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"And found your
brother similarly bemused?" This was but a shot in the dark.

"Let us say that
his concern has grown, not lessened. There have been a series of
meetings. First in Afghanistan, then Babylonia, Syria, Palestine,
Persia, and Arabia. These being religious gatherings, Mycroft's
information is very sketchy. One meeting in the Grand Mosque in
Damascus was extremely well attended and a lengthy affair. The main
point is that a spirit of unrest is spreading in the east and
heading, like the Sacred Sword, towards Egypt. Islam blended a
hundred scattered races into one, but the religion is split into
many sects, more than seventy-two to be exact. If some revelation,
some apparent miracle, were to unite the followers of the Crescent,
you can anticipate the possible results."

In a sudden flash of
understanding, I spoke automatically.

"The second coming
of the Prophet."

Holmes's nod of
agreement was grim. "As another move towards assistance, I have
secured an appointment with Sir Randolph Rapp. Are you free to
accompany me this morning?"

I accepted this
invitation with alacrity. The unusual household of said gentleman was
extremely interesting to me, as was the man himself. His theories
rather paralleled Holmes's thinking on certain matters, and his
influence, though indirect and unsuspected, was enormous.

But as I prepared for
our journey to Mayfair, another matter was brought to our attention.
Wiggins, titular head of the Baker Street Irregulars, that motley
group of juvenile street urchins that Holmes had recruited as
his eyes and ears in the streets, came calling. The young rapscallion
brought no news of his own but was the bearer of a message.

"The thin man sent
this fer yuh, Mr. 'Olmes." Holmes took a handwritten note from
Wiggins's grimy paw and, after reading it, dismissed his ally with
thanks and a shilling.

"Slim's on the job,
Watson," he murmured thoughtfully. "It would seem that Chu
San Fu and his entourage will depart by private yacht for Venice
within twenty-four hours."

"What sense does
that make?"

"None, unless my
memory has played me false." Holmes was beside the bookcase
extracting a copy of Lloyd's Shipping Guide, which he riffled
open. "I was right. The Hishouri Kamu does not touch at
Venice or any other Italian port."

"The sword is en
route to Egypt and the Chinaman to Italy. Has a new element been
introduced into this overly complex matter?"

"Would that I could
answer you, ol' fellow. Come, let us make for Mayfair. Having kept
Chu San Fu in my sights till now, I don't intend to lose that
advantage, so we may have a trip in store."

The Rapp estate in
Mayfair seemed unchanged. Portions of the rambling house were visible
through the trees, and the surrounding iron-spike fence provided an
impressive barrier broken only by the driveway gate presided over by
an occupied gate house. Being familiar with this unusual domicile,
Holmes and I dismissed our hansom at the entrance and made
ourselves known to the large, truculent-looking man who did not
unlock the outer portal until we were identified. It clanged shut as
soon as we walked through and began making our way towards the house.

Clumps of trees were
effectively positioned to shield the residence from the street, but
nothing grew near to the establishment save close-cut lawns. The area
was as devoid of cover as the top of a billiard table. There was a
chorus of low growls in the distance, and I knew the Doberman
pinschers were nervously pacing their kennels. When the establishment
was darkened for the night, the dogs would be let loose to roam
between fence and house, and to walk then as we were now, without the
presence of a known member of the household, would be akin to
suicide. Randolph Rapp was important to the Empire, and
considerable pains were taken to assure his safety and privacy.

When the butler, whose
contours were those of a regimental blacksmith, ushered us
within, Holmes and I were again observers of a picture of tasteful
English home life. Costly Oriental rugs chose at intervals to
modestly reveal highly polished floorboards before resuming their
figured designs. The pristine white glove of an admiral of the fleet
could have been run over any piece of furniture in the brightly lit
drawing room without surfacing a dust mote or dirt particle. The logs
in the fireplace and those in the attendant wood basket were of
uniform size and cut, and I felt they would not dare allow a
secretion of sap to flare or pop. Paintings were hung in precisely
the right places as though positioned to the centimeter. Two large
oils bore the imprint of John Everett Millais, and surely that was a
Bellini over the great couch.

If the drawing room and
entrance reflected the meticulous taste of the most proper
Amanda Rapp, Sir Randolph's study, to which we were led, had to
be his sanctum sanctorum and an untidy one at that.

As the butler retreated,
the former professor, now motivational specialist, rose from
behind his large desk, which was festooned with notes, letters, and
reports in a helter-skelter manner. His ruddy face, rounded and
smiling, emerged from an oversized head crowned by a shock of unruly
hair. He was short, and his balloon-like body bounced as he came
towards us, from his work area, on bandy legs.

"Ah, Holmes,"
he said, extending his hand. "Always delighted! Do sit
down." Indicating a leather couch, worn in spots, a short
distance from his overflowing desk, he seized my hand in both of his.
His short, spatulate fingers, like those of a pianist, were strong.
"And, my good Watson. You both look fit."

Leading me to a somewhat
lumpy easy chair, he indicated humidors containing cigars and
tobacco that were in evidence round the room. There was a jade case
on his desk from which he extracted a long Egyptian cigarette. The
index finger of his right hand was marred by a nicotine stain, which
he suddenly seemed to notice, picking at it in an absent-minded
fashion as he reseated himself.

I lit up one of Rapp's
rum-soaked cigars with appreciation as the professor shoved
papers aside, merely increasing the confusion. He gestured
towards it with a sigh.

"Order is the
virtue of the mediocre. Can't recall who said that, but the idea
gives me comfort." He retrieved his cigarette, puffing on it.
"But what has been happening in your active lives? You fellows
get round a mite whilst I am chained here."

Holmes and I knew this
wasn't true, and Rapp knew that we knew it. When it suited him, he
wandered at will through government offices, and few indeed were the
files not open to him. As like as not after one of his forays into
what he called "the outside world," a series of reports
would emanate from the very room we were sitting in and find their
way by official courier to departmental heads, frequently with a
shake-up as the result.

"Have you,"
questioned Holmes, "been privy to reports from the Middle East
of late?"

"Sent to me by your
brother," was the reply that accompanied an affirmative
nod. "Bad show, that. Especially the gathering in the Grand
Mosque of Damascus. Present were at least seven of the leading
Islamics. When factions begin to agree, watch out! Especially the
followers of Mohammed, for the Bedouin has always loved violence."

Preambles were wasted on
one such as Randolph Rapp, and Holmes was delighted to dispense with
them.

"If the diverse
Islamic sects are untied by some miracle, the jihad, the holy war
that they cry for, could result."

"Islam ... La illah
il'allah," entoned Rapp.

"It's the miracle
I'm searching for."

"There is the
Sacred Sword."

I must have given a
start of surprise, and Rapp favored me with a gentle smile.

"It was not long
ago that I inquired of Holmes as to the disappearance of Captain
Spaulding. Now, with a Mid East outbreak threatening, I must assume
that you have considered the sword as a tool to stir the
masses."

"My brother runs to
the theory of an undiscovered tomb, and there is tangible evidence to
back him."

"Also good
thinking," replied Rapp crisply. "I see where his mind is
going."

There was a pause, and I
could not let this statement dangle.

"Well, I certainly
don't."

"Consider . . .
Watson, the matter of the Mahdi." Rapp's tone did me the
courtesy of not sounding tolerant. "The outbreak he instigated
is of recent vintage. The Mahdi got away with the prophet deception
because of a resemblance, especially the construction of his teeth
and the lisp. Even primitive minds bent on pillage and plunder will
not respond to the same stimulus twice. Mycroft Holmes pictures
a movement based on something more conclusive than a zealot waving a
sword."

"An ancient
prophecy, perhaps?" said Sherlock Holmes. "The very word
'ancient' leads us to Egypt."

Rapp seemed intrigued.
"That cradle of civilization had a plethora of gods, but even
among them, there was a one-god reformer. Ikhnaton, in the fourteenth
century before Christ, banned all other deities in favor of Aton, the
sun god. However, he was no Mohammed, and his monotheistic
attempt failed. Upon his death, worship of the old gods returned, and
the Egyptians attempted to eradicate that particular pharaoh from
their history. I don't really know if his one-god faith lived on a
bit or not."

"You don't?" I
asked.

Despite my many years
with Holmes, there was always the element of surprise when he
confessed to being baffled. In a similar vein, to hear Randolph Rapp
in doubt about anything made my eyebrows jump.

The professor was
shaking his head. "There are still so many things we do not
know. Especially about Egypt."

"But I thought the
Rosetta Stone—" I began.

"Oh yes. One of
Napoleon's soldiers discovers a black basalt tablet that provides the
key to the deciphering of the hieroglyphics and the rediscovery of
the culture of ancient Egypt. Quite amazing, but not completely
satisfying. We have never been able to decipher the hieroglyphics of
Crete, Watson, which may predate those of Egypt. Aztec and Mayan
inscriptions remain a puzzle. In a similar manner there are the
so-called secret writings."

Holmes was leaning
forward on the couch.

"This is something
new," he admitted.

"It is reasonably
certain that they originally were in the pyramids, though possibly
later tombs from which they were stolen, for they were inscribed on
tablets of gold. But some have shown up through the centuries. As to
their message, who knows?" Rapp shrugged and then another
thought intruded.

"There is one chap,
Howard Andrade, who I'm told has cracked the riddle. He based his
study on the Cretan hieroglyphics, using them as a basis or key to
the cuneiform symbols of the secret writings. Evidently he has
succeeded."

"But," I said,
"if this Andrade fellow has deciphered an ancient form of
writing, wouldn't there be a bit of a stir? I'd think the journals
would pounce on it."

"Dear me, no!"
protested Rapp. "Things move a bit slower in the field of
antiquity. Andrade is a brilliant chap. I'm inclined to believe he
has pulled it off. But he will make no claims until he has absolute
proof. Remember, every other Egyptologist will desperately try
to prove him wrong simply because they haven't deciphered the secret
writings themselves."

"A competitive
field."

"Ruled by pride,"
agreed Rapp. "Andrade removed himself from the country to
complete his research. Doesn't want his near-triumph to leak out.
Last I heard he was living in Venice."

I almost jumped out of
my chair, and even Holmes had the good grace to register surprise.

"Venice, you say?"

"I do, never
expecting this reaction. Here we are discussing ancient
religions and a potential holy war, then of a sudden you give every
indication of going somewhere."

"We are," said
Holmes. "To Venice."

Chapter
Eleven

Adventure
in Venice

Of course, it was not as
simple as that. Holmes had other questions regarding Andrade to pose
to Randolph Rapp, and on our return to Baker Street messages flowed
from his pen. But on the following day, we resumed our travels,
nothing new to one associated with the greatest man-hunter of all
time.

Holmes, for no reason
that I could fathom, chose to take the train to Dover, and from there
the steamer to Belgium. In the great harbor station at Ostend, he
conferred at some length with the stationmaster, a meeting to which I
was not privy. Being a bad sailor, I was attempting to sip some
passable tea and consume dry biscuits with no great success. My
stomach was not in the best condition, and the table at the station
restaurant where my friend left me seemed disposed to tilt on
occasion, purely an illusion.