locking up, as Newboldt had ordered. But Kent's hand was shaky. He couldn't
find the right key on his ring.
Kent remembered Shiwan Khan, the being who styled himself the Golden
Master, and the recollection was not a pleasing one. To Kent, the name of
Shiwan Khan meant murder.
He was thinking of Shiwan Khan in terms of the silver coffin; and had Kent
been gifted with the ability to see through a door, he would have known that his
thought was more than coincidence.
Inside the barred room there was motion. Slowly, the lid of the sealed
coffin had begun to rise!
Up from the strange casket came a gold-clad form. Above the collar of the
decorated robe was a saffron face, the exact hue of the room lights. From its
wide forehead the face tapered to a pointed chin. Green, catlike eyes glistened
from beneath thin, wide-curved brows. Long mustaches drooped beside lips that
were streaks of brown. A dab of beard gave Shiwan Khan an expression that was
truly satanic.
Green eyes stared at the glowing lights; their fixed gaze took on a gleam.
Brown lips dripped the single word:
"Return!"
Though subdued, the word was heard. It came, like a mental command, to
Kent just as the attendant was inserting the right key in the lock. Kent did
not connect the thought with Shiwan Khan. The drab man merely recalled that he
had forgotten to turn off the lights.
Opening the door, Kent stepped in to press the light switch. Centered on
that action, he didn't look toward the silver coffin until he had started
pressure. In the last, brief instant that the light remained, Kent saw the gold
robed figure, met the demoniac gaze of Shiwan Khan.
Then, darkness, as Kent's hand finished its downward tug. Similarly, the
hand of Shiwan Khan had completed a fling from the end of its gold-sleeved arm.
Kent did not shriek; his lips were petrified. The sound that disturbed the
darkness was a whir.
Silence hovered; it ended with the thud of a body that sagged heavily
against the door, shutting it with a sharp click. Through the totally thickened
blackness came the fiendish chortle of the Golden Master, Shiwan Khan!
CHAPTER II
HAND OF DEATH
ISAAC NEWBOLDT was pacing his office, wringing his hands with every
stride. The curator was in such dither that he gave Matthew the jitters.
Observing a half-filled whiskey bottle on a corner shelf, the customs man
reached for it.
"What you need is a drink," he told Newboldt. Then, when the curator made
no reply: "Mind if I take one?"
Newboldt offered no objection. Matthew found a glass and poured himself a
brace. Hearing the trickle, Newboldt stopped his pacing, made a wild grab for
bottle and glass.
"Don't drink that!" he exclaimed. "It's a sample of an Egyptian embalming
