearly half the ponderous stone statues, fell over them.

The screaming abruptly stopped, and the place, what was left of it, was very still. There was a wide slit in the roof where a girder the length of the wing had been deliberately pried loose and had fallen with a ten-foot strip of stone. There was a dust-smoking hole in the floor extending over two thirds of the wing. There was a narrow strip of floor, held up by the foundation wall, where The Avenger, his aides and Moen’s drugged victims stood.

Nellie’s eyes turned to the terrible, pale orbs of Dick Benson. There was accusation in hers.

Benson nodded.

“I finally discovered that it was the roof that was to fall. I saw a man hiding on the top of that end statue with a bar in his hand, ready to jack the roof-beam out of place when Shaw—or Moen—raised his arms straight up as a signal. I knew what apparently Moen did not know: the floor, weakened by the fall of the few roof slabs intended for my head a while ago, was temporarily shored up by timbers bound to go in a roof collapse. So I played, I’ll admit, with loaded dice. I knew that if Moen raised his arms, he would die by his own hand.”

Not one sound came from under their feet. But Benson and his aides could see—all too much.

“Look!” said Mac. “There’s the secret of the skurlies’ disappearin’ act! Their robes are lined with black, so in the night when they reversed them they melted into darkness and vanished.”

Benson was leading the way toward the door, edging along the narrow strip saved by the foundation wall. Smitty said:

“How’d this Shaw guy, playing Taros, knock me out by just raising his arms, chief?”

“He released a gas,” said Benson quietly. “I think it is the same type of thing as the hypnotic drug. In small doses it hypnotizes. In large doses it causes that feeling of the body being on fire all over, and then unconsciousness.”

Nellie was staring fearfully down at the wreckage beneath.

“At least the mummy of Taros’ son was in its case this time,” she remarked. “Look—those dusty bones—”

“The mummy never left the cabinet,” said The Avenger. “It was always in there, even when it seemed not to be.”

“But—”

“The glass of the cabinet lid had been molecularly treated, as I treated the water glass in my experiment. The molecules were so arranged that they became subject to radio excitation, and made the lid a large sound diaphragm when words at a distance were spoken in a certain radio-wave length. It talked, just as my tumbler talked.”

“So the glass lid was really a large transmitter, amplifying words Moen spoke into that little set of his, at a distance,” said Smitty.

“That’s right. At the same time, along the edges of the lid were little pouches of fine black powder that could be released by radio when desired. This powder made the cabinet seem black and empty when you looked within and did not see the mummy or mummy case.”

They had all reached the door. But The Avenger did not pass through and into the sound part of the building. Not yet. He had herded the others to safety, but had one more thing to do himself.

He began climbing down into the gruesome wreckage in the basement.

“Chief!” Smitty at last exclaimed. “What—”

“The Taros relics,” said Benson. “I think I know where they are.”

He reached the bottom. No living hand was raised to stay his progress down there. Not one of the crushed shapes moved.

The Avenger went to where the cabinet of Taros’ son’s mummy was smashed and its occupant unceremoniously spilled out.

“There was dust behind the mummy’s head when I looked in the case,” said Benson. “As if that head had been touched by someone’s hand before my own.”

He picked up the head of the thing. The skull crumbled a bit in his hands, but stayed whole. He tilted it.

The Amulets of Taros slid out into his fingers. All the charms of Taros save the ring—which was on the hand of the dead Moen. The skull had been Moen’s cache.

The Avenger joined them in the next room.

The Taros relics had been recovered, and Caine and his son saved. Anna Lees, Shaw, Snead, Marlowe, Blessing—all would be all right with injections of a drug Benson had at Sixteenth Street, in the marvelous small case carrying his traveling laboratory. Shaw was technically a murderer, but actually he had been only an unwitting weapon in the hands of the real killer, Moen. So no one would ever know from The Avenger what Shaw had really done in his drugged trances.

Everything ended neatly. The shrewd killer behind the affair of the Taros relics dead, and his gangsters with him, by his own hand. It was a complete success.

But no triumph showed on The Avenger’s dead, emotionless face or in his icy, colorless eyes. It was only one more step on his pilgrimage of vengeance against the underworld. There would be no personal triumph for Benson—only the urge to annihilate another supercrook, and another, till at length he should find the one who was too clever even for him.

THE END

Table of Contents

CONTENTS

THE BLOOD RING

CHAPTER I Shades of the Past

CHAPTER II The Amulets

CHAPTER III High Priestess

CHAPTER IV Bloody Cornelian

CHAPTER V Strange Headache

CHAPTER VI The Copper Dagger

CHAPTER VII “Doctor, Lawyer—”

CHAPTER VIII Temple Rites

CHAPTER IX The Mummy Walks

CHAPTER X “Chief—”

CHAPTER XI Out of the Tomb

CHAPTER XII Dead Radio

CHAPTER XIII Death From Above

CHAPTER XIV Taros and the Ring

CHAPTER XV Two Hours To Go!

CHAPTER XVI Vengeance of Taros

CHAPTER XVII The Golden Egg

CHAPTER XVIII The Egg Hatches